Prologue

“I’m in the East Sea, all is well, returning next week.” — I set down my phone and continued leisurely sorting through my gold: gold bars, gold chains, gold pendants, my heart blooming with delight.

I couldn’t quite tell whether it was the gold making me happy, or Ao Chi’s text message that had let me breathe a sigh of relief. When no one’s around, I don’t mind admitting — I still miss him.

The weather was unreasonably hot, and the steady stream of customers had thinned out. The happiest one of all was Chi Pian’er — no business meant a perfect excuse to slack off. It had vanished at the crack of dawn, and who knows whether it had transformed into a sparrow or a mosquito and flown off to play somewhere. The summer drama slot on TV was airing Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and Young Master Zhao was peeling garlic while watching with rapt attention — especially whenever Zhao Yun appeared on screen, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

It wasn’t the weekend. The sun had climbed high in the sky. The city bustled everywhere, workers and students streaming endlessly past — yet inside Bu Ting, there was nothing but laziness, from the boss down to the helpers, not a single person doing a lick of proper work.

Just as I picked up a gold bracelet to admire it, Jiu Jue’s booming voice suddenly rang out from outside: “Whoa! Boss Lady, what on earth is this?!”

I tucked away the gold and went to look. Jiu Jue was crouching in the hall, and standing before him was a wooden doll about a foot tall, dressed in a floral cloth skirt. Its features were graceful and vivid — even the fingernails had been delicately carved. Its little mouth, tinted a pale red, curved upward like a crescent moon, forming a smile that was perfectly calibrated: neither flamboyant nor restrained, radiating a cheerfulness that made anyone who laid eyes on it feel genuinely happy.

“Since when did you develop a habit of collecting these?” Jiu Jue pointed at the wooden doll and asked me. “I came to find you for lunch, and the moment I walked in, I saw this little fellow standing here.”

He tilted his head, and the wooden doll, as if mirroring him, swiveled its head in my direction too, its large dark eyes seemingly blinking twice.

“It wandered in from outside — it’s not mine.” I walked over and crouched down to examine this uninvited guest. Mm, a faint trace of demonic energy, very faint indeed.

Judging by the wood, it had an unmistakably ancient quality. I suspected this doll’s true age wasn’t much younger than my own.

As far as I knew, wooden puppets of advanced years were rarely ordinary things — either they had cultivated a spirit of their own, or some external demon or spirit had taken up residence in their shell. Whether they leaned toward good or evil was hard to say. But a wooden puppet that had wandered into my shop of its own accord? That was a first.

Just as Jiu Jue and I were staring wide-eyed at this little thing, a cascade of giggling laughter — ge ge ge ge — spilled from its mouth.

Jiu Jue and I were both startled out of our wits.

“Bu Ting! Bu Ting! Bu Ting!” The wooden doll began hopping in place, joyfully repeating the name of my shop.

“You can speak?” I was intrigued. I asked it, “What did you come to Bu Ting for?”

“Bu Ting! Bu Ting! Bu Ting!” The doll kept calling out happily, like a child who had just learned to talk and could only manage that one phrase, over and over — then it went bouncing toward the door, calling out as it ran, “Found it! Found it!”

Hm? So this was just a scout, and the main group was still coming? Sure enough, a rapid pattering of footsteps, growing from distant to near, came rushing in a breathless scramble toward the front door of Bu Ting…

1

Once upon a time, there was a mountain. On the mountain was a temple. In the temple was an old monk. The old monk would often grip a broom and sweep slowly, inside the temple and out — sweeping away fallen snow in winter, yellow leaves in autumn, brushing time little by little into the distant past.

The mountain was too high, the path too treacherous, and there was never much incense to be had. The offerings of fruits and melons on the altar before the Buddha were all picked by the old monk himself from the hill behind the temple. Occasionally, a passing traveler would come in to pray; rarer still, they might leave behind a meager sum of coins, and on their way out of the temple gate, exchange a “Amitabha” with the old monk and remark: your temple is really quite small, isn’t it.

Small as a mustard seed, it was even called Jie Zi Temple — Mustard Seed Temple. One Buddha statue, one meditation hall, one monk’s quarters, then a kitchen and a latrine — just enough to occupy that small patch of flat ground at the mountain’s curve. Looking out from the monk’s quarters window, the cliff’s edge was barely a few meters away. Mustard Seed Temple was like a strange and stubborn solitary pine, taking root at the very precipice of danger, growing serenely on, unmoved by wind and rain.

The old monk had his idle moments too, especially on the coldest days of winter. With no one to keep him company, he had no choice but to hold his broom and sit a while on the stone steps by the temple gate, listening to the crows call out in disarray, watching the snow melt unevenly across the mountain. Sometimes he would even talk to his broom — about how the day he would meet Buddha was drawing near, about how with him gone, who would pick fruit for offerings, who would sweep and maintain Mustard Seed Temple, how even this broom, the finest broom in all the world, would have no one left to use it. The temple, though small, the objects within it, though humble, still constituted a world unto themselves — to let it fall to ruin would truly be a pity.

This finest broom in all the world naturally could not respond to the old monk. It had started out as ordinary wood — leftover scrap from when Mustard Seed Temple was built — one of many pieces tossed in a corner, already destined along with the other waste to be carted down the mountain and sold as firewood. But on the way out of the temple gate, the frugal old monk had spotted it, retrieved it, trimmed and smoothed it, bound it with wild mugwort, and it had been used as a broom ever since — for decades now.

That winter, the old monk’s cough grew heavier by the day. Gradually, he could no longer walk. On the evening when the sun had just dipped below the hills, he breathed his last. The broom stood propped beside the door, the north wind making it hiss and rattle.

That night, a great snow fell — goose-feather flurries of it, so thick one feared that by morning, Mustard Seed Temple would be buried forever.

The snow fell denser and denser — and then, with a bang, the temple gate was shoved open. A young man in fine, light robes with a face like jade came staggering in, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. Down the stone steps beyond the gate, a string of torchlight flickered, surging forward in pursuit.

Seven or eight pursuers, dressed in ordinary clothes. The stocky middle-aged man leading them wore an Eight Trigrams charm around his neck, one hand resting on the short sword at his waist, with a fierce and ruthless look about him. He strode into the temple — whether it was a sudden gust of wind or something else, no one could say, but the broom that had been standing perfectly upright managed, with uncanny timing, to fall sideways right beneath the man’s feet, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. At the sight of it, the young man burst into laughter, swept his palm through the air, and somehow — from a distance — drew the broom into his hand, then slipped into the main hall.

The oil lamp burned dimly. The Bodhisattva sat enthroned upon the lotus pedestal. The young man pressed a hand to his chest, slumped against the Bodhisattva’s feet, and with the broom cradled in his arms, laughed softly: “To think that at the very end of my road, I’d still find a brother like this broom to come to my aid.”

In the dim light, the broom’s handle — worn smooth from years of use — glowed with a subtle luster, and in the flickering uncertainty of it, seemed almost to pulse with life.

“A wooden-handled broom — that is unusual.” The young man detached the handle: over three feet long, a warm brownish hue. He ran his hand across it and felt, unmistakably, a faint warmth flowing beneath the surface.

The torchlight and voices were already surging to the entrance of the main hall. This sacred space would be sacred no longer.

“It seems you are no ordinary piece of wood — you may serve as a substitute.” The young man’s face lit with pleasure. In truth, from the moment he had entered the temple until now, his expression had not changed — he had been smiling the entire time, with none of the tension of a man being hunted, none of the pain of a man who was wounded. “Since fate has brought us together in this manner, I will give you a great gift — and spare you from spending a lonely eternity in this small temple.” He paused. “But remember: where there is gain, there is loss. Tend well to yourself.”

The words had barely left his mouth when the doors to the main hall were flung open. In the chaos of torchlight, the men rushed in.

At that very same moment, a beam of brilliant light surged up from beneath the Buddha statue — dazzling as a rainbow arcing across the sky — bathing the dilapidated, desolate hall in the splendor of paradise that exists only in paintings. Everyone present was struck dumb, rooted to the spot, unable to move — but it lasted only an instant. The radiance shot out through the main hall and vanished without a trace. When they opened their eyes again, there was not a single sign of the young man. At the feet of the Bodhisattva, all that remained was a heap of mugwort, stripped from the broom.

The following day, the old monk — who had long since stopped breathing and had been lying stiff in the meditation hall through the night — twitched his eyelids, drew in a great lungful of air, and slowly, slowly exhaled…

2

“Bet on odd, roll odd. Bet on even, roll even. Place your bets, no take-backs!”

“Roll! Roll already!”

“One, three, five… eleven! Apologies, everyone — odd!”

“Ugh! No fun! I’m done, I’m leaving!”

“Safe travels, everyone! Come back next time!”

In an unremarkable corner of a street, Yuan Jie waved cheerfully at the group of youngsters scattering away, then one by one picked up the scattered silver coins from the blue cloth spread on the ground, tucking each one into the coin purse as she went: “This one’s for roast chicken, this one’s for osmanthus candy, this one’s…”

She hadn’t finished counting when a large hand reached from behind her, confiscating the coins without appeal.

“You learn all the wrong things — now you’re running a gambling den!” A young man in his twenties, plain clothes and cloth shoes, a heavy wooden chest slung over one arm, pocketed the silver with one hand and grabbed Yuan Jie by the ear with the other. He glanced at the pile of peanuts on the blue cloth. “And using peanuts to bet on odd-and-even again!”

“Sometimes I use sunflower seeds too… ow, Master, I was wrong!” Yuan Jie made an exaggerated show of clutching her ear, squinting and grimacing. “You were in there forever and wouldn’t come out, and you didn’t take me with you. I’ve been squatting out here bored out of my mind — might as well earn a few coins!”

“Do you think your Master goes inside places like that to play? When performing at households like these, the rules are clear about numbers — most of the slots get taken up by the well-known troupes. By the time it gets to wandering performers like us, there’s only one slot left. Even if I wanted to take you in, I couldn’t! If your Master didn’t go in there to earn money, what would I feed you with? Your appetite is bigger than a wild boar’s. Hurry up and pack — we need to get moving! We’ll miss the business at General Tao Yuan County’s manor if we’re not quick!”

“Yes, Master!”

Under the sunset, master and apprentice gathered up their bundles of belongings and climbed onto their only means of transport — a creaking, rattling donkey cart that looked like one strong gust of wind would blow it to pieces — and goaded the ill-tempered little donkey out through the city gate. In the early spring, still caught between warmth and chill, they headed toward Tao Yuan County.

They were what people commonly called wandering performers. The Master went by San Wu, the apprentice by Yuan Jie. The sort of work involving knife-throwing, sword displays, stone-breaking, or pole-climbing — that wasn’t for them. What they did were lively, clever little magic tricks, comic performances with painted faces that had audiences doubled over with laughter, and occasionally they sold medicinal pellets that wouldn’t heal you but wouldn’t kill you either. Compared to the large troupes with many performers, theirs was always just the two of them, coming and going — their income was modest, enough to scrape by.

For as long as Yuan Jie could remember, she had been travelling with her Master through cities large and small. She had always been mischievous from childhood, and her Master, afraid she’d run off and get lost, had no choice but to tie a rope around her waist during his performances, with the other end fastened near him, only untying it once the show was done. This arrangement continued until she was three or four years old, when she finally learned to hold a gong and collect money from the audience.

In truth, this Master who was as good as a father and mother to her really ought to be quite elderly by now — yet he had not aged at all. In Yuan Jie’s earliest memories and her most recent ones alike, some fifteen years at least had passed, and not a single thing about the Master’s appearance had changed: still in his twenties, with a high nose and deep-set eyes, his features strikingly handsome. Whenever Yuan Jie took off his garish red-and-green performance makeup, she would always say to him: “Master, if you wore fine clothes, you’d put all those silk-robed young gentlemen to shame! Look at that pig-faced young lord from the Li household — that fat and he still wears white robes!”

To her compliments, the Master would always smile like a fox who’d just made off with a chicken, then pat her on the head and say: “If your Master spent all his time buying fine clothes, there’d be nothing left to save for your dowry!”

Well — Yuan Jie was not a boy, though she looked like one. When she finally figured out what a dowry was, she’d been none too pleased, and had declared very seriously to the Master: “I don’t want a dowry. Convert the dowry into silver coins, then use it to open a gambling house. We’ll be the bosses, make money, and I’ll support the Master in his old age.”

The Master hadn’t been pleased with that either, and retorted: if that was the case, they might as well spend the dowry buying land in the countryside, because farming and raising pigs was better than becoming a degenerate gambler — besides, she was already as wild as a boar, and keeping her in the city would only cause trouble.

The agreement was reached: earn money, buy land, raise pigs. That became the highest aspiration of master and apprentice. But stepping back from ideals into reality — counting up all their savings over the years, it seemed like they couldn’t afford even a countryside outhouse.

“Master, you should change your name. San Wu sounds terrible.” Yuan Jie gazed at the sinking red sun ahead, idly passing the time.

“Not changing it.” The Master focused on the road as he drove the cart. “What, have you started looking down on your Master?”

“Listen to the names other people’s masters have — they all sound impressive when you call them out. You’re so…”

“Your Master has no silver, no wife and children, no worries — resoundingly San Wu, Three-Nothing Master. What’s wrong with that? You dare look down on your Master!”

“It sounds bad and that’s a fact. If it were only your name that was terrible, that’d be one thing, but you’ve dragged your apprentice’s name down with it too. Look at all the girls my age — they all have names like Hua’er or Die’er, something graceful and refined.”

“Your Master found you in the first month of the year outside Mustard Seed Temple, so Yuan Jie — First Month Mustard — suits you perfectly. Far better than those names that try to sound elegant without knowing what elegance is!”

“It sounds like a little monk!”

“You were found outside a monk’s temple — that’s exactly where you come from!”

“Hmph!”

The donkey cart rattled along in the deepening dusk. Tao Yuan County was not far now, and San Wu could already faintly hear the sound of trickling water. Tao Yuan was home — or what passed for home — for him and Yuan Jie. Though even calling it that was a stretch, since they had no fixed place to stay. Wherever the rent was cheap, they lived there. When money was truly scarce, they would go stay a few days at Mustard Seed Temple in the hills outside town — the old monk there knew them well, and was especially fond of Yuan Jie, who had been sharp-tongued and clever since childhood. Later, the number of times San Wu took Yuan Jie away to perform in other places had grown, and master and apprentice were often gone for half a year at a stretch. This time coming back, nearly three years had passed in between, and Yuan Jie had grown half a head taller than when they’d left.

Perhaps it was the sentimentality of approaching home. San Wu’s gaze grew slightly distant.

Outside Tao Yuan County ran a river called Tao Hua — Peach Blossom River — its banks lined with peach trees. Come spring, petals floated over clear water, and the scenery was lovely.

Over the years, no one quite knew how it had started, but word had gotten around that a smiling immortal lived in the Peach Blossom River, charitable and generous, willing to grant any wish. The touch of this immortal’s divine presence, so they said, had turned the entire river into something that could bless marriages and longevity — which drew no small number of men and women, young and old, who traveled from far away to scoop up cups of the water and drink it. Whether it had done anything for their marriages and longevity was hard to say, but Tao Yuan County had certainly profited from this river. You needed only to look at the teahouses, eateries, and stalls selling love-and-harmony talismans, four-seasons-of-peace talismans, and ever-smiling talismans that had sprung up all along the Peach Blossom riverbank to understand just how much good the river had brought.

“Master, you should go scoop yourself a cup of water from the Peach Blossom River too!” Yuan Jie grinned.

“Your Master isn’t thirsty.”

“You may not be thirsty, but you ought to think of your future wife!” Yuan Jie pursed her lips. “When are you going to bring home a mistress? Then your apprentice wouldn’t have to wash your smelly socks and mend your torn clothes!”

“It’s me who mends yours. Those needlework skills of yours — the patches look like a chicken’s backside!”

“That’s your fault for not teaching me properly!”

“You’re hopeless!”

“Hmph!”

Master and apprentice bickered on. The little donkey, fed up with listening to them, brayed several times in protest and picked up speed, carrying them through the city gate before daybreak, just as the first light of dawn was beginning to appear.

3

“Drag him out!” Duan Mu Ren waved his broad sleeve, his face expressionless.

“General Duan Mu, have mercy! Every word this humble Daoist has spoken is true!” The scrawny Daoist priest, held fast by the General’s manor guards, cried out loudly: “There is a demon within this manor — it has caused the Lady to lose her smile! If it is not driven out, great calamity will follow!”

“Drag him out and give him one hundred strokes of the cane!” Duan Mu Ren ordered. “Henceforth, anyone who allows such fraudulent Daoists into the manor will be severely punished!”

The grand manor of a great general — and the Lady of that manor supposedly entangled with a demon? What an absolute joke!

Only when the sounds of the cane striking flesh and the Daoist’s screams had drifted in from the courtyard did Duan Mu Ren finally manage to suppress his fury, and he strode out of the main hall toward his study.

He had fought on the battlefield, drenched in enemy blood. He had weathered the most treacherous of situations without so much as a flicker of his brow. He was the undefeated general spoken of by every civil and military official at court — the pillar upon which the Emperor could sit secure upon the dragon throne and look down upon enemy nations. If he opened his mouth to ask, there was nothing he could not obtain, short of the throne itself.

And yet — he could not cure her ailment.

Pausing at one end of the covered corridor, he gazed across the water at her. Her silhouette was framed in the window: she held a slender silver needle, embroidering a fine silk handkerchief with meticulous care. Her hair, dark as clouds, bore none of the heavy gold-and-jade ornaments that wealth and rank might demand — only a plain, well-worn wooden hair clasp, lazily coiling it up. The simplest of styles, and yet the most captivating.

When he counted the years — it had been three years since their wedding. From a young girl in a ramshackle travelling troupe to a radiant General’s Lady, the name Xie Xiao Qing had become synonymous with good fortune. Her ascent from common girl to phoenix on a bough had given every unmarried young woman in Tao Yuan County renewed hope for life.

She wasn’t the most strikingly beautiful woman, either — but what a match she had made! That man was Duan Mu Ren — the great general who had driven back the surrounding barbarian tribes time and again! Born in Tao Yuan, Duan Mu Ren was the greatest source of pride for the people of his hometown, and everywhere you went, you could find someone who boasted: “I’m from the same hometown as General Duan Mu.”

What made it all the more remarkable was that this one-man army of a warrior, when he shed his battle armor, turned out to be tall and well-built, with outstanding looks and a hint of refined elegance to boot — it seemed as though heaven had heaped all its blessings upon him alone.

Such a fine family background, such a fine husband — and still it wasn’t enough to win a smile from her.

The rumor went: the General’s Lady suffered from a strange ailment. She could not smile.

The truth wasn’t far from the rumor. Three years ago, after routing the Tujue forces and receiving his imperial commendation in the Golden Phoenix Hall, Duan Mu Ren had rushed home to Tao Yuan — which he had not seen in a full year — to joyfully wed the woman he loved. But from the moment he lifted her red bridal veil, Xie Xiao Qing, now his wife, had not shown so much as a trace of a smile. Between her brows, there was always a sorrow, faint yet ever-present, that stirred a heartache in whoever looked upon her.

She had never been like this before. The girl who could scramble to the top of a tree in the blink of an eye, who could crack a candle flame with a single flick of her whip in front of a crowd, who could smile until her eyes curved into crescent moons — she seemed an entirely different person now.

He had asked her — was there something on her mind? Was she unhappy? She shook her head and denied it every time.

Then why no smile? She held her silence. He cupped her chin and looked directly into her eyes, but could find no clue whatsoever. Her smile had simply, inexplicably, been stripped from her body.

Over these three years, whenever he had a moment free, he would take her traveling — whenever he heard of some interesting scenery, he would take her to see it; whenever some new and novel curiosity appeared in the market, he would buy it for her.

And yet — she did not smile. Even when holding the little cat she loved most, not a trace of joy crossed her face. Aside from not smiling, she fulfilled every duty of a wife: she never complained, never quarreled. When Duan Mu Ren returned from a distant campaign, she would personally brew a pot of good broth for him, tidy his study until it was spotless, fill it with his favorite incense. In the quiet of the night, she would lean against him and listen in silence as he told her of his travels and the strange things he had encountered on the road. In every other way, she was everything one could hope for — and yet, it was impossible to know what was in her heart.

He had thought it must be an illness, and brought in all manner of physicians to examine her. Every single one said: the Lady’s pulse is calm and steady, her blood and energy abundant, not the slightest sign of sickness. They each prescribed some calming and nourishing remedy and let the matter drop.

As time passed, whispers were inevitable. Some gossipy old serving women muttered behind closed doors that the General’s Lady had probably been possessed by a fox spirit. That Bo Si — the one who brought the downfall of King You of Zhou — had been a fox spirit who never smiled; and when a fox spirit like that finally did smile, it meant ruin was at hand.

The household servants heard this and spread it through the manor in hushed tones, until he found out, caught them, and had them flogged half to death. As for the Daoist priest today — he wasn’t the first to be thrown out. Several wandering Daoists and monks before him had sought him out and said much the same thing. In the beginning, he had listened patiently to the end and sent them on their way with courtesy. But as time went on, he grew less and less able to tolerate these laughable, baseless claims. Today’s Daoist was simply unlucky — he had arrived precisely at the moment when Duan Mu Ren had run out of patience entirely.

He slammed his fist against a corridor pillar. Every detail of these three years with her rose in his mind, one by one. The person who couldn’t smile in this manor — it wasn’t just her.

He watched her silhouette in the window, his gaze fixed and distant. That face, that figure, even the way she walked — all of it belonged to the silly girl who had once taken his hand and refused to let go, face lit with a bright and playful smile, walking him all the way to the city gate to see him off.

What was wrong? What was wrong? A demon… impossible. That was absurd. He had never believed in ghosts or gods. He had only been away from Tao Yuan for a year — how could she have changed so much in that time?

In an instant, something inside him felt like it was being clawed at, twisting and refusing to settle. This sensation — like a burning coal, like the scrape of a blade — had been growing worse of late, spreading from his heart outward to his whole body. He, who had never felt so much as a flicker of distress standing before ten thousand enemies, found it harder and harder to be at peace.

“Reporting to the General — the performance troupe and the street performers invited for the Lady’s birthday celebration have all arrived.” A servant hurried over, presenting a name register. “Please review it, General. If everything is in order…”

“No need to look it over. See to the details yourselves. On the day of the Lady’s birthday, increase the guard — do not allow any lowlifes or pickpockets to sneak in.” His heart was restless; he dismissed the servant in a few words.

The servant accepted his orders and withdrew, leaving him to stand in the corridor a moment longer in a daze, before finally turning and leaving.

Tomorrow was her birthday. The two previous years, he had been away leading campaigns and had missed them both. This year, he was home. He had said he would bring the most celebrated troupes and the most entertaining wandering performers to perform for her. He had heard their acts were extraordinary — everyone who watched came away marveling. He had also quietly harbored a hope: perhaps this kind of merriment might, just once, coax a smile from her.

The pale sunlight moved slowly through the air. In the pond, fish bubbled and drifted. Across the way, at her window, she set down her embroidery needle and watched his retreating figure, still wearing that expression — perfectly composed, yet sorrowful for no discernible reason.

The twin-lotus flowers were not yet finished. She rubbed her slightly damp eyes and picked up the needle again. Every pattern she embroidered was festive — even the flowers and grasses all looked like face after face broken open in laughter.

4

Another wave of laughter erupted, loud enough to shake the colored lanterns hanging throughout the manor from their hooks.

Five-colored greasepaint had transformed San Wu’s face into the funniest joke the world had ever known. Without saying a single word, he needed only to exaggeratedly bite into a wedge of watermelon, then exaggeratedly shake out a bolt of black cloth to produce a whole cascade of watermelon rinds, fall on them, scramble back up, and strike pose after pose of bewildered, ridiculous helplessness — and the audience below was already convulsed with laughter.

This time, Yuan Jie wasn’t idle either. She had painted her own face into a monkey’s, and in coordination with her Master, she whooshed up that tall bamboo pole extending from the box — the crowd holding their breath in hushed suspense — and then San Wu flung out a vivid, eye-catching large floral cloth that drifted slowly down from above, and by the time it settled, Yuan Jie had simply vanished from the top of the pole.

For an audience accustomed to old-fashioned troupes and street acrobatics, this was practically a living miracle. Some people cried out in astonishment.

San Wu also struck a look of alarm, scrambling frantically about the stage, flipping over everything — watermelon rinds flying in all directions — until he hoisted up another large floral wooden chest and, with a motion that only appeared clumsy but was in fact precisely controlled, swept every single airborne watermelon rind into the box, then shut the lid and sat down on top of it, gasping for breath and scratching his head — a sight so genuinely funny it was impossible not to laugh.

The General and his Lady sat in the main viewing seat on the platform. Duan Mu Ren had been drawn in by this novel performance from early on, involuntarily calling out his admiration several times. Beside him, she was no different from usual on the surface, but her eyes were noticeably brighter than on ordinary days, fixed intently on San Wu’s every move on stage.

Sensing the atmosphere had reached its peak, San Wu grinned wide, suddenly sprang into the air, and as he landed, he yanked the red sash tied to the lid of the box — a burst of colorful confetti cascaded out like a snowfall, filling the air. Yuan Jie, who had vanished into thin air, leaped out of the box holding a flower basket symbolizing a hundred blooms in splendor, alighted as lightly as a swallow, and together with San Wu, bowed toward the main viewing seat on the platform and called out: “Wishing the Lady a joyous birthday, with flowers blooming in abundance and peace and happiness throughout!”

“Wonderful! Wonderful!” Duan Mu Ren rose to his feet in applause, his expression shifting from astonishment to delight.

Yet what surprised him even more was that she, beside him, was also clapping — genuinely, with feeling. Though no evident smile crossed her brow, those lips that had stayed fixed, as if held in place by some enchantment, unable to lift for so long — showed the tiniest flicker of change. This infinitesimal, almost-but-not-quite movement filled him with a joy that bordered on ecstasy.

Their gazes met. Duan Mu Ren was looking at her. Yuan Jie was looking at her. And she was looking at San Wu.

Applause thundered from the crowd — yet at that moment, four pairs of ears heard nothing but silence.

You perform so brilliantly. It made my stomach hurt from laughing!

Ha ha — if that’s really true, then that’s wonderful.

Can you teach me?

Why bother letting the greasepaint ruin a perfectly good face?

But I love this face. Just looking at it makes you happy. See — I just got a beating from the troupe master, and the moment I saw your face, my backside stopped hurting and my heart stopped aching. I just wanted to laugh.

Alright then. Whenever I see you, I won’t take off my makeup.

A conversation no one else could hear drifted up from somewhere inside certain people’s hearts, on this night where moonlight and lantern light danced together.

5

Duan Mu Ren rewarded them generously. Yuan Jie held the box stuffed full of silver coins and rolled back and forth across the bed in delight, laughing so hard her chin nearly fell off.

“The General is so generous! And so good-looking! How am I supposed to spend all this silver?!” She writhed about on the soft bed like a monkey. “Master, it’s been ages since we slept in a bed this nice!”

Not only had Duan Mu Ren rewarded them handsomely, but he had also asked them to stay on at the General’s manor — for a simple reason: his Lady enjoyed their performances, and he hoped they would see fit to perform a few more times. He would compensate them generously.

San Wu hesitated for a moment, but in the end nodded and agreed.

“Your room is next door. What are you doing sprawled out on your Master’s bed?” San Wu took back the silver coins from her hands, tucked them cheerfully into his own chest, then fetched a feather duster and shooed her off the bed. “Go. Back to your room to sleep. And wash your feet.”

Yuan Jie pursed her lips, put on her shoes, and then suddenly seemed to remember something. She sidled over to San Wu with a sly grin. “Master — why do I feel like I recognize that Lady who can’t smile?”

“Whenever you see someone pretty, you say you recognize them.” San Wu shook his head.

“That’s not true!” Yuan Jie rolled her eyes, then gave him a knowing nudge. “Stop pretending to be dim, you old thing!”

“When you’re calling me an old thing, my memory naturally isn’t what it used to be.”

“Don’t play coy with me… even if you’d forgotten your own apprentice, you wouldn’t have forgotten that girl who almost became my little mistress!” Yuan Jie stuck her tongue out at him.

San Wu laughed in spite of himself and flicked her on the forehead. “What do you mean, ‘almost became your little mistress’?”

“The girl who almost became my Master’s wife!” Yuan Jie tilted her head and launched into her story: “I was ten years old then, wasn’t I — we’d just come back to Tao Yuan from out of town, and I’d caught a cold that dragged on for a whole year. My body was frail and I couldn’t run around with you, so we settled down in Tao Yuan for a long spell. You performed at the market every day, and I was in charge of banging the gong and collecting money. Your act was fresh and amazing, you had plenty of audience, and people laughing their insides out was a regular occurrence.”

“You’ve been talking this whole time — where’s this almost-mistress of yours?” San Wu smiled.

“Wasn’t there that one day when you bombed spectacularly?! The audience turned on you instantly — there were people throwing rotten cabbage! But that one girl dressed in boys’ clothes didn’t leave — she even came over to help you pack up the stall!” Yuan Jie recalled. “She was pretty. Lips a soft pale red, like she’d put on rouge. When she smiled, her eyes curved like crescent moons.”

“Mm. And then?”

“I’m not saying any more!” Yuan Jie sulked. “What’s so amusing about pretending not to remember? The person you liked went and married someone else — and that someone wasn’t you!”

“Go to sleep, apprentice.” San Wu ruffled her hair, smiling. “If I’d known back then how incessantly you’d chatter, I might as well have left you to freeze to death outside Mustard Seed Temple.”

“Pah! Even without you, the old monk inside the temple would have taken me in!”

“If he had, you’d be a little shaved-headed nun by now, and you’d never get to drink wine and eat meat with your Master.”

Changing the subject, deflecting and sidestepping — Yuan Jie’s skill in that regard would never match her Master’s.

She pushed open the door to leave, and in the moment before it closed, she said to San Wu, who was straightening the bedding: “You know, you didn’t have to come back.”

San Wu turned around. The door had already creaked shut.

He paused for a brief moment.

He didn’t have to come back? No — he did.

Three years were up.

He went on smoothing the bedding. That monkey of an apprentice hadn’t changed at all — even as a child, she had loved to roll around on his bed, never mind whether she’d just crawled out of a mud puddle, always seeming intent on smearing whatever was on her onto him. In those days, when she curled herself up, she wasn’t much bigger than a cat — always with a dirty face, always burrowing into the warmest spot against him, sleeping until bubbles came out of her nose.

Most of those bad habits had stayed. Few had been corrected.

And this child — she loved to laugh. She could watch two ants fighting and laugh until her gums showed. They say the older people grow, the more worries they carry — but this child grew more cheerful with every year. No matter how hard life got, he had never once seen a trace of sorrow cross her face. Though she usually wore a worn, shapeless garment that gave no hint of her gender and a dopey felt hat pulled low, that clear, delicate, perpetually smiling face of hers — just looking at it made people feel good.

He finished tidying, but had no intention of sleeping. He went out and gently pushed open Yuan Jie’s door a crack.

A thunderous snoring sound burrowed its way out. His apprentice was wrapped in clean, plush blankets, sleeping the most blissful of sleeps.

The first time he had ever seen her, it had been dead of winter, snow and ice everywhere. She was bundled in a thin swaddle of cloth, her small face flushed red from cold, her thumb still in her mouth — even though she had long since lost all feeling in it. And yet, the corner of her mouth was still curved up in that drowsy, contented smile. He couldn’t help it. He turned back and gathered this barely-breathing little creature into his arms.

The old monk, trailing his long beard, fingering his prayer beads, glanced out through the temple gate just once, and murmured “Amitabha.”

“You want this little thing?” He turned, smiling. “Pity it’s a girl — she won’t be able to inherit your mantle.”

“Amitabha. Bring her to visit when you have time.” The old monk turned his beads, turned, and walked back into the temple. “Tiny as a mustard seed, yet a world unto itself. Who gives and who receives — not always as it appears to the eye.”

When the old fellow’s words grew increasingly incomprehensible, it was a sign he was becoming a better monk.

He smiled to himself, not knowing when he might find his way back to Mustard Seed Temple again.

He closed Yuan Jie’s door, intending to return to his room, but then came to a sudden stop. He turned and left the General’s manor, heading under the cover of night toward Mustard Seed Temple in the hills.

6

Duan Mu Ren carefully tucked the arm she’d left uncovered back under the blanket. She was sleeping peacefully tonight. He looked at her sleeping face for a long while and always felt she was smiling — but looking again, she wasn’t.

He wrapped himself in a robe, left the bedroom, and made his way quietly to the study.

Along the way, he pressed his hand instinctively to his chest. Over the past few days, the inexplicable pain had grown increasingly intense — it was as if a fire was burning inside his heart, accompanied by a faint itch, with nowhere to go, nowhere to spread. It was deeply unsettling.

He locked the door, didn’t bother lighting a lamp, and by the faint moonlight filtering through the window, walked slowly over and sat down.

Three years ago today, he and his army had fought a desperate battle in the Night Wolf Valley against enemy forces. Though he ultimately emerged victorious, the cost had been his entire army. The blood of both sides had stained the entire world red. Countless eyes, glazed and unable to close in death, had frozen in the rising dust. He remembered it so vividly because this day was also her birthday. He had been carrying a white nephrite jade bracelet in his inner chest pocket, bought specially, intending to give it to her as a belated gift once he returned in triumph. But when he had finally crawled out from beneath a mountain of bodies, the bracelet, like the soldiers who had fallen, was shattered beyond recognition.

The moonlight moved slowly. Across from him was a silhouette — a figure, motionless in the dark. It was not a person. It was his battle armor. He had first followed his father onto the battlefield at twelve years old, and the scars on his body, large and small, were just as numerous as the marks on that armor.

Beside the armor hung the jade-inlaid golden sword bestowed by the Emperor himself, engraved with his name — a reward for his resplendent military achievements, an honor that would pass down through the generations.

He had been born in Tao Yuan, naturally quick-witted, formidable beyond his years — the greatest pride in his father’s eyes. While other children were still chasing after their mothers for sweets, he was already swinging a wooden sword with real form and technique. Behind him, his father held a cane, rapping him on the hand or leg from time to time to correct any movement that wasn’t up to standard. If he practiced poorly, dinner was off the table. If he practiced well, his father couldn’t help but preen with satisfaction, saying he had a fine son who had inherited all his best qualities — that when the boy grew up, he would outshine him, gallop across the battlefield, sweep out the barbarian forces, and his future would be boundless.

I was born with divine strength — wielding sword and blade comes naturally to me!

Good lad, your reflexes are truly sharp — on the battlefield, a soldier needs exactly that kind of alertness!

Those blockheads couldn’t memorize a single line of this military treatise in ten years — you read it once and could recite it backwards. You are destined to be a great general!

Words like these had filled every corner of his childhood. In his father’s eyes, everything he was amounted to a single thing: a genius born for the battlefield.

His father hadn’t been wrong. His son’s achievements far surpassed his own at an early age. His father, by the day he died in battle, had only ever reached the rank of junior fifth-grade military official — he hadn’t even managed to leave behind a final word, and his body was never recovered.

Even in this tender night, his battle robes shed none of their killing edge. It was as if the death and blood that had drifted across battlefield after battlefield were embedded in them, impossible to wash out, not in one lifetime, not ever. Whether he was on a field roaring with horses and men, or in the peaceful quiet of Tao Yuan, the greater part of his soul remained forever mired in the carnage — never truly at rest.

He had once believed that after enduring ten thousand hardships and returning, red wedding candles burning high, a woman who had waited faithfully and understood him deeply — perhaps she could bring his soul back from that other world. But he had been wrong. Her transformation had pushed him into yet another kind of grief and helplessness — one he was powerless to escape.

Was it something he had done wrong? Was that why she could find no joy?

Or… had he simply ceased to hold the most important place in her heart? The day he left Tao Yuan four years ago, she had been like every other parting before it: she had told him to take care of himself at every turn, to come back safely no matter what. The image of her tear-streaked, smiling face was still vivid behind his eyes. He had been away for a full year — not long, but not short. When he returned, her face was unchanged, and yet she was a different person entirely.

He hadn’t failed to investigate. From the time he set out on campaign to the day he returned and they were married — that full year — she had barely left the house. Except for the occasional walk to the city gate to gaze into the distance, there was nothing suspicious. When he asked her directly what was wrong, she had said, again and again: nothing.

A person smiles at the ones they love. They cannot smile for someone they have grown to resent. Even a three-year-old child understands that much.

He pressed his hand to his chest, stood at the window, and reached out to take a small object from the wooden shelf nearby, turning it over in his fingers — a little parrot carved from stone, unfinished, one wing still unsculpted, and if you looked closely, it had once been dropped and shattered, then patiently mended back together.

This was something he had carved himself as a child. To carve it accurately, he had even saved up his pocket money to buy a magnificent green-feathered parrot from a bird seller, bathed it and fed it, kept it in fine condition. Then, in the moments when his father was asleep, he would take out the tools hidden beneath his bed and carve by moonlight.

But of course his father had found out in the end. He wasn’t angry — he was furious. He smashed all the tools, killed the parrot that had already learned to call his name, jabbed a finger at his nose and roared: You are destined to be a great general! Not a stonecutter! If you have time for such foolishness, pick up another volume of military strategy!

He had held the parrot’s body in his arms, not daring to cry, not daring to say a word. What he had truly wanted to tell his father was: he had never wanted to be a stonecutter. It was simply that holding a carving blade, turning a rough and crude stone into a living little creature — each stroke of the blade brought him joy. That was all.

From that point on, he never touched a carving blade again. In the long years that followed, the only things his blade fell upon were enemies, one after another, watching them split apart beneath his edge, blood and flesh flying.

He had believed that with her in his life, he could again be as he once was — using his gentlest hands, casting away all the cruel and bloody memories, carving out a light and joyful new life. But he had been wrong again.

His father had once said to him: Son, I cherish you as a treasure. The deeper the love, the stricter the expectation.

She had once said to him: Duan Mu, in Xiao Qing’s heart, you matter more than my own life. I love you more than anything.

Both claimed to love him. So why had both, in the end, left his heart cut to pieces?

He took a deep breath, set down the carving, clenched his jaw and sat back down in the chair. Only when the pain in his chest had subsided by half did he finally exhale, dab at the cold sweat on his brow, and rise to walk toward the study door.

As he passed a bronze mirror, the corner of his eye grazed its surface — and he stopped dead. He whipped his head around to look squarely: in that usually-clear mirror, his reflection was wrapped in a dense fog. Only blurred patches of color were visible.

He thought the mirror must be dirty and went to wipe it with his hand. It made no difference. The him in the mirror looked like a ghostly shadow — an uncertain, unreal presence.

He stared for a long moment, unconvinced, and wiped it again. He did not know how much time passed before the reflection in the mirror gradually returned to normal.

A momentary illusion, he decided. He steadied himself and walked out of the study.

The next day, he had the bronze mirror thrown out of the house and a new one brought in.

7

It had been four days since they arrived here.

Yuan Jie felt unsettled and distracted, making mistakes frequently during practice.

San Wu didn’t scold her much. Even when he grabbed her ear, he did it gently, his face wearing its usual smile.

He had always been this way. Wealthy or poor, smooth sailing or adversity — always cheerful, as if nothing in this world could ever truly trouble him.

Over these past few days, aside from the one performance they had put on last night specifically for the General and his Lady, they had had nothing in particular to do. As for that woman who could not smile — watching their act was no different for her from any ordinary occasion, except that when her gaze fell on the Master’s painted face, her expression softened, just the faintest bit. Yuan Jie had seen it. The General certainly had too.

The Master had brought out every trick he knew. When performing for her, he always surpassed himself — even his stumbles and pratfalls were funnier than usual.

He still carries feelings for her, Yuan Jie thought quietly to herself.

Last night, before the performance, she had been applying San Wu’s stage makeup for him. He used to do it himself — he’d always said she couldn’t draw a turtle properly, let alone anything else — and she, refusing to accept that, had practiced relentlessly, giving up sleep to do it. By now, she could follow his vision perfectly and transform his face into the world’s most exaggerated, most hilarious mask.

Just as she was putting on the final stroke, someone knocked at the door.

The General’s Lady stood outside, her gaze passing over Yuan Jie and settling on the bronze mirror with its reflection of the face being painted. “Am I interrupting?”

Yuan Jie gave San Wu a meaningful look. He rose, bowed to her, and said: “Not at all — we’re ready and can go on at any time. What brings you here, my Lady?”

She stepped inside, eyes fixed on him. “How wonderful,” she said. “You’ve come back.”

Yuan Jie could see her brows and eyes trembling slightly — very much like someone who was trying hard to smile, and failing.

“It has been a long time.” San Wu’s smile was all the more brilliant for the painted face.

She was silent for a long while.

“Yuan Jie, step out for a bit.” San Wu turned to face her. “There’s still time before the performance. Go find somewhere around the manor to wander.”

“And where is a person dressed like a monkey supposed to wander?!” Yuan Jie pouted, tugging at her ridiculous performance costume.

“You look like a monkey even without it.” San Wu fished out a small silver coin and pressed it into her palm. “Go bet on peanuts with the manor servants — Master gives you permission today.”

“With silver, all things are possible. You two take your time.” Yuan Jie’s face was practically on the verge of splitting open with grinning. She hopped out of the room and even pulled the door shut behind her.

She didn’t go to gamble. Instead, she found the most secluded corner of the General’s manor, tucked herself at the far end of a corridor over the water, and leaned against the railing watching the fish below. The brightness she’d worn all day was gone from her face.

Inside the room, San Wu and the Lady sat facing each other. She seemed a little uneasy, her head slightly bowed, fidgeting with a handkerchief already crumpled to a ball in her fingers.

“You weren’t like this before.” San Wu smiled and asked. “You loved to laugh and make noise — a lot like my apprentice. You still remember the little one, don’t you?”

“I remember. Small, but already cunning — she was always finding new ways to squeeze silver out of me.” She spoke slowly.

San Wu laughed out loud.

Before… “Before” really was a fine word.

8

The winters back then were colder than these past few years. He had brought Yuan Jie, just recovered from a serious illness, along with him to perform at the Tao Yuan market. He himself wore thin clothes, but had bundled Yuan Jie into such a thick little cotton ball that if she fell over she’d bounce. Business wasn’t good. Audiences came and went, and sometimes, when the performance didn’t go smoothly, people would even upend his stall.

But whenever he was performing, she would come to watch — no matter how well or badly he did, she would laugh and cheer.

“Aren’t you with the troupe over there? You’ve been coming here every day. Don’t you have your own performances to do?” He and she had become familiar quickly. After each performance, they would exchange a few words. This girl’s personality: one degree more and she’d be brash, one degree less and she’d be affected — it was exactly right.

“Because this side is more fun! All we do over there is drill and practice singing all day, same old thing.” She smiled at him. “I love watching your act. That painted face — even the most heartbroken person in the world would feel better looking at it!”

“Do you have heartaches?” he asked.

“Not anymore.” She shook her head. “If I ever do again, your performance will be even more useful!”

He grinned. “I hope that ‘again’ never comes.”

It was much later before he learned that when he said that, her father had just died.

Only in his presence — more precisely, in the presence of the him who hadn’t removed his makeup — did she ever laugh with such unguarded, wholehearted joy.

For this period of time, outside San Wu’s regular pitch at the Tao Yuan market, there was always one loyal regular audience member. Because of her presence, San Wu put more heart and soul into every performance, making it richer and more varied.

She had a gift for it. Every idea and suggestion she offered was genuinely useful — applied to his performances, they felt entirely fresh.

From initial indifference, he gradually began to look forward to the time at the end of each day’s performances — those moments alone with her. Watching her watching him, those eyes curving into crescent moons, that voice ringing like silver bells, he found himself increasingly captivated.

This is what it must feel like to like someone, he supposed.

Beyond discussing technique, everything poured out of her mouth freely: how many times the troupe master had beaten her palms, who in the troupe had gotten together with whom, what she’d dreamed about the night before — the happy things and the troubling things, all of it, without any barrier between them. In those moments, there was nothing standing between her and him.

She said she loved watching him crawl in and out of boxes, so he brought in more boxes as props, performing to the laughter and applause of the crowd with everything he had. She said doing handstands on a round ball looked interesting, so he practiced day and night learning to balance on that ball, not minding the bruises that turned his body black and blue in the process. The cheers from the audience grew louder and louder — yet in his eyes, the audience held only one person.

His feelings for her: the audience didn’t know. She didn’t know. But one person understood perfectly well.

On clear moonlit nights, Yuan Jie would sit in the courtyard of their lodgings, nibbling sweet osmanthus candy — bought with silver coins she had cadged from the woman over time. Every time she showed up, Yuan Jie would end up sticking to her like a burr, asking for pocket money, claiming that watching the Master’s performance wasn’t free, and if she didn’t pay, she’d get snot wiped on her.

San Wu practiced a new trick in the center of the courtyard — turning a stone into a flower.

“Master!” Yuan Jie called out.

“What?” He was focused on the prop in his hand.

“Why is it that when you chat with Xie Xiao Qing, you never take off your makeup?” she asked.

“She always comes when we’re wrapping up, and there’s never time.” He answered, hiding the stone under a black cloth.

“Rubbish!” Yuan Jie rolled her eyes. “I heard you two talking. She said she loved looking at your painted face, and you said that from then on, whenever you saw her, you wouldn’t take it off.”

“Whether I’ve got makeup on or not, I’m still me, aren’t I?” He shook out the black cloth, and a flower blossomed in his hand. “Little troublemaker — go to sleep!”

Yuan Jie hopped down from the stone table. “You like her.”

San Wu paused, and casually tossed the flower onto the top of her head. “If you don’t go to sleep, I’ll start throwing stones.”

Yuan Jie picked up the vivid red flower, a flash of displeasure crossing her face, but quickly settling back into its usual expression. She grinned and teased: “Oh, so embarrassing, Master — you like her but won’t admit it! I openly admit that I love osmanthus candy and never deny it! Hurry up and bring my little mistress home already!”

The flower came flying back and landed neatly on top of his head.

“Give that to the little mistress — if you want to bonk the apprentice, osmanthus candy is the more effective weapon!” She made a face at him and dashed inside.

His hungry little apprentice wasn’t wrong. This flower really should go to her.

And the trick was warmly received. He placed the flower in her hand. She was absolutely delighted.

That evening, he took off his makeup, put on what he considered his best clothes, and made his way to the bank of the Peach Blossom River.

He had thought about it for a long time before deciding to ask her to meet him here, saying he had a gift for her.

When she came walking toward him with a light, quick step, her gaze swept past him — and then continued searching. She hadn’t recognized him.

He smiled, walked around behind her, and tapped her on the shoulder.

She backed up a full two steps. The way she looked at him held nothing but surprise — and all the rest was complete unfamiliarity.

“It’s me — San Wu!” he said with a smile, a little anxious.

It took her quite a while to come back to herself.

The evening on the bank of the Peach Blossom River suddenly felt cold and empty. An awkwardness settled between them that had never existed before.

He didn’t know what had happened. He could only sit there, smiling foolishly, waiting for the moment to pass.

“So this is what you look like without it,” she finally said, when the last of the sunset had sunk into the river. It was an awkward attempt at a smile.

He laughed and scratched his head. “It’s true — I haven’t grown an extra nose.”

Having said it, he pulled a colorful silk cloth from his sleeve to ease the atmosphere, passed it through his hands, and a spray of vivid peach blossoms appeared before her.

“This… is for you.”

“How lovely.” But she didn’t take it. She rose and said: “I have to go.”

His hand froze midair, but his smile remained just as it always had. “The flower the painted clown gave you — why did you take that one?”

She paused for a moment and said: “Because that was the clown.”

The peach blossoms nobody wanted ended up falling into the river.

He felt for the first time that a thorn had lodged itself somewhere inside him, pricking, and pricking again, growing more and more painful.

And yet — he could only smile.

When he got home, Yuan Jie told him he looked handsome today. He laughed heartily, and for once, went and bought two bags of osmanthus candy for her.

“Where’s the little mistress?” Yuan Jie deliberately peeked behind his back.

He’d meant to brush her off with some vague answer — but if he didn’t tell this mischievous spirit the truth, who else could he tell?

He told it slowly. By the time the moon had climbed to the other side of the sky, he had barely finished.

Yuan Jie reached out and touched where his heart was, and asked: “Does it hurt here?”

“Yes.” He nodded with a smile.

“Why don’t you cry?” Yuan Jie tilted her head. “I cried for a whole hour when I scraped my knee last time!”

“Silly child.” He ruffled her hair. “How can a painted clown cry? His whole reason for existing is to make everyone who sees him happy. Your Master didn’t used to understand this — but today he does.”

“She clearly loved watching your performances, and loved talking with you. So why did she become like this once you took off your makeup?” Yuan Jie stared with wide, baffled eyes.

“When you’re about the same age as your Master, you’ll understand. Some people only want a clown with a painted face — someone who works tirelessly to be funny, keeps trying to please, keeps finding ways to make them laugh. The plain face under the makeup has nothing to offer them.” He smiled.

Yuan Jie frowned. “But Master has a perfectly good-looking face without the makeup too!”

“Ha ha. However good-looking, it’s just another face in the vast crowd of ordinary people.” He smiled.

“Then cry!” Yuan Jie grabbed an osmanthus candy and stuffed it into his mouth. “Eat candy and cry at the same time — it won’t hurt as much.”

“Your Master doesn’t cry.” He pinched her cheek. “No matter what happens, giving others a smiling face is always better than weeping.”

Yuan Jie thought about it, lowered her head, and ate her candy in silence.

The next day, she ran off to Mustard Seed Temple on her own. The old monk was drinking fragrant wild vegetable porridge.

“My Master says he doesn’t cry. Old Monk, has he got some kind of strange illness?” She snatched the porridge bowl right out of the old monk’s hands. “We know each other well enough — don’t fib to me!”

The old monk looked at her with some difficulty, thought about it, and said: “That is no illness.”

“Then what is it?” She tugged his beard, then flung herself down and rolled across the floor. “Tell me or I’ll come and stay here forever and eat and live on your expense!”

“Alright, alright, there’s no harm in telling you.” The old monk surrendered. “Amitabha — truly, a single smile, a lifetime of karmic debt.”

That day, Yuan Jie didn’t leave Mustard Seed Temple until the sky was nearly dark. She walked back listlessly. It was only when she reached the front gate of their lodgings that she suddenly roused herself, put on her usual expression, and bounced inside as though nothing had happened.

Their performances continued as ever. The market still rang out with cheers every single day.

Only — she hadn’t come in a long time.

By the time Yuan Jie’s body had fully recovered, the colors of autumn had spread across every hill. And the hottest news spreading through Tao Yuan was: that wild girl from the performance troupe must have had the fortune of her ancestors smiling upon her — somehow, while performing away from home, she had caught the eye of General Duan Mu himself, who had bought out her contract and brought her home to the manor. It seemed a wedding would follow before long.

A face with no paint on it — it had to look like his did, before she would find it worth noticing. He understood now.

He went on playing his painted clown amid roaring laughter, falling down and getting back up again, without tears, only smiles.

Once, not long after, he and she passed each other on the street. Just passed — nothing more. She didn’t even glance sideways at him. She hadn’t retained a single trace of what his real face looked like.

9

She turned one of his props over in her hands. “A few years, and the little one has grown into quite a young woman.”

“I thought you wouldn’t recognize me.” San Wu smiled.

“The moment you stepped onto the stage that evening, I recognized you.” The sadness that had been embedded so long in her face had carved itself into every line — as if she had forgotten how to smile so thoroughly that the grief had etched itself permanently. “Still the painted clown that stays in your memory.”

“You came to find me…” he said.

“Seeing an old acquaintance, I came to catch up.” She looked at his tools spread across the dressing table, and after a long moment said: “Could you paint a smiling face on me too?”

He was taken aback.

She looked at herself in the mirror. “It’s been far too long since I’ve smiled.”

He was quiet for a moment, then rose and picked up the brush.

“They all say it’s some kind of strange illness,” she said. “Don’t you have any questions for me?”

He shook his head and gently pressed his index finger to his lips in a hushing gesture.

Stroke by stroke, careful and precise — no matter how sorrowful the face, beneath the cover of the greasepaint, it transformed into something joyful and radiant.

“How wonderful.” She leaned close to the mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the reflection of herself. “Such a funny smile. Just looking at it makes you want to be happy.”

San Wu nodded. “But this doesn’t suit you. You were not born to be a painted clown.”

He handed her a face cloth. “Wipe it off. If someone sees you, they’ll laugh at the great General’s Lady for this.”

“Let it stay a little longer.” She shook her head.

He smiled. “I remember — you used to smile with your eyes curving into crescent moons.”

“Yes. He used to say the same thing.” She sighed. “The first time we met, the troupe had just finished a performance for an official’s household out of town, and I’d slipped out to play during the break. I climbed over someone’s garden wall to pick fruit, and he passed by and saw me. He said I looked so genuinely happy picking that fruit. I didn’t know who he was at first — I just took him for a chance acquaintance. We competed at climbing trees, spearing fish, riding horses. We buried our faces in the water to see who could hold their breath longer. Kindred spirits, and happier than I can say.”

He listened, smiling, saying nothing.

“It was only when he proposed to buy out my contract from the troupe that I found out he was a general renowned for his battlefield achievements.” She lowered her long lashes. “Even if he had been a penniless nobody with nothing to his name, I still would have chosen to go with him. There was no particular reason. I simply felt that being with him was different from being with anyone else.”

He nodded, offering nothing more.

“Talking to you like this — it’s presumptuous of me.” She glanced once more at her own “smiling face” in the mirror. “It’s just that seeing you again made me think of those years. Your performance is so much more accomplished than it was then.”

“Scraping together a living isn’t so easy, especially when you have an apprentice to feed — you have to put in the effort. That child Yuan Jie eats far too much.” He gave a hearty laugh.

The people inside the room were lost in their memories of then. A silhouette flashed briefly past, outside the door.

Duan Mu Ren walked away without a word. The pain in his chest flared up, blazing as fire.

So she and that San Wu had known each other long before this.

That night, the audience watching the performance laughed as readily as ever. Duan Mu Ren forced out a strained smile, his gaze moving constantly between her and San Wu.

The pain in his chest only grew. He had to exert every ounce of effort to hold himself steady and appear unbothered through the performance.

That night, he tossed and turned and could not sleep. He got up to pour himself water. As he walked past the dressing table in the bedroom, his teacup nearly slipped from his hand — the mirror showed him as nothing but a blurred phantom once again.

10

“Master, how much longer are we going to stay? It’s already been seven days.” Yuan Jie ran into San Wu’s room first thing in the morning, hauling him out from under his blankets. “I can see the General’s Lady is never going to be able to smile, and even though it’s good food and board here, staying too long feels uncomfortable.”

“Already seven days?” San Wu yawned, glanced at the bright sunlight outside the window, and got up. He pulled a heavy bundle from the chest and handed it to Yuan Jie. “This is all the silver your Master has saved over these years. Take it, and go wait for me at Mustard Seed Temple.”

Yuan Jie held the silver and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Why are you sending me to Mustard Seed Temple out of nowhere? Didn’t the steward just come last night to say the General’s holding a banquet tonight for distant guests, and wants us to prepare a performance?”

“I haven’t forgotten. But today your Master needs only one person on stage.” He straightened her lopsided felt hat. “You’re always saying you want to go check on the old monk, aren’t you? Mustard Seed Temple is just outside Tao Yuan anyway — pay a visit, add a bit of lamp oil for him, say hello.”

Yuan Jie thought about it and said: “Alright, I’ll go see the old monk and then come back.”

“No — wait at Mustard Seed Temple for me.”

“Why can’t we go together after the performance?”

“Stop going on about it, hurry up and pack!”

She walked hesitantly toward the door, her expression uneasy. But when she looked back, her face wore that same carefree grin as always: “Hey — is this silver really all of it? You haven’t secretly pocketed any?”

“Of course.” San Wu was caught between exasperation and amusement. “You can spend every last coin of it on osmanthus candy if you want.”

She laughed. “I’ll save it to buy land and raise pigs. Your apprentice won’t let osmanthus candy be the downfall of our shared dream.”

Just before she disappeared from view, San Wu called after her: “Yuan Jie.”

She turned back again, bright morning light filling her large eyes.

He opened his mouth, then smiled and waved her away. “Go on, go on.”

11

That night, there were no distant guests. The entire audience consisted of only Duan Mu Ren and his wife. In the vast banquet hall, there wasn’t even a serving girl with a wine jug.

San Wu’s performance was as brilliant as ever, the bright lights falling across his multicolored face with an extraordinary vividness.

Duan Mu Ren called out his appreciation from time to time, seemingly more elated than at any other performance.

Xie Xiao Qing was unlike her usual self: she did not smile, but she watched San Wu’s every movement with focused attention. The deep-seated grey in her eyes — the kind that had settled over long years — faded somewhat in these moments.

Outside, the silver moon hung high. The night was deep and still. And the performance continued.

From an empty box, he produced a snow-white dove, which spread its wings and flew toward the General and his Lady.

It should have been the moment for flowers and cheering. But instead, that white dove had its wings severed mid-flight. Blood sprayed out. It fell onto the table in a fluttering heap of broken body, toppling cups and bowls.

Xie Xiao Qing gasped, covering her mouth, staring in shock at the man beside her.

The blood of the still-warm dove clung to a gleaming blade. Duan Mu Ren gripped his sword tightly and walked toward San Wu, step by step.

“Master San Wu, I had thought you were my lucky star — the hope that would restore my Lady’s smile.” His sword came to rest at San Wu’s throat. “But I never imagined you were the very person who robbed both my Lady and me of our laughter.”

Xie Xiao Qing rushed forward, seizing his arm with both hands. “No — it’s not like that! Put down the sword!”

“Are you afraid I’ll kill your old flame?” Duan Mu Ren’s face contorted with fury into something monstrous. Every trace of his brilliance and refinement vanished utterly. The more desperately she pleaded, the faster his reason crumbled — and he shoved her violently, sending her crashing to the ground. “In the year I was away — what exactly did you and he do together, that you’ve given me nothing but a cold face for three years?!”

A faint red light slowly spiraled at the center of his chest, seeping through his clothing, growing more and more distinct.

“Nothing! There was nothing between us!” She sobbed, trying desperately to protest, but her voice trembled in her throat and the words refused to come.

Duan Mu Ren’s eyes burned like twin fires. “I have never treated you poorly — and yet you have wronged me like this!”

In the split second he was distracted, San Wu slipped out from under the sword and pulled Xie Xiao Qing to her feet, shielding her behind him. Impossibly, he was still smiling. “No matter what you say, he cannot hear you now.”

At the sight of San Wu shielding his wife, Duan Mu Ren’s body began to shake violently. The red light at his chest transformed into a strange blue-red flame, spreading rapidly to cover his entire body. In the flickering light, he looked like a demon roiling in the fires of the underworld.

Xie Xiao Qing was too stunned to speak.

“So it has come to this…” San Wu said, startled for just a moment, then lowered his voice. “I’ll hold him off — you run, quickly!”

Before the words were fully out, the blazing sword came swinging down at his head. Wherever the flame passed, it left a trail of pale-white ash suspended in the air like wounds carved into the atmosphere, before dispersing in all directions like swirling snow.

He barely dodged it, flipped around, and shoved the frozen Xie Xiao Qing toward the door: “Go!”

But her speed was no match for the agile Duan Mu Ren. She had barely made a move when the sword tip was already driving toward her.

Behind the blade, Duan Mu Ren’s face wore the most unsettling of smiles. The brilliant, accomplished, cultured general had been ripped apart from within — what remained was only an endless, ineffable madness, an absolute will to kill.

San Wu flew forward and slammed into him, sending him stumbling sideways. His own arm burned as if on fire. One glance — the sleeve had been scorched clean through. This was very bad.

“Stand aside!”

At the critical moment, a sharp cry rang out, and the old monk came crashing in through the door. He flung a peach tree branch, striking Duan Mu Ren squarely on the head. A shout of pain burst from the man, and the strange fire on his body immediately weakened.

“Dousing the fire!” In the chaos, Yuan Jie came rushing in clutching a fistful of peach branches and hurled them all at Duan Mu Ren in one go.

White smoke immediately began to pour off of Duan Mu Ren. Even the strength to hold the sword left him. He lurched and fell, convulsing on the ground. Gradually, his body began to return to its normal state.

San Wu looked at the old man and the young girl who had appeared from nowhere: “You two…”

“These peach branches can only suppress this cursed star for so long.” The old monk waved a hand and glanced outside. “On my way in, I scattered sleeping powder along the corridors — no one else in the manor will wake until morning. You know what needs to be done. Hurry.”

Xie Xiao Qing had been thrown into complete confusion. Seeing Duan Mu Ren crumple, barely conscious, to the ground, she threw herself down beside him without a second thought, clutched him, and called his name in tears.

He gradually came around. His eyes were still threaded with red — but his voice was weak now as he asked: “Xiao Qing — what have I done wrong? Is your aversion to me truly this deep?”

“No! I don’t! I never had!” She could only shake her head frantically.

He gritted his teeth. “Three years — not a single night of peace… where has your smile gone?”

Yuan Jie watched with a frown. The old monk shook his head.

San Wu walked to Duan Mu Ren, crouched down, and looked directly into those furious, uncomprehending eyes. “Her smile,” he said, “is inside your body.”

“What nonsense are you talking?” Duan Mu Ren said through clenched teeth.

San Wu spoke slowly and calmly. “In the battle at Night Wolf Valley three years ago, an enemy arrow pierced your chest. The arrowhead had been soaked in a lethal poison with no known cure.” He paused. “You died on that battlefield three years ago.”

Those words fell like a thunderclap. Duan Mu Ren and Xie Xiao Qing both flinched as if bitten by a viper, the color draining from their faces.

12

The wind and sand were fierce here.

He walked through the Night Wolf Valley, stepping across blood that had not yet dried, carefully navigating around countless bodies, pressing his chest from time to time. In a hidden pouch there — a small vial, containing a woman’s smile for an entire lifetime. Too precious. He could not afford to lose it.

That man lay there, alongside his fallen soldiers, his face gradually obscured by the drifting sand. An arrow — black as ink — was buried in his chest. His hands, long since stiff, still gripped his sword.

He brushed the sand from the body’s face. From within his robes, he produced the vial. Inside it, a woman’s smile swirled — as if composed of countless radiant, wondrous stars, spinning and shifting within the glass, forming a beautiful world all its own.

He parted those cold lips and pressed the mouth of the vial against them. Smiling, he said: “She said — let me use a lifetime of smiles, and buy your safe return. But you only have three years. I do not know what karma will come of what I do here today. We will meet again in three years.”

The emptied vial was set aside. A moment later, the wind carried it away and it was gone.

Duan Mu Ren slowly opened his eyes. When the world came fully into focus, his heart contracted sharply — the moment the enemy commander’s arrow pierced his chest was still vivid and clear.

He scrambled to sit up, yanked open his shirt, and looked down. At the center of his chest, there was only a pale red mark. No arrow wound whatsoever.

Had being struck by the arrow been nothing but a hallucination?

He sat there in a daze for a long while before stumbling up from the pile of bodies. Whether it was a hallucination or not, he was alive. He could go back to Tao Yuan and see her. He had made his promise: when this campaign was over, he would marry her. In the end, he had kept his word. Trapped in Night Wolf Valley for a full month, enemy forces before him and no reinforcements behind him, he had thought he would never return — yet somehow, heaven had been unexpectedly kind.

Three days earlier.

She had carried yet another bundle of incense, candles, and offerings to the bank of the Peach Blossom River to pray. The people nearby all recognized her — that was the General Duan Mu’s betrothed. Poor thing, this was the tenth day in a row she had been here, kneeling every day to beg the smiling immortal of the Peach Blossom River to show her power and bring General Duan Mu home safely.

Word had come long ago: after the army entered Night Wolf Valley, not a single message had returned.

At a loss, she had consulted one fortune-teller after another. Every one of them said: great misfortune. Gone, with no return.

She suffered nightmares every night, dreaming he had been pierced through the heart with an arrow and fallen into a bottomless abyss.

The old cook at the General’s manor, on the verge of retirement and unable to bear watching her waste away, quietly told her one evening before leaving: the story of the smiling immortal in the Peach Blossom River isn’t just a rumor. When she herself was young, a neighbor girl had actually encountered that deity at the riverbank — the immortal wearing a smiling mask. She had begged the immortal to heal her father’s broken leg, and it truly worked. The very next day, her father could walk again. The strange thing was, from that day forward, that neighbor girl never smiled again.

The legend of the smiling immortal — she had heard it before, and never believed it. But a person with nowhere left to turn will always grasp at any straw, however thin, however unlikely.

From then on, she brought offerings every night to the bank of the Peach Blossom River, praying to the smiling immortal to watch over her beloved and bring him home safely. Night after night she knelt from dusk until dawn. Those around her thought she had gone mad.

On the tenth night, in the small hours before daybreak, when the sky was just beginning to lighten, someone came walking out from the peach grove and gently helped her to her feet.

She turned in astonishment. A wooden smiling mask looked back at her — antique brown, radiating a deep and mysterious glow. Behind the mask, the figure was dressed in pale green robes, nearly the same color as the river at his back.

“Are you… the smiling immortal?” She clutched the figure’s arm tightly, afraid that if she let go, the figure would disappear.

“Yes.”

“Please — make Duan Mu come home safely! They all say he will die in Night Wolf Valley!” She begged through her tears.

“It is not I who can save him. You can.” The smiling immortal spoke quietly. “Tell me — what is the most precious thing a person possesses?”

She wiped her tears, and answered without hesitation: “A smile. Joy.”

“If I asked you to give up the smiles of your entire life in exchange for his safe return — would you be willing?” the smiling immortal asked.

“Willing! As long as he comes back!” The words were out before she could stop them.

“Once said, it cannot be undone.” The clear eyes behind the smiling mask dimmed ever so slightly. “Think carefully.”

She knelt down. “Please, immortal, grant this wish!”

And then — what she remembered was: in the moments before dawn finally broke, the smiling immortal pressed a palm gently across her face, as if gathering something up, and placed it into a small, transparent vial.

A sadness with no name or origin surged up from the deepest part of her, and coiled there, refusing to leave.

He walked out from the peach grove. The mask on his face, catching the first threads of morning light, dissolved into his body like dew drops scattering. The face beneath the mask smiled — warm and gentle as a spring breeze.

That smile, ever-present and never fading — it lived inside his heart.

Three days later, news arrived from the capital: in the battle at Night Wolf Valley, the enemy had been utterly routed. Our forces suffered heavy losses, but General Duan Mu had miraculously survived and returned to court.

Such joyous news. But she discovered that she could not smile. The elation that should have filled her heart was still entangled in an inexplicable sorrow. It was as if someone had placed their hands around her throat, locking away a single breath she could neither release nor hold. She wanted so much to smile — yet the more she tried, the more grief overwhelmed her. The lifetime of smiles, exchanged for his safe return… She stood at the window, and the thought would not leave her.

13

San Wu finished speaking, unhurriedly. “All of this — you remember it now, don’t you?”

Duan Mu Ren’s mouth hung slightly open. The red threads in his eyes slowly receded.

His dazed gaze moved from Yuan Jie to the old monk to San Wu, and finally came to rest on Xie Xiao Qing’s face. Slowly, he said: “So — the poisoned arrow that pierced my chest was no hallucination. These three years… I stole them, didn’t I?”

He laughed. The laughter grew louder and louder.

The Daoist priest had said there was a demon in the manor — he hadn’t meant her. He’d meant him. A creature that had already died, yet insisted on walking back from the underworld wearing a living man’s face. No wonder — no wonder the bronze mirror had reflected such a shadow.

“Xiao Qing — how could you have agreed to something like that?” He reached out and touched his wife’s face, pale as paper. “A lifetime of smiles, exchanged for a man like me. And then, to nearly have your life taken by my baseless jealousy! Three years — I kept thinking the problem was yours. It never once occurred to me that the one who made you ‘ill’ was me all along.”

“If I had the choice again, I would still say yes to the smiling immortal.” Her tears slid down along his fingers. “But I would ask him — to give me three more years.”

He smiled. The last remaining light in his eyes slowly dimmed. He murmured: “Xiao Qing — do you know… I never wanted to go to battle. A stonecutter’s life might not have been so bad.”

With those last words, his head dropped and struck the floor with a heavy thud.

Xie Xiao Qing collapsed beside his body, neither crying nor speaking, only gripping his gradually stiffening hand and pressing it to her chest — until she broke entirely and could hold on no longer, and at last fell into unconsciousness.

“I did tell you to think it through at the time.” The old monk shook his head and looked at San Wu. “It was your own choice to go to the Peach Blossom River. I told you clearly what the consequences would be. Even with her lifetime of smiles, you could only give an already-dead man three years. And no one knew what would happen when those three years ran out — whether he would simply fall dead on the spot, or whether there might be more dangerous complications. Just as tonight: if I hadn’t known that peach branches can suppress evil, you would all have been hacked to pieces by this man who had lost all reason long ago. And that woman — surrendering a lifetime of smiles meant a lifetime of sorrow. No matter what anyone did for her, she would feel no joy whatsoever. Not only that, she could never speak a word of what had happened to anyone — not because she didn’t want to, but because she physically couldn’t. Anyone who makes that kind of bargain: the moment she tried to mention even half a word of it, her throat would burn as if on fire. Unable to speak, unable to say. All of this I told you.”

“Yes. You told me all of it. I knew full well that what I was doing was no good deed. But I could not ignore what she was asking of me. I hesitated over whether to come back after three years — thought perhaps the harder, colder choice would be to treat it as a fair transaction and wash my hands of it. In the end, I couldn’t let it go.”

The room was full of desolation. Yet San Wu’s upturned face wore its unbroken smile, as if grief were a thing entirely beyond his understanding.

“Master,” Yuan Jie said, walking to his side, “between someone who wants to smile but cannot, and someone who wants to cry but cannot — which one do you think suffers more?”

In that single moment, she seemed suddenly like an adult.

San Wu was taken aback. For once, he could not answer.

“I think,” Yuan Jie said, putting an osmanthus candy in her mouth, “the second is probably harder.” She looked at San Wu. “Master — let someone else be the smiling immortal.”

“Yuan Jie — when did you figure it out?” San Wu suddenly realized, and looked at her in astonishment.

“There was once a deity in the heavenly realm called the Eyeless God, who oversaw punishment. She possessed a tool of judgment called the ‘Laughing Mask.’ In the heavenly realm, any immortal who violated the commandment against love and feeling would be punished by wearing this wooden smiling mask. Once it was placed on them, it could not be removed until the sentence was served — because it was worn inside the heart, not on the face. With the mask in place, no matter how devastating the grief, the wearer could not shed a single tear. Not only could they not weep — they would forever wear a smile. The suffering of it is beyond all words.” She looked at San Wu and continued: “After the Eyeless God passed out of existence, someone stole the Laughing Mask. But it was lost in transit — it fell from the heavenly river down into the mortal world, dropped into a river, and over the long years took on a spirit, cultivating itself into human form, becoming a graceful young gentleman. This creature, who could only smile and never cry, grew bored, and so disguised himself as a smiling immortal, using his demon power to gather humans’ smiles and transform them into a strange kind of energy to grant various wishes. His behavior was discovered by a group of Daoist priests, who naturally refused to let him be. Although he was a demon, he was no good fighter, and having been beaten to the brink of death, he escaped on his last breath into a small temple. There in the main hall, he encountered a piece of wood being used as a broom handle.”

San Wu drew a sharp breath and looked at the old monk.

“Amitabha — when Yuan Jie was very young, I told her the whole story.” The old monk pressed his palms together. “She said she’d pull out every last hair of my beard if I didn’t tell her the truth.”

“What else did that old bald monk tell you?” San Wu grabbed Yuan Jie.

If she had known everything all along, why had her attitude toward him remained completely unchanged all this time?

“He told me quite a lot more, such as…” She stood on her toes and leaned toward his ear. “Such as — how to make you cry.”

He startled — and then the world seemed to spin, everything before him dissolving into a twisted vortex. Duan Mu Ren’s body, and the grieving Xie Xiao Qing, the old monk with his prayer beads, and Yuan Jie with her osmanthus candy all drifted further and further away…

Yuan Jie lowered her hand. A peach-wood dagger, buried deep in San Wu’s chest. The wood-colored blade had turned red.

He pressed his hand to his chest and stumbled backward, his smile frozen on his face. He stood utterly still, as if dead. An amber-colored halo spiraled out from beneath the dagger, gathering and coalescing on his chest into the shape of a smiling mask — solidifying from transparent to real, trembling slightly, tethered to the glow.

“Yuan Jie!” the old monk cried out suddenly. “Are you truly certain?”

She turned and smiled at him. “Didn’t we settle this long ago? The little troublemaker you always call a demon — she loves to smile. Who could be more suited to be the smiling immortal than her?”

With that, she stepped toward the mask. She reached out, took a deep breath, and held San Wu tightly.

Some words can never be spoken aloud. Some tears can never be cried.

You pulled me back from death’s hands. Now, let me pull your tears back for you.

I have never cried in front of you. I have always let you believe I was happy. That was because no one in this world knows better than I do — your smile that never fades is made entirely of tears that can never fall.

I didn’t want to make you sadder. That’s all.

14

When San Wu woke, the old monk was sweeping the courtyard of Mustard Seed Temple.

He jumped out of bed — but was startled nearly out of his wits by the broken mirror on the table across from him. The face staring back at him in bewilderment was not his own. It was Duan Mu Ren’s.

He pinched his own face hard, confirming this was not a dream.

Mustard Seed Temple was as quiet as ever. The only sound was the rhythmic swishing of the old monk’s broom.

“What sort of trick is this?” San Wu ran outside and snatched the broom from the old monk’s hands.

“You’re awake?” The old monk patted his shoulder. “Good, good — this body suits you remarkably well. Better than your original one, I’d say!”

“Where is Xiao Qing?” San Wu shook off his hand, anxious.

“In the meditation hall, sleeping. It’s alright — overwhelmed by grief, she fainted. That’s all.” The old monk said.

He exhaled. “And where has Yuan Jie gone?”

“She left last night.” The old monk retrieved his broom. “Took every last coin of silver the two of you had saved up. Said she was going to buy land herself — half for raising pigs, half for opening a gambling house. She told you absolutely not to go looking for her. Oh, and she said: since you’ve become Duan Mu Ren, you no longer need to play the clown to make a living — besides, you have a little mistress to take care of now. As for the bond between master and apprentice — it’s been used up.”

San Wu was silent.

“She said you can have her half,” the old monk added, with a meaningful smile. “That child is quite something.”

The bond is used up?

From now on, there would be no one to call him Master. No one to keep pestering him for osmanthus candy. Just like that, was it?

It sounds so simple — and yet, why did it feel as if something had been pulled right out of his chest, leaving behind a dull, quiet ache?

San Wu suddenly felt his eyes grow warm. He touched them — his fingertips came away with a trace of tears.

He was genuinely startled. He grabbed the old monk. “How is this possible?”

“The Laughing Mask that lived in your heart — the thing that made you smile and smile but never cry — it’s gone. You are nearly an ordinary person now.” The old monk smiled. “Do you still remember what I said to you in the main hall all those years ago — back when you were nothing but a broom handle?”

“Where there is gain, there is loss.” He answered.

“At the time, I knew I couldn’t hold out against those Daoist priests. And I had no wish to be captured by them. So I chose to separate the Laughing Mask from my own body and attach it to you, that piece of wood. As the mask’s substitute — which is to say, the one who exists in its place — you were freed from your original form, and in a single night took on a human shape. And not only that: you gained the demon power of the Laughing Mask, the ability to use human smiles to bring about all manner of things. But the price was that the substitute could never have tears — no matter how deep the grief, only smiling was possible. All of this I explained to you when you first took human form, did I not?” The old monk shot him an exasperated look.

“But you never told me why you became an old monk — or why I ended up becoming Duan Mu Ren!” San Wu pressed urgently.

“And whose fault is that? You spent so little time at Mustard Seed Temple. In the first decade after you became human, you were always out and about, wandering everywhere — and you’d fallen in love with doing magic tricks and playing the clown. Said it was more interesting than sweeping and chanting. I could barely get any time with you to talk.” The old monk huffed. “When I chose to separate the Laughing Mask, I knew my human form would dissolve within moments — along with all my consciousness and memory. But as it happened, there was an old monk lying in the meditation hall who had stopped breathing not long before. With that body available, I was able to move my consciousness — my soul, so to speak — into it. From that point on, I had lost the demon power of the mask, but I had a new vessel to inhabit. The downside is that I must remain inside this old monk’s body forever, which will never change, and go on living in this form. As for you — as the mask’s substitute, you were given a new human form and a brand new soul. And by the same logic: when a new substitute appears, the mask transfers to them, and your original soul takes up residence in Duan Mu Ren’s body. Ah, truly unfair — why do you get to inhabit such a young, handsome body, while I’m stuck as an old monk?!” The old monk lamented.

San Wu was silent for a moment, then said suddenly: “That can’t be right. At the time, the only people there who were alive were four of us. Where did a substitute come from? And why then, of all moments? I never asked any of you to do this!”

“The mask’s substitute must be wood.” The old monk had clearly run out of patience. “This was Yuan Jie’s idea. She had long hoped to free you from this fate. I had no way to resist her pestering, and so I went personally to search for a substitute for you — and you should know, it isn’t just any piece of wood that will do. It must have the right affinity and spiritual nature. I spent a considerable time searching before I found one. Of course, we kept it from you.”

San Wu looked down at his new body. “You both knew all along that when three years passed, Duan Mu Ren would become a corpse. So you’d been waiting for this day — to use your piece of wood as the new substitute, and to place my separated soul into Duan Mu Ren’s body to preserve it?”

“Two birds with one stone, wasn’t it? Three years ago, when you came to find me and wanted to know whether Duan Mu Ren was truly still alive, I used what remained of my demon power to divine the answer — and learned that this man was dead. When you said you had decided to use the power of the Laughing Mask to help Xie Xiao Qing, Yuan Jie was hiding just outside the meditation hall. You were quietly watching over Xie Xiao Qing, and that child was quietly watching over you — truly a pair of worthy master and apprentice.” The old monk said. “But I must tell you: you — we may still be able to help. But your Xiao Qing — what she has lost, she can never reclaim. After a blow like this, even when she wakes, her mind will likely be different from before. You must be prepared for that.”

“I will take care of her.” San Wu’s eyes held the steadiness of stone.

“That tells me clearly how much you care for her.” The old monk bent back over his sweeping.

San Wu frowned. “You and Yuan Jie — you planned all of this behind my back!”

“That child is sharp.” The old monk chuckled to himself. “Young in years, her life small as a mustard seed — and yet the things she does are graceful and decisive in ways you wouldn’t expect. The bond between you two was so brief. Even I find it a pity.”

San Wu said nothing more and clenched his fist.

15

The following day, San Wu left Mustard Seed Temple with Xie Xiao Qing.

As the old monk had said, after Xiao Qing woke, she was somewhat diminished — even the man she knew as “Duan Mu Ren” standing beside her, she could barely recognize. She could only say, over and over, that she wanted to see the painted clown.

“Tiny as a mustard seed, yet a world unto itself. Who gives and who receives — not always as it appears to the eye. Go well, dear friends. Amitabha.” The old monk stood at the temple gate, fingering his prayer beads.

At that moment, a small wooden doll’s head peeked out from behind him. About a foot tall, round wide eyes, the corners of its mouth curved upward — delightfully charming.

The little wooden figure gazed at San Wu and Xie Xiao Qing’s retreating backs, watching until they were completely out of sight.

The old monk sat down on the temple threshold and asked: “The lie you’ve told him — won’t he see through it eventually?”

“He won’t.” The wooden doll said slowly. “Up to this point, he has only ever seen one side of me, and he has decided that is all of me. Just as audiences only ever see the clown’s joy on stage and never spare a thought for the face behind the makeup. For my lie — he will never be suspicious. He will always think this: that apprentice of mine, who eats too much and laughs too easily with not a care in the world — she would never do herself a disservice. She must be living happily somewhere with her land and her pigs.”

“Do you want me to call you great?” The old monk glanced at the wooden doll. “The Laughing Mask only has two chances at a substitute — once for wood, once for a person. If wood becomes the substitute, the wood can become human. If a person becomes the substitute, the person becomes wood. You…”

“I know I’ll be a wooden figure for the rest of my life.” The wooden doll grinned wide. “Old Monk, you’ll take me in, won’t you? Looking like this, I might get chewed up by mice.”

The old monk stroked his beard. “Do you know why, all these years, I have never left Mustard Seed Temple, and why I was content to live as a monk?”

“Because your head is always bald.” The wooden doll cackled.

“Bah!” The old monk shot it an annoyed look. “From my fall from the heavenly realm to the mortal world, from a mere mask to a creature with spirit — I had thought I had seen through the ways of the world and the nature of people. And yet in the end, I made a complete mess of it. If not for my selfishness in making San Wu a substitute in the first place, none of what followed would have happened. Amitabha — it seems my cultivation is shallow yet. Since I’ve put on the robes of a monk, I may as well commit to this small temple and a world of clean, quiet emptiness.”

“There won’t be any emptiness — I’m still here in this small temple!” The wooden doll clambered up onto his knees and tugged at his beard. “I’ll keep you company, and you buy osmanthus candy for me. Oh, wait — I can’t eat anymore…”

The old monk gave a long sigh, folded the wooden doll into his arms, and walked back inside. The mountain wind rose, and yellow leaves tumbled through the air. Autumn was clearly drawing to a close once more.

Not long after, Tao Yuan County had a new story to tell. General Duan Mu had resigned his commission and taken his ailing wife to live in the countryside. Word was, she had originally been unable to smile — and now, she had grown a bit simple-minded as well. Yet General Duan Mu, far from minding, had taken to dressing himself up as a painted clown to amuse her. Truly a woman to be envied.

As for Mustard Seed Temple — it went on the same as ever. Thin on incense, with the old monk still having to go pick his own fruit for offerings.

But some of those who had visited Mustard Seed Temple came back and mentioned it: the old monk there has a peculiar habit. He likes to talk to a little wooden figure carved in the shape of a girl.

16

And so the story, having reached this point, is told.

Not by the wooden doll, of course — but by the old bald man in the bright Hawaiian shirt with the very fashionable sunglasses, sitting in the chair across from me.

Not long after that wooden doll arrived at Bu Ting, he came panting in after it.

“You’re not being a monk anymore?” I asked with a smile.

“Mustard Seed Temple is still standing — but I can’t stay there any longer. It would be a problem if word got out that the old monk at Mustard Seed Temple had lived for over a thousand years without dying.” The bald old man cradled the wooden doll in his arms. “This child still hasn’t broken her habit of running off. I never imagined she’d end up in your shop this time.”

I looked at the little figure in his arms. “She’s quite different from the one in your story!”

“Back when I was playing the smiling immortal, gathering human smiles and using them to grant wishes — it looked as if people were the ones benefiting. But in truth, each time I used the Laughing Mask’s demon power, it also advanced my own cultivation. If I’d gone on being the smiling immortal for a few more decades, those Daoist priests would have been no match for me.” The bald old man looked down at his wooden doll. “But this child — for a thousand years, she has refused to use any of the Laughing Mask’s demon power. It’s like a machine that hasn’t been switched on in a thousand years — it rusts and corrodes. The human spirit she once had has been almost entirely worn away. The wisdom she has now is barely above that of a one-year-old child. In recent years, I’ve been carrying her around with me everywhere, looking for a way to preserve her. I’ve heard of your Bu Ting from quite a few demons and spirits, and thought it sounded promising, so I brought her here. I wasn’t familiar with the way, and while I was still finding the route, the child was mischievous — she slipped away when I wasn’t paying attention. I had no idea she’d wander straight into your shop. It seems there is a connection here. Would you perhaps be able to…”

“Everyone who comes to me for help says they have a connection with me.” I cut him off, took a sip of tea. “Has San Wu ever gone looking for his apprentice? According to what you’ve said, San Wu’s soul is living in Duan Mu Ren’s body — he should still be in this world, like you.”

“I don’t know. After his Lady passed, no one has seen him again. He never came back to Mustard Seed Temple either.” The bald old man shook his head, took a sip of tea, and nearly choked on the bitterness, his tongue hanging out. He didn’t dare attempt a second sip.

“Drinking tea is its own practice. You find the first sip bitter, and decide the entire cup must be bitter — so you refuse to try another sip. Because of that misunderstanding, how much good is lost.” I smiled.

The bald old man paused, thought about it, and finally mustered the courage to take another sip. He rolled it around in his mouth, and his brow slowly relaxed: “Hm, it’s sweet…”

“We have spare rooms here at the shop. If you don’t mind, stay two or three days — maybe something will turn up.” I rose to leave. “Room and board is full price, no discounts. Settled in full when you leave. No credit, no exceptions.”

17

A remote village. Paddy fields stretched in all directions. A water buffalo flicked its tail and lumbered up out of the river.

A tall, broad-shouldered man — straw hat on his head, hoe over his shoulder — walked toward his simple country house. Behind the house was a pigpen he had built with his own hands, fat and small pigs alike crowding and jostling inside it, squealing and grunting noisily.

Just as he was about to open the door, his gaze fell on the windowsill beside it. A little wooden doll in a floral cloth skirt sat there, wide eyes fixed forward, small red mouth curved cheerfully upward — utterly endearing.

He glanced around in puzzlement, then stared at the wooden doll for a long moment, and smiled to himself. “Who could have left you here? Poor little thing.”

He tucked the wooden doll into his arms and went inside.

Some memories are simply too far away. Many, many years ago, he had picked up a little doll just like this and brought her home. But that one had been a real doll, made of flesh and blood. And it had been snowing.

Out on the distant field bank, three figures stood watching.

“Just handing her over to him like this — is that alright?” The bald old man looked uncertain.

“It’s all we can do.” I said calmly. “If one day this foolish man manages to see the other side of that wooden doll — there may yet be a miracle.”

“Hm?” The bald old man looked somewhat at a loss.

“There are too many people who enjoy a clown’s smile. But only the ones who see its tears have the right to cherish it. This is true between lovers, between parents and children, between friends. Someone who looks at one side of a thing and decides they’ve seen everything will always end up losing a great deal.” I glanced at his bare, shining head. “Tch! What’s the point of telling any of this to an old monk? Never mind if you don’t understand.”

I turned and walked away. The countryside scenery here was beautiful. The air was pleasant. A good place to live — or to be reunited.

Jiu Jue hurried after me, loudly pestering the bald old man: “You have to add to the fee! Do you have any idea how difficult and expensive it is to get those greedy insect-folk to track down a half-demon who’s been missing for nearly a thousand years?! Boss Lady doesn’t pay up herself, so I have to cover it out of my own pocket! What does that have to do with me? I’m not Bu Ting’s employee, and I’m not her husband either!”

“Amitabha — a monk transcends all worldly attachments. After paying for the room and board, I believe I have roughly two coins and fifty cents left.”

“…”

Epilogue

Infuriating — absolutely infuriating! That bald old man slipped away without paying a single cent of his room and board!

But a few days later, I received a package in the mail. A large box.

I opened it. Inside was a small clown figurine, painted with a delightfully funny oversized face — except at the corner of one eye, a single glittering teardrop was affixed.

I looked more closely. That teardrop was crafted from pure gold.

My annoyance instantly turned to delight. The gold piece was on the small side, but it was exquisitely made — that counted for something.

The only thing I could console myself with, in that moment, was that there was only ever one Laughing Mask belonging to the Eyeless God. But then another thought came to me: was it truly only one?

In this world, the painted-faced clowns in costume — do they really exist only in the circus and in shop windows?

I know they don’t.

If what you wear is not a mask that cannot be removed, not a layer of greasepaint that will not come off — then take it off. Let your face be clean and real. Only then will you see clearly who the people are that are truly willing to walk toward you.

And if a funny clown is making you laugh until your sides hurt — enjoy the laughter. But remember: clowns cry too. You just can’t see it.

I set that clown figurine on Bu Ting’s windowsill, in a patch of sunlight that fell just right across its colorful clothes.

Jiu Jue tried to take that golden teardrop for himself, and I chased him out of Bu Ting with a broom.

Anyone can try to take anything from me — except the gold. Absolutely not. Amitabha!