The mountain path was long, the sound of hooves slow. Holding the reins, Shang Rong, amid the cold mist and layered greenery, also began to feel a trace of drowsiness. Yet in an instant — bang — a heavy object hit the ground.

She was startled, and at the same time, the youth who had unknowingly been leaning against her shoulder suddenly opened a pair of pitch-black eyes.

Though his expression still carried some lingering haziness of sleep, his gaze was sharp and vigilant.

Shang Rong looked over as well, only to see that the Daoist Mengshi, who had been sprawled sideways across the horse’s back, had now fallen to the ground. Disheveled hair covered half his face, yet he still showed no sign of consciousness.

“Let’s find a place to sleep first.”

Zhezhu relaxed, slowly letting out a yawn. A faint mist gathered in his eyes, and his voice carried a trace of weary hoarseness.

The mountains here were thick with forest, and hunters often came up to hunt. Without any effort, Zhezhu found an old house in the mountains. It seemed to have been abandoned for a long time — the moment the door was pushed open, dust flew straight into their faces.

Shang Rong covered her nose and coughed, yet saw Zhezhu stride in with large steps, gripping the Daoist by the back of his collar. With a casual toss, the Daoist’s body went limp and slumped directly against the base of the wall.

Though the house was crude and cramped, at least there was a bamboo bed, a table, and a stool. Once the door was shut, it could temporarily block out the wind and snow of the mountains.

Shang Rong’s throat was dry and itchy. She had already been coughing along the way, and now, seeing the dust accumulated inside the house, she coughed even more severely. She watched as Zhezhu lifted the dust-laden gauze curtain and walked straight to the bamboo bed.

The shadowy gauze curtain faintly outlined his tall figure. With a casual motion, he tossed aside the pile of tattered bedding. Perhaps because the bedding had covered it, the bamboo bed itself showed little dust, and he was about to lie down.

Fine dust particles floated distinctly in the light streaming through the window. He suddenly turned his head. The gauze curtain swayed slightly, like the rippling surface of a wind-stirred lake.

Though separated by such a faintly rippling curtain, his features could not be seen clearly, yet Shang Rong still sensed that he was looking at her. She was instantly at a loss, even pressing her lips together, forcibly suppressing the dryness and itch in her throat.

In the end, she could not hold it in. She did not cough, but instead let out a loud sneeze.

Perhaps Zhezhu was extremely tired — the corners of his eyes were flushed red. For some reason, he lifted the curtain and came out, lightly glancing at Shang Rong’s pair of mist-filled eyes, yet said nothing and walked straight outside.

Not understanding why, Shang Rong followed him.

When she had first arrived, she had seen the stream embedded in the open mountain hollow, and now, she followed Zhezhu back here again.

“Zhezhu…”

Not knowing what he was looking at by the stream, she had just called out to him when she saw him borrow force and leap up, flying to the center of the stream. The soft sword in his hand shimmered under the sunlight, its blade swiftly splitting the water’s surface.

She only saw his dark black robes flutter lightly in the wind. In the next instant, he had landed steadily by the stream bank.

The youth raised the hand gripping the sword hilt. Two fish were neatly skewered upon the blade. Sunlight fell into his curved eyes, beautiful flecks of clear radiance shimmering.

Shang Rong stared at him blankly.

When they returned to the old mountain house, the Daoist was still leaning against the wall, not yet awake. Shang Rong sat on the stool that had already been wiped clean, watching Zhezhu place the washed wind stove beside the pile of firewood stacked outside the door, light it, and boil a clay pot of fish soup.

In the miscellaneous bag on the horse’s back was a bamboo tube filled with snow-white grains of salt, and so the pot of fish soup now simmering was fresh and flavorful.

Catching that extremely fragrant aroma, Shang Rong stared fixedly at the clay pot bubbling away. Zhezhu ladled out a bowl. Lifting his eyes and seeing her expression, he found it rather amusing, and placed the bowl of fish soup in front of her.

“The thing on your face has been worn for a long time. It should be about to fall off. Take it off first, then you can drink the soup.”

Shang Rong removed her mask, holding the steaming bowl in both hands. She watched him turn and walk behind the gauze curtain. A brief creak sounded — he had lain down on the bamboo bed.

Her throat, dried raw by the wind, felt somewhat better from the warm fish soup. Shang Rong sat on the stool, sipping the soup in small mouthfuls. Her eyes drifted from the jagged, decaying wooden wall, to the straw raincoat hanging there, then to the cracked seams of the wooden floor beneath her feet.

She saw the Daoist at the base of the wall. He was still in exactly the same posture as when Zhezhu had thrown him in, not having moved at all.

Gently setting down the empty bowl, Shang Rong stood up, her steps light. Carefully, she walked over to the Daoist and stared at his dirt-covered face for a moment. Then she crouched down, the hem of her skirt embroidered with baoxiang floral patterns brushing softly against the ground.

Tentatively, she extended one finger toward the Daoist’s nose. His steady breathing brushed her knuckles like a breeze. She let out a sigh of relief, then stood up again, rising on her toes to take down the straw raincoat hanging on the wall.

The straw raincoat had been hung rather high. It took her some effort to take it down. Turning her face aside, she shook off the dust on its surface, holding her breath as the drifting grains of dust floated and scattered one by one in the light. Only then did she walk back to the Daoist and drape the heavy straw raincoat over him.

Turning around, she saw that much of the steam from the clay pot on the wind stove had already dissipated. She looked back at the Daoist, then at the silhouette of the youth behind the curtain, and picked up the lid from the table to cover the clay pot.

The wind stove burned broken firewood rather than fine charcoal. Firewood burned faster, so Shang Rong sat at the table, imitating Zhezhu by adding wood from time to time.

She remained silent throughout. Inside the house, only the occasional crackle of sparks from burning firewood sounded. Wind and snow filled the window, and the entire room was quiet.

Propping her chin with one hand, Shang Rong habitually began silently reciting Daoist scriptures. The warm wind stove made the mind sluggish. Within the flickering firelight, she vaguely recalled the pile of blazing flames from last night.

The youth, reeking of blood all over, had supported her elbow, preventing her from falling off the rock. That bright firelight had illuminated the youth’s cold, pale face.

Flawless, yet stained with dark red blood.

“Did you drink it all?”

In the youth’s other hand was the jade gourd he had just picked up from the ground. His thick eyelashes lifted, and a trace of astonishment suddenly appeared in his voice, cold as if touched by frost and snow.

Shang Rong said nothing. She only forced her eyes open to look at his face. After a moment, her cool fingertips touched his cheek. Under his even greater astonishment, she wiped away the blood on his face bit by bit.

At the end, she spread her palm and showed him the red between her fingers.

A sudden pop sounded. Shang Rong snapped back to her senses. The clay pot, fed with too much firewood, had boiled over. Fish soup bubbled up from the pot, flowing into the wind stove and making a sizzling sound.

She panicked immediately and, without thinking, reached out to grab the lid, but the heat stung her fingertips. She withdrew her hand in embarrassment, stood up, and bumped into the table leg.

Her knee hurt badly, but she paid it no mind. She hurried to look for a cloth, when a heavy cough sounded from the base of the wall. Turning her head, she saw the Daoist frowning, about to open his eyes.

Touching her own face, she panicked at once. Forgetting all about the clay pot, she grabbed the mask from the table, quickly lifted the gauze curtain, and rushed inside.

“Zhezhu!”

Before she even reached the bedside, she called out urgently.

The youth on the bamboo bed had already awakened when the fish soup boiled over. Now he opened his eyes, saw her running in flustered, and hearing the movement outside the curtain, knew the Daoist had woken.

Sitting up, Zhezhu took a wooden box from a cloth bag beside him and said briefly, “Sit over here.”

Shang Rong immediately sat at the edge of the bed. Seeing him take out a brand-new mask from the box, she obediently raised her face and waited for him.

Daoist Mengshi had only just regained consciousness, yet felt dizzy and disoriented for quite some time. Shaking his head, he barely managed to open his eyes, only then realizing that he was in a completely unfamiliar place.

Highly alert, he braced himself against the wall and staggered to his feet. Before he could carefully examine the room, he heard an extremely young voice: “Awake?”

That voice was clear and pleasant.

Mengshi raised his eyes. Through the gently swaying gauze curtain, he vaguely saw two figures.

“Who are you?”

Pressing a hand to his chest, Mengshi then realized that his body was somehow covered with quite a bit of damp soil.

“The ones who saved your life.”

The youth still seemed to have some lingering drowsiness, his voice sounding languid.

“I, Mengshi, am merely a destitute Daoist…” He had only just spoken these words when he remembered what the prison guard had told him the day before. He paused, then gave a bleak smile. “No, now I’m afraid I’m not even a Daoist anymore.”

He lifted his head again. “For someone like me, what value could I possibly hold for you, young master? That you would go to such trouble to rescue me from death row?”

“Daozhang¹Daozhang (道长) — a respectful form of address for a Daoist priest or master; literally “Daoist elder” or “leader of the Way.” has made many good connections. Even if it weren’t me, someone else would surely have saved you.” As Zhezhu spoke, he gently pressed along the edge of the mask beside Shang Rong’s temple with his fingertips.

His breath was so close. Hearing his words, Shang Rong could not help but open her eyes to look at him but when their gazes met, she quickly lowered her eyes again.

“Someone else? What someone else is there?” Mengshi, unaware of what was happening inside, merely shook his head upon hearing the youth’s words and looked toward the sky outside the window. “If not for you, young master, today would surely have been the day of my death.”

Hearing his words, Zhezhu knew that Qi Yusong had not informed him beforehand — he did not even know that Qi Yusong had intended to save him.

Unhurriedly, he continued to affix Shang Rong’s mask, the corners of his lips faintly lifting as he said, “The reason I saved you is actually because I have some old grudges with Qi Yusong, the Prefect of Rongzhou.”

Old grudges with Prefect Qi Yusong?

Mengshi was startled.

“By rescuing you, it becomes his, Qi Yusong’s, dereliction of duty. In that case, how could that Jinyuan Circuit Transport Commissioner of the Sun family possibly let him off lightly? Tell me — isn’t that so?”

The youth spoke leisurely.

“Just because of that?” Mengshi still sounded doubtful.

“What else?”

Zhezhu finally finished affixing Shang Rong’s mask. His fingers lightly pinched the back of her neck. The cold touch made Shang Rong suddenly open her eyes.

Zhezhu slightly lifted his chin in indication, those eyes of his clear and bright.

For some reason, Shang Rong’s cheeks grew faintly warm. She hurriedly lowered her head, took out a broken dai pencil²Dai pencil (黛笔) — a traditional cosmetic stick made from dark mineral pigment, used in ancient China to draw or darken the eyebrows. from the pouch at her waist, and obediently handed it to him.

“Daozhang Mengshi, I must remind you — now, not only are you an enemy the Sun family wishes to tear to pieces, you are also a problem Qi Yusong urgently needs to resolve.”

The tip of the dai pencil was somewhat blunt. Zhezhu rubbed it against the edge of the bed.

“What exactly does young master wish to say?”

Mengshi still could not clearly see the youth. His brows furrowed, and he stepped forward, intending to walk inside the curtain — but before he could, a thin silver leaf shot through the gauze curtain, grazing his cheek and embedding itself into the wall behind him.

Mengshi’s feet seemed to take root instantly. He did not move another step.

“Nothing much.”

He heard the youth’s voice again from within the curtain. “I just want to ask you — do you want to die, or do you want to live?”

Cold sweat had already broken out across Mengshi’s back, yet he was, after all, capable of killing three members of the Sun family in a single night. At this moment, there was no fear on his face — instead, he was calm and composed.

“If one can live, who would want to die?”

Unexpectedly, upon hearing this, Zhezhu suddenly let out a soft laugh.

The moment Shang Rong heard his laugh, she raised her head at once. Just as Zhezhu brought the dai pencil to her brow and drew a stroke, a smudge of dark pigment spread across her eyelid.

She glared at him, knowing that his laugh had been at her expense.

“Why does young master laugh?”

Mengshi asked from outside the curtain.

Shang Rong stared at Zhezhu. The curve of the fullness beneath his eyes deepened. His gaze rested on her face, yet he said to Mengshi, “Those who can live but are unwilling to — they do exist.”

His fingertip lightly touched her thin eyelid, making her eyes blink repeatedly with his movements. He casually wiped away the mark on her eyelid.

“There is one right here.”

Hearing this, Mengshi lifted his eyes. Through the gauze curtain, he vaguely saw the youth leaning against the bed, while the young woman sat at its edge.

He held something in his hand. Seeing him slowly tracing between the young woman’s brows, Mengshi guessed it must be a dai pencil.

The gauze fluttered like rippling water — two figures facing each other, bright light filling the window.

Footnotes

• 1
  Daozhang (道长) — a respectful form of address for a Daoist priest or master; literally “Daoist elder” or “leader of the Way.”
• 2
  Dai pencil (黛笔) — a traditional cosmetic stick made from dark mineral pigment, used in ancient China to draw or darken the eyebrows.