“Chinese Legends. Vol. 2”

Part I: When the Year Turns

Lights in the Darkness: The Legend of Nian the Beast

Deep in the heart of winter, when the days were shortest and the world seemed held in a brittle, silent grip, the people of the mountain villages would seal their doors tight. It was not just the cold they feared. It was the arrival of Nian.

The beast came not with blizzard winds, but in the deep, still hush between them. It was a creature of shadow and sharp angles, with scales like tarnished bronze and eyes that glowed a sickly, pale green, like swamp gas. It moved with an uncanny, skittering speed, and its voice was a shriek that felt less like sound and more like a crack forming in ice. It craved not just grain or livestock, but the very warmth of life, leaving villages picked clean of spirit as well as store. The taste of fear in the cold air was its invitation.

In one village huddled against a cliff face, an old woman named Fen prepared for the long night. Her sons had urged her to flee with them to the distant town. She had refused, her bones aching at the thought of the journey. “I have weathered many winters,” she said, her voice dry as autumn leaves. “I will face this one.”

As twilight stained the snow violet, a stranger knocked at her door. He was a traveling monk, his robe thin and patched, his face serene amidst the gathering dread. “Grandmother,” he said, bowing. “The path is long, and the dark is deep. Might an old soul share your hearth tonight?”

Fen, remembering the kindness of strangers in her own youth, welcomed him in. Her small hut was simple: packed earth floors, the scent of dried herbs and smoke, a single oil lamp casting a frail, honeyed glow. As they shared a meager meal of boiled millet, the first unnatural silence fell outside. The constant whisper of the wind through the pines ceased utterly.

The monk listened, his head tilted. “It comes,” he said, not with fear, but with observation.

Fen’s heart hammered against her ribs. She moved to bolt the wooden shutter, but the monk gently stayed her hand. “It fears more than it makes us fear,” he murmured. “Watch.”

Through a crack in the shutter, they saw it. Nian flowed into the village square like pooling ink, its form flickering at the edges. It paused, its ghastly eyes sweeping over the darkened, silent homes. Then it turned toward Fen’s hut. It had seen the weak, golden seam of light around her shutter—a beacon in the void.

Fen stumbled back. The monk, however, remained calm. He reached into his pack and drew out a sheet of rough, crimson paper and a stick of charcoal. With swift, sure strokes, he began to draw a figure upon it—a guardian with a fierce brow and blazing eyes, clad in armor of clouds.

“What are you doing?” Fen whispered.

“Showing it a fiercer spirit,” the monk replied. He pasted the paper to her door just as a long, clawed shadow fell across it.

A low, grating hiss came from outside. Nian had seen the red paper. It recoiled as if struck by a physical force, skittering back on the ice, its green eyes narrowing. The color, vibrant as arterial blood against the wood, seemed to pain it.

Emboldened, the monk took a bamboo stick from the hearth, its end a glowing ember. He opened the shutter just a crack and blew gently. The ember flared, sparking and cracking with a sound like a hundred tiny bones snapping.

Nian let out a piercing shriek, a sound that shattered the silence and made Fen’s teeth ache. The beast scrambled backward, the bright, chaotic sparks seeming to confuse and scorch its senses.

Then, the monk did something simple. He picked up the empty ceramic bowl from their meal and, with a steady hand, struck it sharply with the chopstick. A clear, ringing clang resonated through the frozen air, pure and shocking as a bell.

It was the final assault. Nian, confronted by the blinding red, the spitting fire, and the piercing sound, turned and fled. Its form dissolved into the darkness from which it came, leaving only trampled snow and a lingering, fading chill.

The next morning, the villagers crept out. They found Fen and the monk unharmed, their door adorned with the fierce red guardian. The story poured from Fen like meltwater.

“It fears three things!” she proclaimed, her voice strong. “The color of life and joy—crimson! The light and sound of celebration—fire and crackling bamboo! And the clear voice that refuses silence—the drum, the gong, the bell!”

The following year, as the deepest winter returned, the village did not cower. They pasted red paper on every door, painted guardians and poetic couplets. They gathered dry bamboo to throw on the hearth, filling the night with a jubilant, cracking chorus. They brought out drums and bells, and as the ominous silence fell, they did not wait. They rushed into the square, a sea of red cloaks and lanterns, beating drums, clanging cymbals, and laughing into the face of the dark.

Nian came. It saw the village blazing with color and clamor, a fortress of light and sound. It let out one thin, defeated wail and was never seen in that valley again.

What began as fear transformed into a celebration. Each year, they would gather to drive away the old shadows and welcome the new light, feasting and making thunderous noise. They called it Guo Nian—to pass over the year of the beast. And so, the darkest night of winter became the brightest, loudest, and most brilliantly red, a testament to the truth the monk taught: that the most potent weapons against darkness are not swords, but joy, community, and the courageous, colorful light of a shared hearth.

Loyalty Adrift: Qu Yuan and the Dragon Boat Festival

On the banks of the Miluo River, in the ancient land of Chu, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and impending rain.