Wen Xia had no interest in saving Song Qiyuan — she would have been perfectly happy to see that scoundrel strung up like a strip of wind-dried sausage. But the watchtower was connected top to bottom, and if she wanted to leave, she would inevitably disturb “Scarface,” who was sleeping in the chair.

The little girl tugged at the hem of Wen Xia’s clothes, her big eyes brimming with tears. In halting, unpracticed Mandarin, she said word by word: “Save Qi-gege, please. Qi-gege is a good person. He gives us food, he doesn’t let us go hungry.”

The other two children crowded around as well, their eyes full of desperate pleading.

Wen Xia lowered her voice and pointed at Song Qiyuan. “Why is he being punished?”

The little girl pressed her lips together and explained with difficulty: “Abola says Qi-gege won’t listen. Abola is very angry.”

Abola meant grandfather — but who was this grandfather?

The two little boys knocked something over — a loud clang rang out. Wen Xia instinctively held her breath. She saw “Scarface” jolt awake, stretch lazily, and sway to his feet. He snatched up the club leaning against the wall, swung it through the air a few times, then drove it hard into Song Qiyuan’s chest. Because of the angle, Wen Xia couldn’t see Song Qiyuan’s face — she could only see the ground beneath his feet, where a glistening pool of red was seeping outward.

He was coughing up blood. Internal organs damaged. It seemed Song Qiyuan had truly suffered a great deal.

“Scarface” sauntered up in front of Song Qiyuan and fished a half-green apple out of Song Qiyuan’s pocket. “Not a pleasant feeling, being strung up like a sausage, is it?” he said. “The boss told me to keep an eye on you — you can’t come down until you’ve hung for a full ten hours. And you know how this works: after five hours, the hands are finished. We’re all brothers here. How could I just stand by and watch you get crippled?”

Song Qiyuan gave a cold laugh. “Just say what you want.”

“Among the children you’ve taken in, there’s a little girl — truly beautiful, with big eyes, bright and alluring.” “Scarface” grinned savagely, his voice abruptly dropping. “Give her to me. I promise I’ll treat her well — good food, good drink, everything she could want.”

“Did you crawl out of the belly of an animal?!” Before “Scarface” could finish, Song Qiyuan snapped his head up. “She’s still a child!”

“I’ve been cooped up in this godforsaken place so long it’s making me sick,” “Scarface” said. “As long as she’s female, that’ll do!”

Song Qiyuan’s eyes went red with fury, his voice laced with a bone-deep hatred: “You lay one finger on her and try it — I’ll chop you to pieces!”

“You’re hanging there like a sausage and you’re still putting on airs?!” “Scarface” grabbed Song Qiyuan by the hair and forced his face upward, then slapped him four or five times in rapid succession, gritting his teeth. “It’s not even your flesh and blood. You’ve gotten addicted to playing father! You care so much about her, do you? You love being the good guy? Let me give you a good long chance to care!”

The little girl seemed to understand what “Scarface” had said. She covered her eyes and let out a sharp, piercing scream.

Silence fell over the watchtower, making the scream ring out all the more jarringly.

Song Qiyuan hung there, unable to move, and roared like a caged beast: “Run! Run now!”

At the same moment, “Scarface” grabbed his club and came charging up the stairs, leering: “Little beauty, don’t be afraid — uncle is coming!”

Wen Xia had no time to think. On pure instinct she grabbed the mop handle within reach. The instant “Scarface” poked his head up through the stairwell, Wen Xia squeezed her eyes shut and swung the handle with all her might.

The air split apart, a humming rush of wind tearing through it. “Scarface” was completely unprepared and took the full blow, tumbling back down the stairs the way he had come, crashing to the ground with a heavy, muffled thud.

“Scarface” had taken a hard fall, but remained conscious. He staggered to his feet, raised a hand to feel the spot where he’d been hit, and his fingers came away soaked in blood. Fury erupted in him instantly, his eyes going red.

Wen Xia kicked out and snapped the wooden bars from the window, then gathered up the three children one by one and handed them out through the opening, telling them to run as far as they could. As she was lifting the third child, she heard the whoosh of something cutting through the air behind her. The child hadn’t made it out yet — she couldn’t dodge. She took the blow full on.

The wooden club struck her across the back and snapped in two. The pain turned her vision black.

“Scarface” moved to grab her by the hair. She twisted away, bending her upper body until it was nearly parallel to the floor. She had trained in Gracie Jiu-Jitsu for some time and was exceptionally flexible; she slipped past “Scarface’s” arm like water and bolted down the stairs without looking back.

However skilled her technique, her physical endurance was no match for his. By the time Wen Xia hit the last step, “Scarface” had caught up. She heard Song Qiyuan scream himself hoarse: “Watch out behind you!”

“Scarface” lunged, locked his arms around her, and slammed her face-down onto the ground. One hand clamped around the back of her neck to keep her from turning or struggling; the other reached around front and worked at her waistband, a vicious grin on his face. “Lost the little one, but got myself a big one instead — this deal’s worth it!”

With her back to him, she couldn’t leverage any strength to fight back. Wen Xia’s eyes went as red as if they were soaked in blood. Crying or wailing would only drain her strength faster — she pressed her lips shut and made not a sound, desperately scanning her surroundings for anything that could serve as a weapon.

It was as if mountains were collapsing all around her, the rising dust thick with the bitter taste of despair. In that moment, only one voice remained in her mind, circling over and over, calling the same name —

Li Zechuan, when are you coming to save me?

Just then, the weight pressing down on her suddenly lifted. An instant later, a rich, sweet-metallic scent exploded through the air. Wen Xia clutched her clothes shut and struggled to sit up. She saw “Scarface” kneeling there, eyes stretched wide open, both hands clamped over his throat. Blood seeped through the gaps between his fingers, pooling crimson across the floor.

Song Qiyuan had somehow gotten himself down. He stood behind “Scarface,” breathing hard, a shark knife held loosely at his side with the blade pointing down — his hand soaked red.

Wen Xia was so stunned by the sight that all the color drained from her face, and she even forgot to cry. Song Qiyuan wiped the bloodied blade on “Scarface’s” clothes, slid the knife back into its sheath, retrieved that half-green apple, and then stretched — though his arm jerked hard at the movement, his brow creasing sharply.

He had been strung up for too long. Both arms were in fierce pain. Yet he smiled like nothing had happened at all, and said to Wen Xia in a raspy voice: “I’d advise you not to run off. Stay with me and behave — because you have no idea how many of our people are in the area. If you fall into someone else’s hands, you won’t have such a good time.”

Wen Xia sat where she was without moving. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and when she raised her head, her gaze was utterly dead. She said: “Just kill me. Make it quick.”

Song Qiyuan stared at her for a long while. The light caught the fine detail of his nose ring, giving off a cold, brilliant glint of metal. He suddenly reached out, pulled her to her feet, and said with a smile: “They give even condemned prisoners a good last meal. Come on — I’ll take you for breakfast.”

A beat-up van was parked in the courtyard out front, its windows covered in thick blackout film. Wen Xia deliberately looked at the license plate — sure enough, it had been covered.

Song Qiyuan slid open the side door. “Hide under the seats. If you want to stay alive, don’t make a sound and don’t show your head. There are too many people around here — I can’t kill every single one of them.”

As he spoke, a gust of wind came up. The hem of Wen Xia’s torn clothing caught in it, briefly exposing a pale strip of her waist. Song Qiyuan happened to catch sight of it and let out a low whistle, teasing: “Nice figure! Forget Li Zechuan — come with me instead. I know how to treat a woman better than he does.”

Wen Xia raised her hand and slapped him across the face, then turned and climbed into the van, slamming the door shut behind her with a bang.

Song Qiyuan didn’t retaliate, nor did he show any sign of anger. He simply wiped a thin trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and let out a very quiet sigh.

The cargo hold was nearly empty and smelled of mildew. Wen Xia curled under the seat and hugged herself tightly. She ached all over and was very cold — a feeling like the end of the world. She wasn’t particularly afraid anymore. She had reached this point and had already prepared herself for the worst. She only felt regret — regret that what was between her and Li Zechuan had ended so abruptly and unceremoniously.

She never got to hear him say he liked her.

What a shame.

Her vision went dark. A piece of clothing settled down over her head. Song Qiyuan sat in the driver’s seat, eyes fixed on the world beyond the windshield, his tone casual and indifferent: “Put it on. I can’t afford cold medicine for you.”

It was just before eight o’clock, the morning market in full swing. The old van blended into the flow of traffic and crept along at a crawl, unremarkable amid the crowd.

Wen Xia glanced out through the window and spotted a breakfast stall set up along the roadside. A few tables and chairs stood under a canvas awning, and beside them a great pot billowed with steam. The smell of yak bone broth drifted toward her, mingled with the fragrance of scallions and coriander.

“I want that,” Wen Xia said.

Song Qiyuan kept both hands on the wheel. After a few seconds, he said: “All right.”

The entire street was loud with voices and the sounds of life. Wen Xia and Song Qiyuan found an empty spot along the wall. The tables and stools looked grimy with old grease, but Wen Xia didn’t mind — she sat down without hesitation.

The coat Song Qiyuan had thrown her was a men’s windbreaker with wide sleeves. Under the pretext of reaching into the chopstick holder, Wen Xia slipped a small bottle of pepper powder up into the sleeve. She turned to the owner standing over the large pot and called out: “Beef bone broth, large bowl, extra spicy — and three kunguomo flatbreads!”

Song Qiyuan sat across from her, smiling. “You’ve quite an appetite.”

Wen Xia fixed her gaze on a stray dog wandering past and said nothing.

“Why don’t you ever cry?” Song Qiyuan turned the half-green apple over in his hands. “At Kusai Lake that time — same thing. Just now when ‘Scarface’ had you — same thing again. I’m a contrary sort of person. The more you refuse to cry, the more I want to make you cry.”

Wen Xia still didn’t look at him. She said drily: “If I cry, will you let me go? No — so what’s the use in crying? Better to save the energy.”

“That’s a fair point.”

Song Qiyuan nodded with evident interest, then suddenly leaned forward across the table, bringing his face close to Wen Xia’s.

They were extremely close now. Wen Xia could clearly make out the teardrop mole at the outer corner of his eye — like a work of art left behind by God.

Song Qiyuan deliberately lowered his voice and said: “I know exactly what you’re planning. The moment the soup bowl is set down, you’ll throw it in my face while it’s still hot. That bottle of pepper powder too — you prepared that for me, didn’t you? You deliberately chose an open-air stall so you’d have an easy escape route. Am I right?”

Wen Xia’s face remained expressionless, but the fingers gathered in her sleeve clenched tightly.

Song Qiyuan smiled slightly. He had a pair of peach-blossom eyes — in the pale light of early morning, they were like ink brushed over water. He said: “You’re the first girl I’ve ever met quite like you — fragile as a kitten, yet ready to spring up and fight to the death at any moment. To be honest, I think I’m a little reluctant to let you go.”

The kunguomo flatbreads arrived first, fresh out of the oven, golden in color. Song Qiyuan broke off a piece and chewed it slowly, then continued: “But you saved Xiaodouzi, and I owe you for that. A debt must be repaid.”

Wen Xia finally turned to look at him. Her eyes held nothing but distrust.

That expression, set against the pale light of the morning, was startling to behold.

Song Qiyuan smiled a little and pointed to the wound on her palm. “Bloodletting from the vein can effectively ease altitude sickness. Be sure to keep your sugar levels up as well — dizziness alone can kill you here. Most importantly — leave Qinghai. Don’t come back. Because if we meet again, I won’t be as merciful as I’ve been today.”

Wen Xia gave a thoroughly contemptuous snort. “I’ll say the same to you — when we meet again, you won’t be as lucky as you’ve been today.”

Song Qiyuan gazed at Wen Xia quietly for a moment, then sighed: “How can you be so stubborn.”

After a pause, he added: “Timing-wise, your sweetheart should be nearby by now. I’ll give you a send-off, and after that, we part ways for good.”

The dark mouth of a gun flashed past Wen Xia’s line of sight and leveled at the stray dog lying by the roadside. The color drained from Wen Xia’s face instantly. Then came the bang — the smell of blood and the crack of the gunshot erupted at the same moment. The little dog didn’t even have time to yelp; it was flung off the ground by the sheer force of the impact.

The small market broke into chaos. People were crying, people were screaming, people didn’t know what had happened and looked around in bewilderment.

Song Qiyuan gripped the back of Wen Xia’s head and pulled her to face him. Less than a finger’s width separated them; their breath mingled like a tangled skein of thread. Song Qiyuan said: “You people love to call yourselves champions of justice, don’t you? I want to see whether justice can truly protect you — whether it makes you bulletproof.”

With that, Song Qiyuan disappeared swiftly into the surging crowd. Through the billowing dust and chaos, he pressed two fingers together against his lips and blew Wen Xia a kiss across the distance.

Not far away came the familiar rumble of an engine. Wen Xia saw Li Zechuan leap down from a Humvee and walk toward her against the flow of the crowd — the collar of his trench coat turned up, its hem billowing in the wind like a battle flag.

(2)

Song Qiyuan had guessed correctly — Li Zechuan was indeed nearby. The informant Li Zechuan had found went by the nickname Haizi, a man who had spent years scraping by on the streets and knew everyone, from all walks of life.

Haizi told Li Zechuan that three months ago, seven or eight unfamiliar faces had begun appearing in and around Quma Zhen — all men in the prime of their lives, who spoke to no one and came and went quickly. The vehicles were thick with road dust, as if they had come from the west.

The west meant the interior of the uninhabited zone — the land where the Tibetan antelopes lived.

Li Zechuan produced a photograph of Nie Xiaolin. Haizi studied it for a while, then shook his head. “That group was extremely careful. They all wore masks — no way to see their faces clearly.”

It was still dark at the time. The two men stood in a back-alley lane, the light from the streetlamps dim. Li Zechuan pulled a cigarette from the box; Haizi quickly dug out his lighter and held it out eagerly.

Li Zechuan glanced at him and said: “No matter how secretive that group is, they have to have a base somewhere. What else do you know? Tell me everything.”

Haizi gave an embarrassed smile. “I followed them a few times, but always lost them somewhere around Bayi Road. If you’re looking for them, you might try your luck on Bayi Road.”

Li Zechuan held the cigarette between his fingers, his eyes burning with the same fire as its lit end. “You know what that group is involved in. Don’t let me find out you’ve had any dealings with them — or I won’t let it slide.”

Haizi shook his head vigorously, insisting he absolutely would not dare.

The breakfast stall where Wen Xia and Song Qiyuan had been eating was on Bayi Road — in a somewhat tucked-away spot, blocked from view by the van, not particularly visible. When the gunshot rang out, Li Zechuan felt a shock run up to his scalp. He floored the accelerator and chased in the direction the sound had come from.

The market had descended into chaos, and the Humvee was stuck in the crowd, unable to move. Li Zechuan slammed his fist on the steering wheel, contacted the local police, then pushed open the door and jumped out.

Everyone in the crowd was running away from the direction of the shot. Li Zechuan walking against that current made him stand out conspicuously. Both Song Qiyuan and Wen Xia spotted him at the same time.

Song Qiyuan’s eyes were on Wen Xia, but his gun was trained on Li Zechuan. He said something that Wen Xia couldn’t hear over the noise — yet she miraculously read his lips and understood.

Song Qiyuan had said: I want to see whether justice can truly protect you — whether it makes you bulletproof.

Li Zechuan had spent years living on a knife’s edge and had sharpened instincts because of it. He sensed the danger immediately. He spotted the dark gun barrel hidden among the crowd, and Song Qiyuan’s provocative expression. Before he could make any move at all, another figure broke into his line of sight — stepping in front of him without a moment’s hesitation.

Li Zechuan caught that faint, familiar fragrance again. Soft. Gentle.

It was Wen Xia’s scent.

That foolish girl was trying to shield him from the bullet.

This was the second time. The second time, in the face of peril, she had been willing to stake her own life — just so that he might live.

God entrusts the peace of this world to you; you entrust yourself to me — let me protect you.

What a thoroughly, completely foolish girl!

“Get down!”

Li Zechuan felt a burning sensation around his eyes. He roared and lunged at Wen Xia, throwing his arms around her and rolling them both to the side of the street, pinning her beneath him. A bullet embedded itself less than two feet from where Li Zechuan had been standing; the ricochet screamed past his ear and left a searing line of blood across his earlobe.

Li Zechuan had her held fast beneath him. The instant the shot rang out, only one thought moved through her mind — If I cannot save you, then let this bullet take us both.

All around, piercing screams filled the air. Ordinary people who had never seen gunfire were terrified beyond reason. Song Qiyuan used the cover of the crowd to vanish quickly. By the time Li Zechuan went after him, he was long gone.

From behind him, Wen Xia said: “I know where their hideout is. I’ll take you there.”

The police arrived quickly and worked efficiently, sealing off the scene and setting up checkpoints along the street. Wen Xia led Li Zechuan and two officers to Song Qiyuan’s hideout. Along the way, Wen Xia briefly described everything that had happened since her abduction — from the moment she vanished from the hospital, through the eighteen hours that followed, until Li Zechuan found her.

When she recounted the moment Song Qiyuan killed “Scarface,” Wen Xia’s face went a little pale, though her tone remained calm. Li Zechuan’s fingertips trembled involuntarily. For the first time, he reached out and took Wen Xia’s hand of his own accord — fingers interlaced, holding tight.

The two of them sat side by side in the back of the police car. Wen Xia turned to look at him. Their eyes met. Li Zechuan’s gaze held both depth and a shadow of something dim. He said very softly: “I’m sorry.”

Wen Xia smiled a little and said lightly: “I left a recording pen in the Dongfeng off-road vehicle. Did you listen to what was on it? I don’t regret coming here, and I don’t regret liking you — so you don’t need to apologize to me.”

Wen Xia’s eyes were clear and transparent. Li Zechuan seemed, in a daze, to hear the sound of his heart tearing open.

There was a girl who had carved her name into his heart in the most brave and fearless way. Even when he was reduced to dust, he would remember that name — because she was in his heart.

How could he not be moved? How could he not like her?

But Wen Xia, you should know — I am not the right man for you. I have a past that cannot be spoken of in any detail.

Li Zechuan closed his eyes under Wen Xia’s gaze, as if utterly exhausted.

The officer driving sighed. “It’s a good thing Da Chuan got there in time. Otherwise, young lady, you would have been in real danger. That whole group is wanted — they’re all desperate men with nothing to lose.”

Wen Xia smiled slightly and said nothing more.

The Tibetan-style residence had its wooden door firmly locked. Li Zechuan flicked off the safety on his pistol and kicked the door in, taking the lead. The two officers surged in behind him and swept quickly through the watchtower. Just as Wen Xia had said, “Scarface’s” body lay in the ground-floor livestock pen. On the second floor, several bear paws and the heads of wild yaks were stacked in a pile. The officers also pulled another body from the well in the courtyard — a boy of six or seven, a bullet wound to the head, killed with a single shot.

Beyond that, not a single clue had been left behind.

Even the van abandoned at the scene had been stolen — there was nothing to trace.

The officers were so enraged their eyes went red. One of them cursed through gritted teeth: “Animals, every last one of them!”

The livestock pen was dimly lit. A rope as thick as a finger hung down from the roof beam, its end stained with fresh blood. Li Zechuan studied the rope and said quietly: “It looks like someone was tortured here.”

“It was Song Qiyuan,” Wen Xia said. “He was strung up in here — apparently for not following orders.”

Li Zechuan narrowed his eyes and fell into deep thought.

Kidnapping, murder — a criminal case. The local criminal investigation brigade took over swiftly, and forensic technicians arrived with their equipment to examine the scene. Li Zechuan and Wen Xia returned to the criminal investigation unit to give their statements. A female officer brought Wen Xia for a medical examination. When she removed her clothing, she felt a sharp pain in her back and only then remembered that “Scarface” had broken a club across her back.

Before attending to her own injury, Wen Xia turned and took the female officer’s hand, saying earnestly: “Those people were also holding three children — two boys and a girl. Their situation is extremely dangerous. Please, you have to find them.”

The female officer said yes and urged Wen Xia to take care, answering with genuine sincerity: “Don’t worry.”

Quma Zhen was not too far from the protection station, and Li Zechuan’s name was well known — most of the local police officers in the town recognized him. Li Zechuan exchanged a few words with the inspector in charge of the case. When the inspector shook his hand, he held on for a long time, a note of deep respect in his grip.

Iron-boned men, in the prime of their lives — all of it given to the protection zone, to that land of bitter cold.

They were hardened fighters forged from pure conviction — using sharpness to resist violence, using justice to straighten their spines. Their eyes were their banners: never surrendering, never giving up.

Li Zechuan only smiled and said with quiet courtesy: “It’s what I should do.”

After her examination, Wen Xia was brought by the female officer to the reception room and told to rest for a while. When Li Zechuan pushed open the door and came in, Wen Xia was curled up in a corner — arms around her knees, knees drawn to her chest. It was the posture of someone protecting themselves.

Li Zechuan frowned and crossed the room quickly, pulling her to her feet. “Why are you sitting on the floor? You’ll catch a chill.”

Wen Xia looked up at him. Her eyes and voice were both damp with something unshed. She said: “Is it all over?”

“It’s over.” Li Zechuan gently cupped her face, his fingertip lifting aside the hair clinging to her ear. He said softly: “I’m here. No one will hurt you anymore. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Wen Xia sniffled, her voice small and light: “Then take me somewhere without anyone around. I need to cry a little.”

In front of bad people, I didn’t even dare to cry — I had to grit my teeth and hold on. Now I’m safe, there are no more bad people. Let me cry just a little, just a tiny bit — can I?

Li Zechuan put his arms around Wen Xia. He unzipped his coat and gathered her inside it, his voice laced with a quiet, gentle ache. He said: “I’ll take you away.”

Wen Xia buried her face in Li Zechuan’s chest. She heard his heartbeat — thunderous, exactly as she remembered it. Her voice was thick with tears. She said: “I want to remember today. So many things, I need to remember them…”

(3)

Ke Lie was still out with the traffic police, manning checkpoints along the road to intercept the fugitives led by Song Qiyuan. Li Zechuan decided to stay the night in Quma Zhen and set out the following morning to return to Suonan Baohuzhan.

While Wen Xia was giving her statement, Li Zechuan got through to Ke Lie once. Over the phone, the howling wind came through the receiver. Ke Lie said: “I heard a child died too — only six or seven years old?”

Li Zechuan said yes. “Nie Xiaolin has a habit of taking in orphans, brainwashing them, and raising them into loyal subordinates. The obedient ones get fed. The disobedient ones get a death sentence.”

Ke Lie’s voice was colder than the wind itself. He said with crisp, clean resolve: “Give me a little more time. I will catch these animals with my own hands.”

Ke Lie was also an orphan. He had drifted on the streets for a while before being placed in an orphanage. So he knew how hard the life of an orphan was. That understanding which goes bone-deep — the kind that comes from having lived it yourself.

Li Zechuan sighed and reminded him to stay safe.

Just as dusk was beginning to settle, the two of them checked into a small guesthouse. It was a Tibetan-style place — ancient thangkas and carved woodwork visible at every turn, with a weight of deep tradition about it.

The owner was a woman, somewhere in her thirties. The wind and sun of the high plateau had roughened her skin, and her hands and feet were broad and strong as a man’s — but her eyes were kind.

Li Zechuan handed over both their identity cards and said: “Two rooms—”

Before he could finish, Wen Xia cut in quickly: “One room is enough.”

The innkeeper glanced at Wen Xia. “We have a king-sized standard room and a twin standard room. Which would you like?”

This time Li Zechuan didn’t speak. He turned his head and looked at Wen Xia, gesturing for her to choose.

Wen Xia’s face flushed slightly. She sniffled and said: “The king-size will do.” After a moment’s thought, she tacked on a clumsy excuse: “It’s quite cold, so it’s warmer to huddle together.”

Li Zechuan couldn’t help but smile. This girl — really something else.

Neither of them had any clothes to change into. Li Zechuan told Wen Xia to go in and shower first while he went to find a place to buy two sets of clothing.

Wen Xia had gone up a couple of steps along the wooden staircase when she came back down again, hooking her arm around Li Zechuan’s neck and drawing very close to him. She murmured near his ear: “Remember my measurements. Don’t get them wrong.”

Her warm breath fell on his earlobe as she spoke, soft and ticklish. Li Zechuan smiled despite himself, something involuntarily tender lighting up in his eyes.

Years behind the lens as a portrait photographer had given Li Zechuan a refined eye and excellent taste in clothing. The small town had only one shopping center, however, and the styles leaned rather dated — not much to choose from. He himself wasn’t particular; as long as it was comfortable and wearable, that would do. When it came to Wen Xia, he put in more thought. He found a salesclerk whose figure resembled Wen Xia’s and, guided by her suggestions, chose a sweater, a down jacket, and a pair of trousers.

Li Zechuan was blessed with good looks. Even wrapped in a coating of dust and road wear, his handsomeness was impossible to conceal.

He had single-fold eyelids sharp as a blade’s edge, eyebrows slightly fading at the tail end, and the height of his nose bridge was precisely right — it defined the entire structure of his face.

It was already past the end of the shift, but the salesclerk showed no sign of hurrying away. She volunteered: “You said your friend has a similar figure to mine — why don’t I try it on so you can see how it looks?”

Li Zechuan looked up at her and smiled. “I’d appreciate that.”

The shopping center light was soft and warm, and it made that smile look especially striking.

The men of this region spent their days battling wind and sand — most of them were rough-hewn, dark-skinned, and powerfully built. One with Li Zechuan’s kind of looks — handsome in a way that concealed an underlying edge — was a rarity here.

The salesclerk couldn’t resist adding: “You seem like someone who takes good care of people. Being your girlfriend must be pretty wonderful…”

Li Zechuan was quiet for a long moment, then gave a rueful smile.

When Li Zechuan returned to the guesthouse carrying two sets of clothes, Wen Xia had already bathed and was standing before the mirror, blowing out her hair. She was wrapped in nothing but a white bath towel — her slender shoulders and thin calves exposed, her skin a luminous, pearl-like white.

Li Zechuan felt an inexplicable dryness in his throat. He came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. “The clothes are back—”

Wen Xia shrieked, stumbled backward, and flung the hair dryer at him.

Li Zechuan instinctively dodged to the side. The hair dryer hit the floor, its plastic casing cracking on impact.

Wen Xia’s face had gone completely white; her eyes were full of shock and fear. She hugged her own shoulders, trembling, before she finally managed to say: “I’m sorry — you spoke so suddenly, it startled me. I—”

“Not startled — post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD.” Li Zechuan picked up the hair dryer and set it and the shopping bag on the nightstand. He said quietly: “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I have to say it — go home. This is not a place you should be. You’ve only been at the protection station for a few days, and you’ve already come close to death twice. Life is precious. Don’t sacrifice it for someone who’s not worth it.”

“If you know I don’t want to hear it, then don’t say things like that!” Wen Xia almost shouted. She closed her eyes for a moment. Tears fell — cold against her skin. Her words and her tears tangled together, blurring into one. “You know I like you, but you don’t know how much. You disappeared without a word, and I searched every place you might have gone. The racing circuit, the archery club, the school, the hospital… Someone said Guan Feng might know something — I went to see him…”

“I warned you a long time ago to stay away from Guan Feng!” Li Zechuan’s expression shifted sharply. He seized Wen Xia’s wrist. “That man is a lunatic. What did you go to him for?!”

“What does it matter if he’s a lunatic — as long as I could get news of you, I wasn’t afraid of anything!”

Li Zechuan was almost pushed to the brink of tears. He asked softly: “Did Guan Feng hurt you? Tell me — what did he do to you?”

The second time Wen Xia walked into Sparrow was on a rainy night. She came in soaked from head to toe, her eyes full of an unyielding stubbornness.

It was still early, and the bar had few customers. Guan Feng was leaning against the bar counter, a cigar held between his fingers, the way he held it carrying a certain elegant quality.

Wen Xia walked straight up to Guan Feng. He narrowed his eyes, studied her for a moment, then smiled. “I remember you. Da Chuan got into a fight in my bar over you. Hard to forget.”

“My name is Wen Xia — Wen as in warmth, Xia as in summer.” Wen Xia gathered back her half-wet hair. “Perhaps you haven’t heard my name, but you must know my brother. He’s called Wen’er — COO of Yuanyang Group.”

Yuanyang Group’s business covered commercial real estate and high-end hotels. It was well-established and well-regarded in the local area — one of the top enterprises in the city.

By invoking Wen’er’s name, Wen Xia also intended a subtle warning — to give Guan Feng reason to think twice before playing games with her. After all, Li Zechuan had warned her: Guan Feng was not a good person.

Guan Feng raised an eyebrow.

Before he could speak, Wen Xia continued: “The ‘Da Chuan’ you mentioned — that is, Li Zechuan — is a friend of mine. I’ve been unable to reach him lately, and I wanted to ask whether you have any news of him.”

“Miss Wen must have run out of other options before coming to me.” Guan Feng watched her with a half-smiling expression. “But I run a bar, not a missing persons bureau. You march in here stiff as a board — you don’t exactly look like someone who’s here to ask for a favor.”

Wen Xia said expressionlessly: “My mind doesn’t bend easily. Don’t make it hard for me. Just tell me plainly — what do I have to do before you’ll give me information about Li Zechuan?”

Guan Feng smiled slightly and said: “Well, if you come to a bar, you should drink. Why don’t you have a drink with me first, Miss Wen? Maybe it’ll help me remember something.”

He tapped lightly on the bar counter with a bent finger and said to the bartender: “Pour Miss Wen a drink.”

The bartender, seeing that Wen Xia was a young woman, instinctively reached for a fruit wine with lower alcohol content. Guan Feng picked up the glass and threw it in the bartender’s face, snapping: “This is the young lady of Yuanyang Group — and you’re giving her this?”

The bartender took the hint immediately and opened a bottle of vodka. This time Guan Feng didn’t even bother with a glass — he shoved the bottle directly into Wen Xia’s arms and said with a pleasant smile: “Please, Miss Wen. Let me see just how sincere you are.”

Vodka was like fire going down — not bitter, not harsh, just burning. Wen Xia drank down half the bottle in one breath, choking so hard that her eyes went red. Her internal organs seemed to ignite all at once. She looked at Guan Feng, her expression still utterly flat. “Is that enough sincerity for you?”

Guan Feng pointed the hand holding the cigar at the bottle. “It’s not finished. That doesn’t count as wholehearted.”

Wen Xia bit down and tipped her head back, pouring down the remaining half.

The few people in the bar had all turned to watch — watching that young woman force down an entire bottle of strong liquor as if she were punishing herself.

The spirits poured into her stomach; the burning sensation followed her bloodstream through her entire body. Wen Xia steadied herself to keep from collapsing. “Now can you tell me where Li Zechuan has gone?”

“Let me think,” Guan Feng said, rubbing his temple in an exaggerated show of trying to recall. “His mother passed away — suicide — and he was in low spirits. He wanted to find a place far from everyone he knew, to clear his head. He mentioned to me once a place he’d been longing to go for a long time. What was it called again?”

Guan Feng paused deliberately, smiling and glancing over at Wen Xia.

Wen Xia waved at the bartender. “Another bottle of vodka.”

By the time the second bottle of vodka was down, the sensation in her stomach was beyond heat — it was pain. A deep, bone-gnawing pain. Wen Xia nearly blacked out from the coughing. She just barely steadied her breathing and said: “Have you remembered the name of that place yet?”

Guan Feng smiled wickedly, dragging out his words: “I do apologize — I think I was mistaken. Da Chuan never told me where he was going. But it wouldn’t be right to let Miss Wen come all this way for nothing. The drinks are on me — don’t worry about paying.”

The onlookers burst into laughter all at once, and the bar filled with noise.

Wen Xia didn’t get angry. She didn’t lose her temper. She didn’t even spare Guan Feng another glance — she just lurched and stumbled her way toward the bar’s main entrance.

Guan Feng suddenly called out after her: “I used to live in the apartment above Li Zechuan. I know quite a bit about him.”

Wen Xia stopped in her tracks. She didn’t turn around. She stood and listened quietly.

Guan Feng continued: “His mother was a lunatic, his father had a violent streak — Li Zechuan is the offspring of two monsters. Don’t let his composed appearance fool you. Sooner or later, he’ll become just like his parents — an uncontrollable madman. I’d advise you to keep your distance.”

Wen Xia curled her fingers into a fist, restraining the urge to wheel around and punch him. She said calmly: “Whether he’s a madman, I don’t know. What I do know is that he has never spoken ill of anyone behind their backs, and he has never toyed with people for amusement. Even if he were a madman, he would be a good person among madmen. On that measure, it seems you still fall short of a madman.”

After Wen Xia walked out through the doors of Sparrow, she called an ambulance. Those two bottles of spirits kept her bedridden in the hospital for seven days.

(4)

Wen Xia said she had spent seven days in the hospital, surviving on broth that tasted unbearable, and had lost four or five pounds because of it. Li Zechuan’s fingers moved without his thinking, tilting up Wen Xia’s chin.

Only the distance of a sheet of paper lay between them. Their breath mingled; the lamplight cast soft, hazy shadows; everything before them felt unreal.

The room was perfectly quiet. Wen Xia’s eyes still held the lingering dampness of tears. She looked up at Li Zechuan with a pitiful expression and said softly: “You see, I’ve done so much for you. It’s only fair — shouldn’t you kiss me?”

Li Zechuan’s eyes held the light of countless stars. He turned his head, drew close — slowly, unhurriedly — and kissed her.

Wen Xia startled at the kiss. Then, an instant later, the tip of her tongue touched the faint taste of tobacco.

The world seemed to lose all sound. In the perfect silence, each other’s presence was the only thing that existed.

Wen Xia closed her eyes. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and fell onto the back of Li Zechuan’s hand, breaking open into a tiny watery mark.

When Li Zechuan came out of the bathroom after his shower, Wen Xia had already burrowed under the covers, her eyes closed. Her lashes were black and thick; her small, palm-sized face was nestled in the white bedding — like a little princess from a fairy tale.

Li Zechuan found himself looking for a moment longer than necessary, the corner of his mouth curving upward in a soft, indulgent smile.

He hadn’t dried his hair. His close-cropped black hair was still damp, making his clean brows and bright eyes stand out all the more sharply. He bent down and carefully extracted one of the pillows from beside Wen Xia, then tossed it on the floor, intending to make himself a bed there for the night.

Wen Xia suddenly reached out and threw her arms around his waist, resting her chin against his side, peering up at him with bright, shining eyes: “The floor is cold. Aren’t you afraid of freezing?”

Li Zechuan pressed his hand to her forehead and pushed her back. “Go to sleep. We have to be up early tomorrow.”

Wen Xia sat up in the blankets, frowning, her expression reproachful: “My PTSD isn’t better yet — you can’t just ignore me!”

Li Zechuan stood by the bed and looked at her. Their eyes met across the space between them — hers clear and transparent, his deep and still.

After a long moment, Li Zechuan gave in. “No trouble-making.”

Wen Xia smiled and scooted over, freeing up half the bed for Li Zechuan.

Sharing a bed inevitably meant accidental contact. Wen Xia’s movements as she turned over were enormous. Eventually she rolled directly into Li Zechuan’s arms, took his shoulder for a pillow, gave it a couple of adjusting nudges as though finding the right height, and said with satisfaction: “Mm. That’s more comfortable.”

Li Zechuan smiled helplessly, simply drew her close, and drifted off into peaceful sleep.

The blackout curtains were too effective. They slept straight through until the light of a full morning.

Li Zechuan woke first. Half his body was pinned under Wen Xia, completely numb.

They had known each other for some time, but this was the first time he had looked at her — truly, quietly, with full attention. Wen Xia had beautiful skin, fine and porcelain-smooth, clean and clear. Her lips were a lovely cherry-red. She had no piercings; her earlobes were thin and delicate, and in the slanting sunlight they became faintly translucent.

Li Zechuan looked at her for a while, then leaned in and pressed his lips to her earlobe.

The lightest of touches — like a deer bending to kiss a stream.

Wen Xia woke with the kiss, still half-lost in sleep, mumbling incoherently that she was thirsty and needed water.

Li Zechuan held her with one arm and stretched the other out to reach the cup on the nightstand. As his arm extended, his chest rose with a lean, angular line of muscle, carrying something wild and untamed in its suggestion.

Wen Xia leaned against Li Zechuan and sipped the water from the cup he held. The water had been sitting on the table all night — cool and refreshing — and it woke her up completely. She raised her head, studied Li Zechuan for a long moment, and then suddenly broke into a smile. Her eyes and the corners of her lips curved upward at the same time, radiant with happiness. She said: “I woke up, and you’re still here. That means this isn’t a dream. How wonderful.”

Sunlight came flooding in — golden, bright as fresh snow. Li Zechuan couldn’t see his own eyes; he didn’t know how much tenderness was in them at that moment.

Wen Xia changed into the clothes Li Zechuan had bought. They fit well — especially the white twill sweater, which, paired with her dark, round eyes, made her look pure and endearing.

Li Zechuan favored combat boots and trench coats — his was a naval-style double-breasted cut, the hem falling to the knee, giving him a look of strong, concentrated presence, his silhouette straight and firm. Standing side by side, the two of them were a striking sight.

When they checked out, the innkeeper couldn’t help but look them over more than once, and said with a smile: “All the good looks in the world seem to have gathered in my guesthouse. I don’t even know which one to compliment first.”

The two of them checked out and went for lamb intestine noodles. Sliced lamb intestine in broth simmered low and slow, with diced carrot on the bottom, scallions, ginger slices, and chili pepper floating on top — a big, steaming, fiery bowl. Wen Xia was genuinely hungry; she ate without lifting her head.

Li Zechuan peeled a boiled egg and set it in her bowl, smiling. “Slow down. Mind the heat.”

Wen Xia looked up from her noodle bowl and studied Li Zechuan for a serious moment. “Give as good as you get,” she said. “I can’t just take from you without giving back.”

Li Zechuan sat across from her, smiling as he spoke: “What, are you going to treat me to a ten-yuan bowl of noodles in return?”

“No, no.” Wen Xia shook her head, still looking at him. “Marriage registration photos cost ten yuan apiece — exactly the same. Think it over — come take photos with me and register. My treat!”

The server clearing the neighboring table nearly choked on laughter, and turned to Li Zechuan: “This girl is something else.”

Li Zechuan stood up with an expression of helpless exasperation and pointed toward the door. “Wait for me outside. I’ll go settle the bill.”

Too full, slightly stuffed, Wen Xia bounced up and down a couple of times on the small restaurant’s doorstep. A skinny little dog happened to pass by, startled, and didn’t dare bark — it just made small, timid whimpering sounds.

There was a bun vendor nearby. The buns had thin skin and generous fillings, and smelled wonderful.

Wen Xia bought one, broke open the dough skin to reveal the meat filling, blew on it to cool it down, and set it on the ground. Remembering the joke about ten yuan, she grinned at the little dog and said: “Go ahead — my treat.”

The dog hesitated for a moment, then cautiously walked over and ate with careful, tentative bites.

Stray dogs were mostly wary of people. Wen Xia didn’t reach out to touch it — she just crouched nearby and watched with amused interest. The dog gradually relaxed and began to wag its tail.

The moment was pleasant. Then something flashed through her line of sight — a glowing point of light — and it nearly landed on the little dog. The animal bolted in fright. Wen Xia caught the smell of tobacco, and then she saw clearly what had been tossed: a still-glowing cigarette butt.

Wen Xia turned her head and saw a tall woman. In the north wind at not even ten degrees Celsius, she was wearing stockings and a short skirt; her face was hidden behind sunglasses, expression unclear; her lips were painted a vivid glossy red that made her teeth look brilliantly white.

Wen Xia recognized the shade — Armani 405, popular right now.

The woman noticed Wen Xia looking at her, let out a cold laugh, and muttered “country bumpkin” before turning and walking into the restaurant behind her.

Li Zechuan came out of the small noodle shop at that exact moment and called Wen Xia’s name. Wen Xia didn’t answer. She bent down, picked up the cigarette butt the woman in the short skirt had thrown, and dropped it in the trash can.

Li Zechuan glanced at her. She struck a Popeye pose and declared: “Doing our part for the environment — teacher will give me a gold star!”

Li Zechuan laughed. “If teacher doesn’t reward you, I will.”

The Humvee was running a bit low on fuel. Li Zechuan stopped at a petrol station to fill up. Wen Xia went into a nearby convenience store and bought some biscuits and water to eat on the road. On the shelf right beside the checkout counter was a row of small, colorfully packaged boxes. Something moved her — on an inexplicable impulse — to pick one up and tuck it in with the biscuits when she paid.

The two of them set off again. Wen Xia sat in the passenger seat. As Li Zechuan started the engine, he caught sight of the bag of snacks in her arms and said: “Do you have any mint?”

Wen Xia unwrapped a stick of mint-flavored gum and held it out to him. Li Zechuan leaned forward and took it with his lips, their edges grazing Wen Xia’s fingertips — a faint coolness. Wen Xia felt her heartbeat stumble. She said: “Wait a moment.”

Li Zechuan released the accelerator and looked at her: “What is it?”

Wen Xia leaned over and kissed him on the lips: “The gum isn’t free either.”

Li Zechuan pressed his lips together, silent for a moment, then smiled.

The vehicle turned onto the national highway right at noon. The sunlight was fierce. The vast wilderness stretched out endlessly before them, the dry yellow grass like a rolling, drifting sea. Every now and then, a herd of Tibetan wild donkeys could be seen dashing across the plain, their hooves making faint, scattered sounds.

The sky was high and blue, and the birds were far, far away.

The window was half-lowered, the wind rushing in with a roar. Wen Xia stretched her hand out, and the sunlight fractured through her fingers into shapes of all kinds.

Wen Xia said: “During the time I had no news of you, I went to Africa once with a civilian volunteer rescue team. I saw a rhinoceros lying on the savanna with its horn cut off, blood soaking the ground around it — a devastating sight. When we were trying to save it, it kept shedding tears. We only learned afterward that it was a pregnant female rhino. It went through twelve surgeries before it survived, but its baby wasn’t so fortunate.”

She paused here for quite a while. Through the window, she looked out at the towering silhouette of Mount Kunlun — the vast wilderness stretching in all directions, the snowcapped mountains sprawling just as vast.

Wen Xia continued: “An elder on the team said that in order to prevent poachers from killing rhinos for their horns, some staff at certain reserves grind the horns flat to preserve the animals’ lives. They were here on this blue planet first — they are this planet’s rightful inhabitants. Human beings are merely lodgers who have taken up residence. And we haven’t the faintest trace of the courtesy or self-awareness that lodgers ought to have.”

Li Zechuan gazed at the horizon. In his line of sight there was an eagle, wings spread at tremendous height. He said: “Some people raise their swords to kill. Others raise them to protect. To be among the latter — that is an honor.”

“So don’t send me away again. Let me stay.” Wen Xia turned quickly to face him, her voice firm. “This planet has already endured too much harm. It needs more people to stand up and protect it.”

Li Zechuan was quiet for a moment, then nodded amid a sigh.

Wen Xia allowed herself a small smile. “I lay on the savanna in South Africa and read Karen Blixen’s Out of Africa all the way through. There’s a line in it that goes—”

“I had come to the good place,” Li Zechuan suddenly spoke, reciting the words from that book. “This is where I ought to be.”

Wen Xia glanced at him with mild surprise, then smiled again, her voice soft: “So you’ve read it too.”

Li Zechuan said nothing. He turned his head, and in the half-lowered car window, his eyes were reflected — holding a trace of a quiet, easy smile.

Sometimes, the two of them were really, remarkably in tune.