在《山海經》的異獸記載中，猰貐是一種由神轉化為怪的存在，象徵墮落與扭曲的重生。牠的形象充滿矛盾，既帶有神性，又蘊含深層的恐懼與不安。
In the strange bestiary of the Shan Hai Jing, Yayu is a creature born from transformation—a being that once held divine nature but fell into monstrosity. It represents corruption, rebirth, and the unsettling duality between sacred and profane.
中文
遠古之時，天地尚未穩定，神與獸之間的界線模糊不清。猰貐本非怪物，而是一位具備神性之靈，居於水澤之地，掌管一方生機。牠的形貌威嚴，氣息純淨，曾為眾生所敬仰。然而命運轉折來得突如其來，一場天界之爭將牠捲入其中。傳說中，猰貐遭受神罰，被誅殺於荒野之中，肉身崩解，靈識消散。天地本應讓其歸於虛無，但某種力量卻使牠再度復甦。當猰貐再次睜開雙眼時，一切已然不同。牠的身軀扭曲變異，形貌怪誕，既似獸又非獸，帶著難以言喻的詭異氣息。牠不再記得自身過去，只殘留模糊的痛苦與怒意。從此，猰貐遊走於荒野與水澤之間，成為令人畏懼的存在。某日，一隊行者誤入其領域，四周寂靜無聲，連風也停止流動。水面平靜如鏡，卻隱隱透出不祥的氣息。忽然，水中泛起波紋，一道巨大身影緩緩浮現。猰貐出現了。牠的雙眼空洞而深邃，彷彿無法映照任何情感，卻又隱藏著難以抑制的怒火。行者們驚恐萬分，試圖逃離，卻發現腳步沉重，彷彿被某種無形之力束縛。猰貐並未立即攻擊，而是靜靜凝視，似乎在尋找什麼。或許是記憶，或許是遺失的自我。當其中一人鼓起勇氣直視牠的目光時，一瞬間，他似乎看見了另一個影子——那是曾經的神靈，安靜而純粹。這一瞬的重疊讓人心生寒意，也令人無法理解。猰貐忽然發出低沉的聲音，那聲音既非咆哮，也非語言，而是一種介於兩者之間的震動。水面隨之劇烈翻騰，空氣變得壓迫。行者們再也無法承受，紛紛逃離。當他們回頭時，猰貐已消失於水霧之中，只留下層層漣漪。自此之後，關於猰貐的傳說逐漸流傳開來，有人說牠是神罰的象徵，是違逆天命的下場；也有人認為牠是一種警示，提醒世人即使神性也可能墮落。更有人相信，在那怪物的深處，仍殘存著一絲曾經的光。只是那光被扭曲與痛苦所掩蓋，無法再被尋回。猰貐的存在，成為天地間一種矛盾的象徵，既是毀滅，也是重生，是過去與現在交錯的陰影。在遙遠的水澤深處，牠仍靜靜徘徊，無人能知牠是否在等待終結，還是再次轉變的契機。
English Version
In the earliest age of the world, when the boundaries between gods and beasts had yet to be firmly drawn, Yayu existed as something far different from what it would later become. It was once a being of divine origin, dwelling in wetlands and sustaining life within its domain. Revered and respected, it embodied a quiet strength and balance that connected the natural and the sacred. But such harmony did not last. A conflict among celestial forces brought about its downfall. Struck down and cast into the wilderness, its form was destroyed and its essence scattered. Yet, for reasons unknown, it did not fade into nothingness. Instead, it returned—changed. When Yayu opened its eyes again, it was no longer the being it once had been. Its body had become distorted, its presence unsettling. It carried fragments of its past, but without clarity or purpose. What remained was a lingering sense of loss and an unshaped anger that could not be expressed. It wandered between water and land, neither belonging fully to either realm. Those who encountered it spoke of a creature that did not immediately attack, but observed—quietly, intensely, as if searching for something it could not name. One such encounter became legend. A group of travelers crossed into a still and silent region where even the wind seemed to vanish. The water lay undisturbed, reflecting nothing. Then it moved. From beneath the surface, a vast form emerged, breaking the illusion of calm. Yayu revealed itself, its gaze empty yet heavy with something unspoken. The travelers felt a strange weight, as though their bodies resisted movement. Fear took hold, but so did a strange curiosity. One among them dared to meet its eyes. In that fleeting moment, something shifted. Within the creature’s gaze, there appeared a trace of something else—something calm, something almost gentle. A remnant of what it once had been. The illusion passed quickly. The creature released a sound unlike any known cry, causing the water to churn violently. The travelers fled, unable to withstand the overwhelming presence. When they looked back, it was gone, leaving only ripples behind. Over time, stories of Yayu spread, evolving into different interpretations. Some saw it as a warning of divine punishment, a reminder that even sacred beings could fall. Others believed it symbolized transformation—proof that destruction could lead to a new, though altered, existence. And a few held onto the idea that deep within the creature, a fragment of its former self still remained, waiting to be understood or perhaps released. Whether it wanders in search of that lost identity or simply exists as it is, Yayu stands as a haunting symbol of change—where past and present intertwine, and where the line between divinity and monstrosity is forever blurred.
