An arrow shot in through the window.
A woman’s shriek followed, and the eagle-feather fletching on the shaft quivered up and down.
Outside the wooden hut, furious shouts from the Native Americans filled the air, bellowed in their unintelligible tribal tongue.
In the pitch-black jungle, faint flickers of firelight were visible, as if the camp might go up in flames at any moment.
Song Yu leaned against the corner, her eyelashes fluttering slightly.
The arrow was embedded in the wall not far from her.
The dim light cast deep shadows across her profile, obscuring her expression.
The room felt oppressively stuffy, punctuated by occasional hushed whispers.
“Have these Native Americans lost their minds? Is it really worth making such a fuss?”
“You kidding? I heard from the guide earlier that this abandoned farm we’re staying at? The owner had his throat slit by Native Americans in the night.”
The lead actress, Chen Jia, was trembling uncontrollably. With a quaver in her voice, she asked, “Is that true? Zhao Xinxin, don’t scare me.”
Song Yu frowned, lifting her eyelids to cast a faint glance at Zhao Xinxin.
Even at a time like this, he was spouting nonsense.
Sensing the director’s piercing gaze, Zhao Xinxin shrank back. “It’s fake, fake! The guide just made it up to keep us from messing with the Native Americans.”
After all, they came from an entirely different civilization—wild and dangerous. It wasn’t something you could judge by their own societal standards. Best to avoid contact altogether.
Chen Jia didn’t buy it. If anything, she grew more frightened. “If it’s fake, then why did the guide sneak off on his own?”
“…” Song Yu raised a hand, her slender white wrist covering her eyes. She drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
She walked over to Chen Jia’s side and soothed her in a soft voice. “It’s okay.”
The woman’s tone was low and measured, like the strains of a violin—gentle yet coolly detached. The late hour had lent it a slight huskiness.
Chen Jia met her gaze. Those eyes were pure and clear, like a still ancient well, soothing the soul.
The wooden hut was cramped, built from palm trunks into a square about eighty square feet in size. It was packed with people—the entire crew huddled together.
In the center, by the fire, a man lay sprawled on a mat of ferns, making the already tight space feel even more crowded.
The man had the broad features of Mongolian ethnicity, with a sturdy, thickset build. He was an actor the crew had specially hired to play a Native American. Dressed in local garb, he was nearly indistinguishable from the real thing.
Native American features bore a striking resemblance to those of Asians, after all.
Arrows had pierced his thigh and groin, and the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood.
His face was contorted in agony, and he let out pained hisses from time to time, thickening the tense atmosphere to the point of suffocation.
Song Yu grew irritated by the noise, a fire simmering in her chest. She yanked the arrow from the wooden wall.
The arrowhead was whittled from thin wood and had buried itself deep, leaving a clear gash.
It was hard to imagine the destructive power of a wooden arrow crafted without metal by the Native Americans.
She gripped the shaft, rubbing her index finger along the sharp point a couple of times before tossing it into the fire.
Sparks flew out, landing on the man’s face.
He jolted with a yelp. “Ow!”
“Too noisy,” Song Yu said.
Her voice was light and crisp, each word enunciated clearly, yet it carried an intangible pressure.
“…” Burigude immediately fell silent. Propping his eyelids open, he looked up at the woman looming over him and felt a sudden tension.
Song Yu was strikingly beautiful, her features exquisitely refined—especially those eyes, with their upturned corners exuding a wild allure.
Even in an oversized white shirt and fitted jeans, she couldn’t hide the innate aura radiating from her bones: languid and effortlessly warm.
Burigude stared, momentarily dazed.
He swallowed, cracking his parched lips as he reached awkwardly for the enamel cup nearby. “Director Song, does this count as a work injury? Will there be compensation?”
Before Song Yu could respond, Zhao Xinxin—who was sitting nearby with his legs splayed—kicked the cup out of his reach.
“Compensation my ass! You deserve it!”
The more Zhao Xinxin thought about it, the angrier he got. He finally exploded in a string of curses. “If you hadn’t gone and messed with that Native American woman, would we be in this mess?”
“Now the guide’s bolted out of fear, and we’re out here screaming into the void.” He flung the gun in his hand to the ground in frustration. “This is straight-up cursed.”
The old hunting rifle hit the floor with a cold, heavy thud.
The others fell silent, the air growing stagnant.
Song Yu’s lips pressed into a thin line. She bent down to pick up the gun.
The half-meter-long weapon had some heft to it. She hefted it appraisingly. “Not bad. At least he left us a gun.”
It was thanks to that gun that they’d been able to warn off the Native Americans outside—they hadn’t dared come closer, contenting themselves with probing arrows.
Song Yu carried the gun to the window.
Aiming the barrel at the pitch-black sky outside, she pulled the trigger. A gunshot cracked through the silent rainforest like thunder.
One arrow answered with one shot.
The recoil made her palm tingle.
A thick smell of gunpowder filled the air.
The crew’s guide was a European who spoke the local tribal languages. His father had been a missionary, often taking him into indigenous villages in an effort to bring them into modern civilization.
Song Yu had occasionally bartered with the tribes through the guide, exchanging goods for movie props, but she’d never dealt with the Native Americans directly.
The filming location was in Central Brazil, deep in the Amazon Rainforest, with barely a trace of modern civilization. The nearest town from camp required a small plane to reach.
The camp was set up on an abandoned farm. When the location scout had come last time, there’d been no tribe nearby. This group had only recently migrated in, separated from the farm by a thin strip of dense forest.
When the Native Americans attacked the farm, Song Yu had only had time to gather everyone in the hut. The radio equipment for communication had been left outside—no way to call for help now.
She sidled up to the wooden window and peered out. The black night loomed like a massive beast, its flickering firelights bared fangs.
Both sides were locked in a standoff.
Outside, the natives had lit bonfires. A man was skinning a monkey strung up nearby—that would be their dinner.
Monkeys were among the animals that most resembled humans.
Song Yu’s eyelid twitched twice. She pulled her gaze away. “We’ll pull out at dawn.”
She glanced at her watch—it was well past midnight. Some were already stifling yawns, exhaustion plain on their faces.
“Xinxin, set up shifts. Everyone takes turns on watch. The rest of you, get some sleep. No point in wearing ourselves out.”
Zhao Xinxin nodded and quickly sorted it out with a couple of gestures, efficient as ever.
Song Yu hadn’t taken part in the arrangements, but she was unmistakably the backbone of the team. Everything proceeded in the direction she’d indicated.
The night deepened.
Most of the crew had drifted off to sleep.
Song Yu leaned against the hut door, her gaze fixed on the faint embers of the fire, her brow furrowed unconsciously as she lost herself in thought.
Zhao Xinxin hadn’t assigned her a watch shift, yet she’d stood guard the whole time.
By contrast, Zhao Xinxin, on his shift beside her, had nodded off despite fighting it, eyelids drooping.
Song Yu took the gun from his hand, her fingertips tracing the rough, splintery wooden stock.
The rainforest’s day-night temperature swing was extreme; the night air had turned bitterly cold, and the central fire was dying down.
The air carried damp chill straight to the lungs.
The noises from the Native Americans outside had faded like the flames, leaving an eerie silence.
Exhaustion washed over her, and Song Yu stifled a silent yawn.
Suddenly, in the dead quiet, footsteps sounded outside the hut.
Heavy leather boots thudding on the wooden steps.
Step by step, each one pounding on her heart.
Song Yu tensed instantly. Holding her breath, she leveled the gun at the door, her index finger hovering near the trigger.
The footsteps were steady and slow, drawing nearer, until they stopped.
Her finger settled on the trigger.
An outside force creaked the wooden door open slowly.
The dim indoor light spilled out, falling on the figure beyond.
The man stood tall and straight, with jet-black hair and chiseled features, an air of icy detachment about him.
Song Yu looked up, meeting his eyes.
In the boundless night, his gaze gleamed with the sharp brightness of a hawk.
For no reason, she faltered, her finger twitching involuntarily.
Bang—the gun went off.