(1)

The Qinghai Kekexili Nature Reserve is located in the western part of the Yushu Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture in Qinghai Province. To date, it is one of the largest, highest-altitude, and wildlife-richest nature reserves ever established in China. [Geographic data referenced from online sources]

Departing from Ge’ermu and heading south along the Qingzang Highway, crossing over the Mount Kunlun pass, one enters the broader Kekexili region. The average altitude here exceeds 4,700 meters, and the oxygen content in the air is only half that of low-altitude areas, making altitude sickness an ever-present companion. [Real place names and route information referenced from online sources]

Wen Xia huddled in the passenger seat, wrapped tightly in her windbreaker. The altitude sickness brought a fierce, throbbing pain across her forehead — as though two cantankerous retired old men had set up a chess board right on her brow, one leaping a horse, the other flying a bishop, pieces clattering and crashing, both worse for wear.

In her earphones, an English folk song played on repeat — a single acoustic guitar, a voice with the faintest rasp, singing quietly: “I’ve got a whole lot of dreams and I can dream for you……”

I’ve had so many dreams, and I always dream of you.

The vehicle lurched violently, and Wen Xia opened her eyes amid the jolt. A towering silhouette — some twenty-odd meters high, hewn from Mount Kunlun stone — swept past her line of sight. The prayer flags and five-colored wind streamers had long since been worn by wind and sand into thin, tattered strips, fluttering wildly, snapping and rippling with a sharp, rustling sound.

The distance was too great. The image of the hero blurred into an indistinct mass, and even the elegiac couplet inscribed with the eight characters meaning “merit covers Mount Kunlun, your voice and face endure” was impossible to read clearly. Yet that solemn, heaven-and-earth grief struck straight to the core, as though one could still hear the sound of monks chanting sutras and see the forms of common people kneeling in long reverence.

Wen Xia gazed for a long while before speaking to the driver: “That’s the Suonan Dajie memorial, isn’t it? I’ve read that on the night Secretary Suonan was killed, the temperature had plunged to minus forty degrees Celsius. The highland gales froze him into a statue — rifle raised and aimed — and until his very last breath, the barrel of his gun was pointed at the poachers…”

The driver was a young Tibetan man named Dawa.

Dawa’s Mandarin was not quite fluent, and he spoke in halting, stumbling phrases: “Secretary Suonan was not yet forty when he passed. The elders in my family still talk about him often — how wonderful things might have been if he were still here. Xiao Xia, if you ever get the chance to go on a patrol with the protection team and you happen to meet any herders, please don’t bring up Secretary Suonan. They’ll break down weeping, and that grief doesn’t leave you for a long, long time…”

He was mid-sentence when the vehicle gave a violent lurch and shuddered to a stop.

Dawa climbed out, circled the vehicle once, then rapped on the window with a helpless expression. “Xiao Xia, we’re stuck again.”

May in Kekexili was already considered relatively warm. The thawing ground had churned snow and gravel into a treacherous mire far more dangerous than any deliberate trap.

Wen Xia jumped down from the vehicle and saw two rear wheels sunk deep into the mud — and this was already the sixth time it had happened on the journey. The two old men on her forehead seemed to have started throwing the chess pieces again, clattering and clanging in all directions.

When it rains, it pours; and when you’ve got short legs, the ground insists on a full split.

Two unfortunate souls — one driving, one pushing — worked at it for a good long while, but the wheels only spun in place. This time, the vehicle was stuck worse than ever.

Her brand-new windbreaker was splattered with mud. Wen Xia wiped her face and gave a rueful smile. “I’m guessing there’s no dry-cleaning service out here, is there?”

Dawa, caught between laughter and tears, pulled out his radio and tuned to the right frequency to call Suonan Baohuzhan for assistance.

Out of the vehicle, the torturous altitude sickness eased somewhat. Standing on the vast, desolate plain and gazing in all directions, Wen Xia took in the undulating ranges of snow-capped mountains — majestic as deities, towering and solemn, beyond all desecration.

The ice-cold air struck her nostrils with a faint, sharp sting. Leaning back against the car door, Wen Xia let her thoughts drift in a half-dreaming murmur: Li Zechuan, I’ve finally come to Kekexili. I’m finally a little closer to you.

While she was lost in her reverie, Dawa had already made contact with the protection station. He held up the radio, clearly pleased. “The station says they’re sending someone to meet us right away. Xiao Xia, don’t worry — we’ll definitely get there before dark.”

“Stop calling me ‘teacher,'” Wen Xia said. “It sounds too formal. My name is Wen Xia — Xia, as in the summer season. I was referred here by the ‘Green Civilization’ grassroots environmental protection organization to volunteer at Suonan Baohuzhan. Just call me Xiao Xia.”

Dawa scratched his hair and laughed — earnest and a little bashful.

Wen Xia patted Dawa on the head and laughed along with him.

In Kekexili, “roads” didn’t really exist. There were only the faint traces of tire tracks pressed into the earth — old ones buried under blizzard snow, new ones rolled over them come morning. Dawa stayed behind to watch the vehicle while Wen Xia wrapped her windbreaker tightly around herself and set off walking beyond the wheel ruts. She wanted to truly know this land — to know the place where Li Zechuan lived.

The sunlight wasn’t harsh, but the ultraviolet radiation was intense, like a densely woven net stretched across the sky. Wen Xia walked aimlessly forward, humming a song Li Zechuan had once sung —

Youth seems to have begun the moment I loved you, Yet it was you who made me see through love itself. Since you lost your memories, It has become my fate to turn everything around.

Li Zechuan, two years without a word — are you well?

Before the song was half-finished, the roar of an engine reached her ears, and a massive dark shape came hurtling toward her through a cloud of swirling dust. Wen Xia let out a startled cry and fell backward — and the dark shape sat squarely on top of her.

Warm, furry, and extraordinarily heavy.

It was a powerfully built adult Tibetan Mastiff.

A pitch-black off-road vehicle came thundering in, barely reining in its speed. Before it even came to a full stop, the passenger-side door flew open and a tall, lean figure leaped out. Desert boots struck the ground with a heavy thud that seemed to make Wen Xia’s heartbeat stumble in kind.

The man wore a pair of military-green trousers with tapered ankles that made his legs look impossibly long and straight. The Mastiff barked twice and wagged its tail, circling around the man’s feet.

Wen Xia’s gaze traveled upward along those two long legs and discovered that the person had covered his face entirely with a black face mask and wind goggles, leaving only the closely cropped hair at the top of his head exposed. His appearance was completely unreadable.

The man in the wind goggles glanced up at the sky, then let out a sharp, piercing whistle. Suddenly the wind surged with unusual force. A hawk rode the tail of that whistle through the drifting dust, folded its wings and talons, and landed steadily on the man’s shoulder.

It was a scene of pure, untamed wildness — as bracing as a mouthful of raw spirits.

Wen Xia found herself vaguely recalling something she had read in a book during her school days — an exquisitely beautiful line of verse:

With practiced hand I draw the carved bow to its full moon curve, facing northwest — aimed at the Wolf Star.

The man in the wind goggles extended his hand toward Wen Xia. Even through the leather glove, the elegant length of his fingers was unmistakable.

Wen Xia grasped his hand and used the leverage to stand.

“The one flying up there is ‘Tongqian,’ and the one running down here is ‘Yuanbao.'” The man in the wind goggles gestured toward the hawk on his shoulder and the Tibetan Mastiff at his feet, deliberately keeping his voice low. “You were about to step straight into a quicksand pit just now. Yuanbao is the one who saved you.”

In Kekexili, quicksand pits were every bit as terrifying as blizzards. In an instant, they could swallow a full-grown person or an entire vehicle whole — without a drop of blood shed.

Wen Xia’s heart was still hammering. Under the gaze of the man in the wind goggles, she turned to the large dog and offered it a quiet word of thanks.

“Your vehicle — where did it get stuck?” the man in the wind goggles asked. “We need to move quickly. The temperature is dropping, and once the ground freezes over again, it’ll be a real problem.”

Wen Xia raised her hand and pointed in a direction. The man in the wind goggles patted Yuanbao on the head, and the dog let out a howl and charged off.

The hawk soaring skyward, the mastiff galloping across the plain, and the young man standing at the center of it all — the air around him was cold and sharp as ice and snow. Wen Xia stared at his retreating figure for a moment, struck by an inexplicable sense of familiarity, yet unable to recall where she might have seen him before.

The bothersome altitude sickness surged up to interfere again. She shook her head and put it down to her imagination running away with her.

Along with the two magnificent animals, the man in the wind goggles had also brought two helpers. Dawa, who had been keeping watch by the vehicle, was barely able to contain his excitement the moment he saw them. He clasped the man in the wind goggles by the hand and called him “Brother Sang Ji,” orbiting around him in circles, his face alight with reverence and admiration.

Wen Xia was momentarily taken aback. She hadn’t imagined that the man speaking perfectly standard Mandarin could also be a Tibetan.

As the sun moved westward, the temperature fell, and the mud underfoot gradually hardened. Wen Xia lost her footing for a moment and went sprawling flat on her face, then couldn’t stop sneezing. Sang Ji glanced over at her, his tone as cool as the air around them, and delivered a sharp jab: “With a constitution that weak, you dared come to the highlands? You must have come specifically to cause trouble.”

Wen Xia pressed her lips together, held back her temper, and replied evenly: “Causing trouble professionally still beats causing trouble as an amateur — at least the technique is sound.”

A few muffled laughs drifted through the air. Sang Ji turned and cast her one look. One of the team members standing by the vehicle called out “Brother Sang Ji” and waved him over. Sang Ji pulled his gaze away from Wen Xia and walked off.

In Tibetan, “Sang Ji” means a person of pure and good heart. Wen Xia pursed her lips and thought: what a waste of a perfectly good name.

Sang Ji directed Dawa and two other young Tibetan men to dig out the mud around the wheels with entrenching tools, then wedged several rocks beneath them before using a tow hook and rope to connect the two vehicles together.

Wen Xia rolled up her sleeves and tried to help. Sang Ji, without turning around, pointed to an empty patch of ground nearby — his way of telling her to go stand somewhere out of the way.

Feeling somewhat slighted, Wen Xia was disgruntled but couldn’t very well pick a fight with someone who had just saved her life. She could only scowl and mime punching the air at his back, silently vowing: One more move out of you and I won’t be holding back.

At that precise moment, Sang Ji happened to turn slightly, catching her little performance in full.

Wen Xia instantly clasped both hands behind her back and tilted her face skyward. Sang Ji stared at her for a moment through his goggles, said nothing, and turned away with an expression as cold as ever.

The small audience of bystanders was absolutely delighted with the whole spectacle.

(2)

Both vehicles floored the accelerator at the same time, hauling and straining for quite a while before they finally pulled the stuck vehicle free. Sang Ji opened the car door and glanced at the dashboard, then said to Dawa: “The fuel level in this vehicle is getting dangerously low. You’ll need to reduce the load, or you won’t make it to the station.”

The five of them held a quick discussion. Dawa and the big dog Yuanbao stayed in the lower-fuel vehicle, while Wen Xia, along with a crate of medical equipment and two crates of medicine she had brought, were transferred into the off-road vehicle. Seeing that Sang Ji had taken the back seat, Wen Xia made the decisive choice to take the front passenger seat.

The young Tibetan man driving the vehicle had an honest, open face and was remarkably talkative. Less than a kilometer into the drive, he had already given Wen Xia a thorough account of every entry in his household register. For instance, his name was Nuobu; his mother was Tibetan, his father Han Chinese; his father had come to Ge’ermu for his mother’s sake and had never left.

Wen Xia told Nuobu to call her Xiao Xia, and happily shared with him a good number of stories from outside of Kekexili.

The vehicle rounded a bend. Bumping and swaying along the road, Nuobu shook his head cheerfully and asked Wen Xia why she had ever wanted to come to Kekexili. The conditions here were truly brutal — sometimes you could experience all four seasons in a single day, with sun, cloud, rain, and snow arriving one after another — and the altitude sickness alone posed a serious challenge to one’s health.

Wen Xia gazed at the horizon dissolving into a wash of brilliant gold and said softly: “I came here to find someone. His name is Li Zechuan — the ‘Ze’ meaning a marsh born of a dammed river, and ‘Chuan’ meaning a river plain.”

From the back seat, Sang Ji shifted — knocking into something, producing a crisp, clear sound.

Nuobu’s voice carried a note of puzzlement. “Looking for someone? Did he go missing? That’s a serious matter. Once we reach the station, I’ll report it to the head of the station straightaway — we’ll need to send out a search party overnight.”

Wen Xia waved her hand quickly. “He hasn’t gone missing. I believe he’s living quite well somewhere in Kekexili. I just haven’t seen him for a very long time.”

Nuobu nodded in the way of someone who half-understands, then rambled on: “He’s in Kekexili? Which station? What did you say his name was just now — Li Zechuan? Why does that name sound so familiar? Is he a relative of yours? A sibling? Judging by the name, he’s probably a brother, right?”

A soft, warm light surfaced in Wen Xia’s eyes — like the pale white mist of early spring, thin and weightless. She said quietly: “He’s someone I care for deeply. Very, very deeply.”

The nature reserve was well-stocked with single men, and Nuobu — a confirmed bachelor well past prime matchmaking age — flushed red at her words. After a long moment, he suddenly seemed to remember something and let out a sound of realization — but before he could speak, Sang Ji, who had been resting with his eyes closed in the back, abruptly lifted his foot, hooked it over the back of the driver’s seat, and swept his lower leg sideways at Nuobu’s head.

Nuobu, completely unprepared, gave two startled yelps in succession, then said in imperfect Mandarin, feeling rather aggrieved: “Brother Sang Ji, why are you hitting me?”

Sang Ji kept himself thoroughly concealed as always. He tapped his boot heel against Nuobu’s shoulder and said in a low, slightly hoarse voice: “You never stop talking. It’s deafening.”

Wen Xia shot him a sidelong glare. “If the noise bothers you so much, why not get out and run behind the vehicle? Peaceful and quiet, great exercise, and your goggles would finally get some use.”

The Sang Ji with the wind goggles tilted his head toward where Wen Xia was sitting — clearly giving her a look — then propped his other leg up as well, both long legs crossed and resting on the back of the seat, his foot twitching back and forth with deliberate provocation.

Wen Xia ground her teeth in silent fury. This man was insufferable.

A little after eight in the evening, the two vehicles pulled into Suonan Baohuzhan one behind the other.

Suonan Baohuzhan was not only the sole wildlife rescue center in the Qinghai Kekexili region, but also provided lodging for travelers passing through. From Budongquan in the north to Wudao Liang in the south, across nearly a hundred kilometers of boundless, desolate wilderness, there was no other place to stop and rest. The existence of Suonan Baohuzhan was, therefore, of the utmost importance. [Real place names and information referenced from online sources]

A dozen or so red-and-white prefabricated steel-frame structures stood staggered to the left and right, with a steel-frame sign reading “Suonan Nature Protection Station” mounted on the rooftop. Behind the buildings stood a signal tower for receiving satellite communications and an observation tower over thirty meters tall, along with a sheep enclosure composed of insulated panel structures and nearly five hundred acres of open grassland. Rescued young Tibetan antelopes could grow up safely in conditions that most closely resembled their natural environment, until they were fully grown and ready to be released back into the wild.

Further still in the distance lay the rolling splendor of the great Mount Kunlun ranges, stretching thousands of miles in silver-white grandeur. Eternal frost and snow lay atop them, like the eyes of a god.

Perhaps Wen Xia had been studying the prefabricated structures for a little too long, because Sang Ji came around behind her and said: “The conditions here are far harsher than anything you’ve imagined. If you reach your limit, say so directly. Gritting your teeth and trying to act the hero only wastes everyone’s time. Kekexili has no room for willfulness or self-indulgence. If you want to survive out here, you have to be strong. Very strong.”

Wen Xia’s expression remained unchanged. She pulled off her gloves one finger at a time, straightening them methodically, and said: “The road I’m walking is one I chose myself. Whether I crawl it on my knees or walk it on my feet is entirely my own affair. I didn’t ask for your concern, but thank you all the same.”

Nuobu, sensing the tension crackling between the two of them, smiled his good-natured smile and jumped in: “Xiao Xia, I bet you’ve never seen stars this beautiful back in the city, have you? I’m telling you, the stars in the snow mountains are even more stunning — they shine so bright it’s like they’ve been rinsed clean by water. You should ask Brother Sang Ji to take you sometime. He loves sitting under a sky full of stars and playing his harmonica. He…”

Sang Ji landed a kick on Nuobu’s knee, cutting him off. “I said it on the whole drive here and I’ll say it again — how have you still not run out of things to say?”

Looking thoroughly put-upon, Nuobu dared not say another word. He turned away and went to help carry Wen Xia’s crates.

Wen Xia had never been able to stand watching an honest, good-natured person get bullied, and the sight sparked her temper immediately. She reached out and grabbed Sang Ji by the front of his jacket. “If you don’t know how to speak to people decently, go take a class and learn. That boy hasn’t done a thing to you — why are you always kicking out at him? Do you have mouth ulcers? Is that why everything you say has to come out sideways before it feels right?”

The yard was lit by high-wattage floodlights. Their glow fell across the snow-covered ground, lifting a soft haze of warm, white light.

The wind cried sharp and fierce. The floodlights swayed faintly under its force, and as the light shifted across Sang Ji’s face, it pierced straight through the pitch-black lenses of his goggles. Without any warning at all, Wen Xia’s eyes met a pair of irises dark and lustrous as obsidian.

The flickering, shifting light was like the thinnest of blades, etching clear, vivid lines into those pupils. The bone-cutting wind fell into them and transformed — into the gentle flow of a small bridge over running water, into the misty, soft rain of the south, and within that misty rain lived one drifting journey after another, each with no end in sight.

Such a beautiful pair of eyes. So beautiful they seemed achingly familiar.

Wen Xia stood there, gripping Sang Ji’s jacket, and went perfectly still.

(3)

A sound like thunder tore through her mind. Wen Xia reached up to pull the goggles from Sang Ji’s face. Sang Ji turned his head sharply aside to avoid her hand, seized her by the wrist, and pressed her firmly against the car door of the off-road vehicle.

Once the sun dropped below the horizon, the temperature plummeted to a punishing cold, and no one wandered the yard without good reason. In the vast open space, apart from the Tibetan Mastiff, there were only two living, breathing figures left — Sang Ji and Wen Xia.

Wen Xia, pinned against the car door, spoke in a low, hoarse voice: “You’re not Tibetan at all — you’re Han Chinese. Who are you? Who exactly are you?”

Sang Ji spoke with deliberate calm. “First: stop baring your teeth at me — I find it irritating. Second: understand what your role here is, then do it well. This station doesn’t keep pampered young ladies on the payroll. Third: before you’ve learned how to keep yourself safe, stop acting on impulse. If you get yourself killed through sheer recklessness, there’s nowhere out here to bring you back.”

His tone was blunt and cutting. When he finished, he released his grip, turned, and walked into one of the prefabricated structures.

Her wrist ached from where he had held it. Wen Xia stood in place, shaking it out slowly, and was suddenly overwhelmed by a crushing sense of grievance. She had traveled all this way, across such a great distance, and couldn’t even get a single kind word out of him.

The Tibetan Mastiff padded over with his tongue lolling, his enormous head nudging gently at Wen Xia’s calf, his round, substantial body settling in a heap at her feet — as if afraid she might freeze. Wen Xia gave the big dog’s paw a petulant little tap and said: “You know what they say — if you want to beat a dog, mind whose dog it is. I’m only doing this because of your owner. Go ahead, bite me then.”

Yuanbao had a mild temperament. Despite being an entirely innocent party caught up in someone else’s quarrel, he bore no grudge. He snorted once and fixed Wen Xia with a pair of small, round, doleful eyes.

Nuobu materialized from around a corner, rubbing his hands together and trying to explain on Sang Ji’s behalf: “Xiao Xia, please don’t be upset. Brother Sang Ji is attached to the Kekexili National Nature Reserve Forest Police. He’s one of the fourteen forest police officers stationed here permanently. He’s not a bad person — his manner is just a little… cold.”

There were still traces of moisture in Wen Xia’s eyes. She looked at Nuobu and pressed him: “Sang Ji isn’t Tibetan — he’s Han Chinese, isn’t he? What is his real Chinese name? How long has he been in Kekexili?”

Nuobu shook his hands repeatedly. “Brother Sang Ji has told me not to go talking out of turn. You’d better ask him directly.”

Wen Xia got up and made straight for the prefabricated structure Sang Ji had just walked into.

Ask him directly, was it? Fine. She would.

Nuobu hadn’t expected the girl to take things so literally. He trailed after her with a placating smile, trying to head her off: “Xiao Xia, look, it’s already dark. Can’t whatever it is wait until tomorrow? The dormitories are this way — the rooms are actually quite decent. Let me show you — come with me!”

Wen Xia planted one hand on Nuobu’s forehead and pushed him gently aside. “I’m not sleeping tonight until I find out exactly who that person surnamed Sang really is.”

Nuobu’s mouth ran away with him before he could stop it: “Sang Ji is actually a Tibetan name given to him by the old station chief. He’s Han Chinese, doesn’t have the surname Sang at all. His real name is something like ‘Li something-or-other’ — ah, I can never remember those kinds of…”

The words weren’t even finished before both Nuobu and Wen Xia arrived at the same realization simultaneously —

Surname Li. Li Zechuan…

It really was him.

Something ignited in her chest — a fire that blazed through every organ, sending tendrils of smoke curling upward. Wen Xia bolted forward and shoved open the door of the prefabricated structure.

It was the night-shift rest room — simply furnished, with a wooden table and a narrow fold-out bed three feet wide. Sang Ji stood in front of the space heater, bare-chested, washing himself down with a damp cloth. His chest, his abdomen, his back — all bore scars of vicious, jagged shapes. His trousers sat low on his hips, just barely, revealing the edge of black underwear and the tight, finely defined lines of his lower abdominal muscles.

He turned at the sound of the door. His eyes were sharply angled — like the reverse-stroke in calligraphy — single-lidded, and uncommonly beautiful, with a faint, pale notch at the outer corner of one eyebrow, like a broken brow.

His face was clean-shaven. The bridge of his nose was straight and high, and the line of his lips was just as spare and clean-edged as his eyelids. If books described a certain look as cool, detached, and quietly desolate — this, surely, was that look.

Wen Xia stared at him without moving. Her eyes turned red in an instant. In a low, hoarse voice, she said: “Should I call you Sang Ji, or should I call you Li Zechuan? I’m standing right in front of you, and you can still pretend not to know me. What a truly ruthless heart you have.”

Li Zechuan tossed the cloth into the basin, turned, and went to find his clothes. The muscles across his back shifted and rolled as he moved. Without looking back, he said: “Close the door. Come in and talk — it’s cold.”

Wen Xia stood there, half in a daze, trying to remember when she had last seen him — was it outside the detention center, or in the hospital? — while simultaneously furious at his utterly indifferent manner. Her mind was still swinging back and forth between the past and the present when her body moved before she could think. Her arm swung up, and with a sharp crack, her palm connected cleanly with Li Zechuan’s face.

A sharp intake of breath sounded from the doorway. Nuobu, who had been peering around the door frame to watch, gaped open-mouthed in shock.

Li Zechuan turned his face to the side. His dark gaze lifted slowly from below, settling deep and still on Wen Xia’s face.

Two years ago, outside the detention center, across an empty, silent road, he had looked at her in exactly the same way.

That look made Wen Xia’s heartbeat scatter into disorder. Before she could sort through any of it, her body moved ahead of her again.

She threw both arms around Li Zechuan’s neck, forced his head down toward hers, rose onto the tips of her toes, and kissed him — deeply, without holding back.

She thought again of a song Li Zechuan had once sung. There was a line in it that was utterly despairing —

Kiss and let go, give everything — this farewell kiss, like water that cannot return. If we meet again, perhaps only in the world above.

There are moments when the tenderness between two people carries a lethal force, capable of fracturing someone who has been holding themselves together, layer by careful layer. Wen Xia felt the sudden burning in her eyes and squeezed them shut immediately. Her lashes trembled. Her lips trembled.

The slap had been real. The kiss was real. And the way she felt about him — that was real too.

From the first time they had met, in her third year of university, to this moment now — four years had quietly passed. More than a thousand days and nights. And in the life she had always longed for, he was the one thing she had always known with certainty must be there.

Li Zechuan felt a sharp sting at the corner of his mouth. His tongue brushed over it, and he tasted the faint, metallic sweetness of blood. He found himself thinking, with a flicker of dry amusement, that this girl — was she trying to kiss him, or to bite him?

It was as though a cold wind swept through the doorway, turning Nuobu, who had been frozen there in stunned silence, to a scattering of ash. He clamped both hands over his mouth, physically suppressing the cry that tried to escape.

Li Zechuan raised his eyes and swept them toward Nuobu. The look was cool, and sharp, and carried an edge. Nuobu gave a small shudder, then, with commendable self-preservation instinct, turned his back, felt for the door handle, and quietly pulled it shut behind him.

Li Zechuan took hold of Wen Xia’s wrists and pushed her gently back, then turned away and dressed himself, one piece of clothing at a time. He didn’t look back. His voice, and his expression, were both perfectly calm: “If you’ve made enough of a scene, get some rest. Aren’t you exhausted?”

All the hardship of these past days of travel, and in Li Zechuan’s mouth it became a mild, toneless word: “a scene.” Wen Xia’s eyes reddened further. “Li Zechuan, were you carved out of stone? Do you have a heart at all?”

The light beneath Li Zechuan’s spare, single-lidded eyes was cool and steady. He said: “Wen Xia, you’ve always known — I don’t have a heart. So you should have chosen to forget me, not to travel all this way to find me.”

Wen Xia looked into his eyes, her voice thick with suppressed emotion. “It’s not that you have no heart — it’s that you have no conscience. Two years ago you left without a single word. For two years I searched for you like someone who had lost their mind. And all of that, in your eyes, amounts to nothing more than ‘making a scene’?”

Li Zechuan turned his face away and was silent.

The silence grew strained. Then the wooden door was pushed open again. Nuobu stuck half his head through the gap, gasping, and said: “Brother Sang Ji — Ke Lie climbed to the top of the observation tower to scan the area, and he spotted lights in the nature reserve. I’ve contacted every station in the area, and none of them sent out a patrol team. It’s not any of our people.”

Li Zechuan’s gaze sharpened instantly. He said to Wen Xia, “We’ll finish this conversation tomorrow,” and turned and ran out into the yard.

The night was deep and thick, and the silence was so absolute that the faintest trace of light was impossible to miss. Li Zechuan braced a hand on the engine hood, vaulted to the roof of the off-road vehicle, raised his binoculars to maximum magnification, and immediately spotted a thin sliver of light — like a slow-moving shooting star — probing its way into the deeper interior of the nature reserve.

The Kekexili Nature Reserve was semi-enclosed. Unauthorized crossing into the interior was strictly forbidden. At this depth of night, no ordinary visitor would take that risk, and none of the protection stations had dispatched any patrol teams. So who had made that light?

Li Zechuan leaped down from the roof of the vehicle, flung open the driver’s door, and with one hand reaching in to hold down the horn in a long, sustained blast, bellowed at the top of his lungs: “We have a situation! Everyone, form up — into the mountains!”

The horn split the night like a thunderclap. Four figures bundled in heavy cotton coats poured out of one of the prefabricated structures, adjusting their gear as they went, lining themselves up in order from tallest to shortest with startling speed.

Li Zechuan swept his arm in a sharp gesture. “Two stay behind on alert. The other two get in the vehicle now — move out with me.”

In addition to the off-road vehicle, Li Zechuan had Nuobu retrieve a Beijing jeep from the storage bay. Four people split between two vehicles, approaching from opposite flanks. Between the two of them, there would be no gaps — not even a mosquito would slip through.

Li Zechuan settled into the back seat of the off-road vehicle as usual, the Tibetan Mastiff in his arms. The vehicle was just about to pull away when the passenger-side door was yanked open with a heavy force. Wen Xia flung herself in through a cloud of cold air, her expression set and unyielding. “Where you go, I go. Don’t even think about leaving me behind.”

The situation inside the reserve was unknown. This was not the moment to be arguing with this girl. Li Zechuan ground his teeth and thought: When we get back, I’ll settle this with you.

The off-road vehicle led, the Beijing jeep brought up the rear, and together the two vehicles charged forward into the darkness like large beasts crouching against the black of night. The howl of their engines spread slowly through the dense, viscous dark.

(4)

Kekexili’s terrain is unusual. Wherever the eye falls, there are only fine sand and broken stones, with very little actual soil, sparse vegetation, and as a result, powerful wind erosion leaving behind a constant scatter of tumbled rock. In these conditions, no matter how skilled the driver, the jolting and shaking was unavoidable — rattling and swaying, more thrilling than any amusement park ride.

The vehicle had gone nearly ten kilometers when altitude sickness and motion sickness found Wen Xia at the same time, and her entire digestive system cramped in protest. She quietly unwrapped a painkiller and held it on her tongue, letting the bitterness sting the throbbing nerves behind her forehead — and found, somewhat unexpectedly, that it cleared her head.

The vehicle radio crackled with Nuobu’s voice: “Brother Sang Ji, we’ve got them cornered! Ten o’clock position, three hundred meters out!”

Before Li Zechuan could respond, another voice erupted from the radio — furious, profane, and barely restrained: “Where did this little rat come from — what a filthy trick! He buried spiked vehicle stoppers in the road. We’ve blown out a tire over here and nearly rolled the vehicle. Da Chuan, watch yourself — don’t fall into the same trap.”

The speaker was Lian Kai, whose nickname was “Lian Laolei.” He was another of the fourteen permanent forest police officers stationed at Kekexili — tall and powerfully built, decisive and forceful, with a temper that was legendary.

Li Zechuan braced his elbow against the back of the driver’s seat and leaned forward to pick up the radio. He said to Lian Kai: “Hold your position and keep yourselves safe. Leave the rest to me.”

Lian Laolei grunted a sour acknowledgment. Missing the mark on this one would give him a bad mood that could last two solid months.

The driver accompanying Li Zechuan was named Ke Lie — a slightly darker complexion, not a man of many words, with eyes that carried a quiet, steady force. He glanced up at Li Zechuan, and their eyes met briefly in the rearview mirror.

Li Zechuan made the call without hesitation: “Stop the vehicle.”

Ke Lie cut the engine without a word, and the headlights along with it. The open plain, which had already been vast and eerily still, plunged instantly into a strangely particular darkness. The blaze of stars overhead cast a pale, bone-white light — not enough to illuminate the road, only enough to dimly suggest the towering silhouette of the snow mountains, their presence immense, reverberating against the chest.

From somewhere very far off, occasional cries of wild animals drifted across the dark.

The wind roared. The long night stretched on in its solitude.

At this hour of midnight, the temperature was brutal. The moment Wen Xia stepped out of the vehicle, she was frozen straight through. She was about to ask whether they intended to pursue on foot when she saw Li Zechuan open the vehicle’s rear compartment and retrieve a quiver of arrows and a compound hunting bow, black from tip to limb.

Ke Lie seemed entirely accustomed to the sight of Li Zechuan with a powerful bow in hand and murder in his bearing — not even an eyebrow moved. Wen Xia, however, felt a sudden blaze of warmth in her chest. She knew that on the limb of that compound bow, a letter had been carved with a knife’s point: the letter “M” — the initial of Li Zechuan’s English name, “Magnus.”

To call that bow a weapon for taking lives would be to miss the point. It was, more than anything, a symbol — witness to the wild, reckless years when Li Zechuan had been as unrestrained as molten gold, and to the hidden, innermost wound he most guarded from the world.

Two years ago — that Li Zechuan, that young man with the purely black eyes, who stood in the crowd like a force of wind and rain, as conspicuous in his silence as another man might be in his shouting…

Thoughts tumbled through Wen Xia’s mind in loose, disordered fragments. By the time she came back to herself, Li Zechuan had already fitted his night-vision goggles into place, stepped onto the hood, and pulled himself onto the roof of the off-road vehicle. He drew both arms back simultaneously, pulling the bowstring taut. The sound was a clean, sharp snap.

Wen Xia silently noted that the protection station must be very well-resourced — even night-vision goggles were standard issue here. Ke Lie read her thought at a glance. He said quietly: “Da Chuan bought the night-vision goggles with his own money — fourteen sets, one for every forest officer, including himself. Even the off-road vehicle under your feet was paid for out of his own pocket. He’s given everything he has to Kekexili.”

Using a hard exterior to conceal something kind — that was Li Zechuan’s habitual way. He never said more than was necessary, and yet he quietly did everything he could.

This side of Li Zechuan made Wen Xia ache.

In Kekexili, the long night was never truly silent. Wind swept freely across the open plain and through the sky above, howling as it went — like a great beast giving voice to something vast and old.

Li Zechuan stood astride the vehicle’s roof, his figure straight and steady as if cast in iron, unyielding. Both Wen Xia and Ke Lie held their breath without realizing it, and even the Tibetan Mastiff tucked in his tongue and pressed his muzzle shut.

Li Zechuan held his breath. Through the night-vision goggles, the entire world turned a deep, luminous green — like the interior of a rainforest. Then without warning, a blurred shape appeared in his sightline, concealed behind a wind-scoured earthen mound, with half a body extended — clearly listening for movement in the surrounding area.

Li Zechuan slowly drew the bowstring to full tension. He had removed his gloves. The metal’s cold — unique, bone-deep — leaped at the pads of his fingers. The sinews along his neck stood out in clear, sharp lines, like something etched.

Handsome, and dangerous. Powerful, and silent.

Wen Xia watched Li Zechuan, her heartbeat stumbling hard — and in the next instant, the arrow split the air and drove into the darkness, carrying with it a force that felt almost alive.

Before Wen Xia could draw breath, the muscles of Li Zechuan’s shoulders and neck snapped tight again, and a second arrow flew.

The world — where the wind had held undisputed reign — was suddenly shattered into countless shapes.

Li Zechuan pressed his index-finger knuckle to his lips and blew a sharp, piercing whistle. The Tibetan Mastiff obeyed the sound and surged forward, howling, in the direction the arrows had flown.

The tips of the arrows had been coated with an anesthetic infused with a particular aromatic compound. The anesthetic would strip a person of their ability to resist, and the dog’s nose was trained to track the scent of that compound.

Li Zechuan placed one hand on the roof, slid down through the open window, and dropped into the driver’s seat. Ke Lie clapped a quick hand on Wen Xia’s shoulder and ushered her into the back.

Li Zechuan floored the accelerator. The force of it sent Wen Xia completing what felt like an involuntary gymnastic rotation in the back seat, and her front teeth connected squarely with the back of the driver’s headrest. She curled over both hands cupping her face, whimpering quietly.

Li Zechuan could see it all clearly in the rearview mirror. The line of his mouth didn’t change — but a faint trace of amusement moved through his eyes.

The off-road vehicle hadn’t gone far before they spotted Yuanbao crouched before a gray, shapeless mass, growling in a low, rolling tone. Li Zechuan swung the vehicle around and switched on the high beams. Only then did Wen Xia see clearly: the gray, shapeless mass was, in fact, a full-grown adult person bundled in a cotton-padded jacket.

Of the two arrows Li Zechuan had released, one had missed its mark. The other had driven squarely into the person’s lower leg. The anesthetic had clearly taken effect — the figure’s two hands were clawing frantically at the sand and gravel, but the lower half of the body didn’t move at all. Li Zechuan dropped the longbow and climbed out of the driver’s seat in two strides, covering the ground to the “cotton jacket” in an instant.

The “cotton jacket” had curled into a tight ball, screaming hoarsely: “What gives you the right to shoot someone? I’m just a herdsman who lost his way — what gives you the right to—”

Li Zechuan, not waiting for the shouting to finish, planted his foot on the person’s shoulder and said: “Where are the sheep? Did you touch any sheep?”

The “cotton jacket” shrieked, rolling back and forth in the sand and gravel: “I haven’t seen any sheep! I don’t know anything — I don’t know anything!”

Ke Lie’s temper flared: “If you haven’t touched any sheep, why did you run? Why were you hiding? Why did you bury vehicle stoppers in the road? Tell us the truth — where are the pelts?”

Only screaming and swearing came back in answer. The “cotton jacket” was plainly refusing to cooperate.

Li Zechuan drew a slow breath, raised his hand, and called the Tibetan Mastiff crouching nearby to his side. “Yuanbao. Come. Let’s put those teeth to work.”

The moment the word for “teeth” landed, Wen Xia went pale. Ke Lie pressed down on her shoulder and said quietly: “Yuanbao is a good dog — he finds the pelts, he doesn’t hurt people.”

With his command given, Yuanbao let out a barrage of furious barking, launched himself onto the “cotton jacket,” and bit down.

The “cotton jacket” let out a wail of terror so intense it seemed to crack his voice. The gray fabric stretched tight across his chest tore open under Yuanbao’s jaws, and something fell out from inside, dropping into the sand and gravel.

Yuanbao picked the object up in his mouth and placed it in Li Zechuan’s hand. Li Zechuan worked it between his fingers — it was a small piece of pelt, sheepskin, smooth and dense to the touch.

Ke Lie watched Li Zechuan’s expression and stepped forward to press his foot on the “cotton jacket’s” chest. “If you haven’t touched any sheep, where did that pelt come from? Say one more dishonest word and I’ll have the dog chew you raw.”

Yuanbao let out a low, menacing growl, dropping his great head — ominous as a demon’s — and inching steadily toward the “cotton jacket.”

The “cotton jacket” was scared completely out of his wits. He covered his head with both arms and wailed: “Don’t let the dog loose! I’ll talk, I’ll talk! I’m just a messenger — I really didn’t touch any sheep, I swear I didn’t!”

Li Zechuan crouched down and took the “cotton jacket” by the jaw, forcing him to look up and meet his eyes. He said in a low, deliberate voice: “Who are you delivering a message for? Where were you going? Who were you going to?”

The “cotton jacket” opened his mouth wide. White vapor poured from it with each gasping breath. He stammered out: “My boss told me to take this pelt to Longhua Zhen and find a man called Lao Hei. He said the buyer wanted to inspect the goods first. He told me not to drive — said it would make too much noise and draw attention from multiple stations. I really didn’t touch any sheep. I swear.”

Li Zechuan lowered his gaze and watched the “cotton jacket” for a long moment, the light beneath those spare, single-lidded eyes cold and cutting. Then he said abruptly: “Your boss told you to go to Longhua Zhen. So why were you heading deeper into the nature reserve? That’s in the completely opposite direction. Who do you think you’re fooling?”

He made as if to release the dog again. The “cotton jacket” screamed in desperation, wailing: “My boss gave me a map — I was following the map exactly, every step of it! I swear I’m not lying!”

Ke Lie searched the “cotton jacket” from head to toe, thoroughly and without mercy. There was no map — not so much as a scrap of paper. He held a face like a death god’s, and said in a low voice: “The map. Where is it?”

The “cotton jacket” hesitated for a beat, then said in a small voice: “I… I lost it. Just now, when you were driving after me, I was scared, I tripped and fell, and the map was just… gone. Everything I’m telling you is the truth. I’m not lying.”

Li Zechuan straightened, pressed his index-finger knuckle between his teeth, and let out a sharp, piercing whistle. The sound stirred a chorus of answering wolf howls from the darkness around them — one after another, near and far — a sound that chilled the blood.

“Do you hear that?” Li Zechuan said, his eyes fixed on the figure face-down in the sand, his voice slow and unhurried. “This is the wolves’ territory. Hungry predators, everywhere you look. I’m going to ask you one final question. This is your only chance. If you lie to me again, I’ll tie your hands and feet and leave you right here. The cold wind might not finish you — but the wolf pack will strip you down to clean white bone. Think very carefully before you open your mouth.”

The “cotton jacket” panted in ragged gasps, nodding frantically. “I’ll tell you everything. Everything you want to know — I’ll tell you all of it.”