(1)

As they passed through a particularly bumpy stretch of road, Wen Xia spotted a dark blue car parked along the side of the national highway, its hood propped open — it had clearly broken down. A man in a softshell jacket stood beside it, his back to the road, head bent as he fiddled with the engine.

Li Zechuan drove up and stopped behind the man, asking: “Need any help?”

The man in the softshell jacket turned at the sound of the voice. His features were unremarkable — a hooked nose, a somewhat harsh look about him. He stared at Li Zechuan for a good long while. Li Zechuan held his gaze as he stepped out of the car, unhurriedly removed the windproof goggles from the bridge of his nose, extended his hand, and said evenly: “Long time no see, Cheng Fei.”

Wen Xia followed Li Zechuan out of the car. When she heard the name “Cheng Fei,” the hand she’d been using to close the car door paused mid-motion.

Cheng Fei. Such a familiar name — where had she heard it?

Cheng Fei straightened up, his expression stiffening. He gripped the offered hand and forced a smile. “Indeed. Long time no see.”

Another car door sounded, and a woman stepped down from Cheng Fei’s vehicle. She was very tall, with deep coffee-brown wavy curls, her figure’s curves accentuated by a white low-cut fitted top.

The moment Wen Xia saw the woman’s face clearly, her eyes narrowed. Wasn’t this the woman wearing Armani lip gloss — the one who had burned a puppy with a cigarette outside that small noodle shop?

The world really was small.

The woman had one hand in her pocket and the other propped against the car roof. She smiled at Li Zechuan across the deep blue hood and said: “Magnus, what a coincidence — running into you here.”

Wen Xia was momentarily startled and blurted out: “You two know each other?”

Li Zechuan didn’t answer, nor did he spare the woman more than a glance. He walked straight to the front of the car and said to Cheng Fei: “What’s the problem?”

Cheng Fei said: “Seems to be the fuel line — it’s not feeding properly.”

Li Zechuan rolled up his sleeves, reached in and felt around for a moment, then went to open the Hummer’s boot to retrieve tools.

Cheng Fei stood to one side with an embarrassed smile. “Officer Li really is a natural Good Samaritan. If there were any unpleasantness before, don’t take it to heart.”

That remark triggered Wen Xia’s memory, and she finally connected the face to the name.

Lian Kai had once mentioned that during a patrol into the mountains, a volunteer had ignored orders and wandered off on his own, stumbling into a wolf pack. Li Zechuan had gone to draw the wolves’ attention in order to save him, but the man had thrown Li Zechuan to the wolves and run off himself — nearly leaving Li Zechuan to be torn apart.

That volunteer had been named Cheng Fei.

On Li Zechuan’s behalf, Wen Xia aimed a cutting remark at Cheng Fei: “Officer Li isn’t just kind-hearted — he’s so kind-hearted it borders on excess. He doesn’t just save human lives; he even saves ungrateful wretches!”

Cheng Fei said nothing. The tall woman, however, turned her head at the comment and looked Wen Xia over frankly before extending her hand. “Fang Wenqing. Journalist. I’m here to do a follow-up report at Suonan Baohuzhan. Cheng Fei is my assistant. Since you’re with Officer Li, you must also be a staff member at the station — we’ll have plenty of opportunities to work together. I hope our collaboration will be a pleasant one.”

Wen Xia checked both of their credentials. At that moment, Li Zechuan called out: “Hand me the wrench.”

Wen Xia went straight over to help him, leaving Fang Wenqing standing there ignored.

The car was fixed quickly, though Li Zechuan’s hands were filthy all over. Wen Xia unscrewed a bottle of mineral water and let him rinse them off. Cheng Fei pulled out a cigarette box and offered one; Li Zechuan waved it away and said: “If you’re also heading to Suonan Baohuzhan, you can follow behind my vehicle. Your brake pads are running hot — keep an eye on that.”

Cheng Fei nodded repeatedly. Li Zechuan walked past Fang Wenqing toward the Hummer’s door. She suddenly reached out and stopped him, deliberately lowering her voice, a smile playing at the corners of her lips: “Handsome, don’t you really remember me? At that bar in Xining, you and I—”

“Sister, lean in any closer and your lipstick is going to smear across the handsome gentleman’s face.” Wen Xia was leaning against the car door, her tone cool as she raised a finger toward the distant sky. “A storm is coming. Would you rather keep flirting, or would you rather get a move on?”

Everyone looked in that direction at once. At the very edge of the sky hung an eerie black line, dark clouds pressing down in dense, layered formations like an ink-wash painting rendered with too heavy a hand.

The Hummer set off in front, Li Zechuan starting the engine first. Wen Xia settled into the front passenger seat. She glanced at him through the rear-view mirror and said: “An ex-girlfriend? Nice figure.”

From the corner of his eye, Li Zechuan caught Fang Wenqing craning to peer into the Hummer’s cabin. He reached out and cupped the back of Wen Xia’s head, pulling her close to him, then kissed her firmly on the lips before murmuring: “Don’t let your jealousy run wild. There are life-threatening dangers everywhere out here — there’s no room for recklessness.”

Wen Xia cradled Li Zechuan’s face in her hands, eyes locked on his, and said: “I won’t be reckless, and I won’t lose my temper over nothing. I just need you to tell me clearly — Li Zechuan, what are we to each other?”

The sunlight was intense, the same color as the light in his eyes. There on the boundless wasteland, enclosed within the narrow space of the car cabin, he looked into Wen Xia’s eyes and said, word by deliberate word: “You are the person who has taught me what it means to be afraid. Afraid of dying. Afraid of accidents. Afraid of being hurt. Afraid of never coming back. Faith made me fearless; you have made me soft again.”

You have taught me what it means to be afraid.

This was the second time Wen Xia had heard those words from Li Zechuan’s lips. The first time, they had not yet parted — they were still students.

It had been late at night when Wen Xia received a phone call from her best friend Tao Qianqian. That wild girl had been hollering into the receiver at the top of her lungs: “Xia Xia, come to Zhao Family Well right now — your idol is absolutely blazing!”

Wen Xia had only one idol, and that was Li Zechuan. And anything that could make Tao Qianqian jump with this kind of excitement was definitely not something wholesome. A chill ran down Wen Xia’s spine; she threw on a coat and ran out the door.

Zhao Family Well was on the outskirts of the city. It had once been an urban village — chaotic, home to all sorts of people. Later there had been a clean-up: some buildings demolished, some residents relocated. The construction project had halted halfway through for unknown reasons, leaving the place as an abandoned village.

Zhao Family Well covered a considerable area. A crowd had gathered at the bend of the loop road alongside a line of motorcycles, all headlights blazing, engines revving in a deafening roar, the noise carrying for miles.

Wen Xia pointed toward the loudest part of the crowd and told the taxi driver: “Stop right there, sir.”

The driver looked at her and said: “Young lady, you seem like a decent kid from the look of you — don’t get mixed up with those delinquents. They’ll throw their lives away for a street race. They’re absolutely out of their minds!”

Wen Xia sighed. “I’m here to stop them from throwing their lives away.”

It was late September, the weather slightly cool, yet Tao Qianqian was still wearing hot pants and an off-shoulder crop top. She grabbed Wen Xia’s wrist and pulled her toward the front of the crowd, giving a jumbled running commentary: “We were at an open-air barbecue stall when somehow we got into an argument with some bleached-blond guys from the sports school next door. They said fighting was too tame, so they came here to play ‘Flaming Mountain.'”

Wen Xia had just opened her mouth to ask what “Flaming Mountain” was when a vivid tongue of flame ignited on the auxiliary road.

The loop road radiated outward: using the closed circular ring as its hub, four auxiliary roads branched off in different directions, one leading straight to an abandoned factory. On the auxiliary road leading to that factory, someone had poured a line of gasoline straight across the full width of the road, then struck a match and tossed it. Flames half a person’s height leapt up in an instant, the heat washing over everything.

Tao Qianqian said: “The rules are dead simple — it’s all about speed. Whoever passes through the fire line first wins!”

The auxiliary road was fairly long, with three turns in total. The last bend was less than a hundred meters from the fire line soaked in gasoline. At that distance, once you failed to build up speed, if the motorcycle went through the fire line too slowly, the fuel tank could explode — turning rider and bike into a fireball in an instant.

This wasn’t a Flaming Mountain — this was a death line!

Motorcycles, fire, gasoline — people could die!

These were absolute lunatics!

Wen Xia’s back was drenched in cold sweat. She had no time to scold Tao Qianqian for being an eager spectator; gripping her wrist, she asked urgently: “Where’s Li Zechuan? Is he involved?”

“Involved?” Tao Qianqian shrieked. “Your idol is the one who came up with this idea! He said fighting was beneath him and suggested doing something more thrilling instead!”

Wen Xia looked in the direction Tao Qianqian was pointing and spotted Li Zechuan standing beside a black motorcycle, holding his helmet by the strap. He had not a single piece of protective gear on his body — only a pair of brightly patterned racing gloves. Someone had leaned in to light a cigarette for him; he hadn’t refused, and exhaled a lazy smoke ring with the wind.

Wen Xia, seething, shook off Tao Qianqian’s hand and strode over. She planted herself in front of Li Zechuan, eyes blazing: “Have you lost your mind? What could possibly be worth gambling your life over?!”

The riders gathered nearby saw Wen Xia approach and hit their horns a couple of times, calling out with a laugh: “What’s the occasion today? First time I’ve ever seen Dachuan bring a girlfriend!”

Li Zechuan didn’t even look at her, eyes down as he adjusted his gloves. “My business. What gives you the right to interfere?”

“I like you, so I refuse to stand by and watch you harm your own body and life.” Wen Xia’s expression was completely serious as she grabbed his arm. “Come home with me!”

Someone let out a whistle, laughing: “Not a girlfriend — a live-in nanny! Little lady, want to stick around and play with me instead? It’s a lot of fun!”

“As if I’d want to play with any of you!” Wen Xia was fuming. “I’m calling the police!”

At those words, the crowd around her laughed. Someone standing at the starting line signaled with a raised arm that the race was about to begin.

Li Zechuan and a young man with bleached yellow hair both swung onto their bikes.

“Yellow Hair” shot Li Zechuan a sidelong glance. “Back out now if you’re scared — there’s still time.”

Li Zechuan let out a short laugh, revved the engine, and said with contempt: “I’ll hand those exact words right back to you.”

Watching Li Zechuan’s bike about to lunge forward, Wen Xia panicked. She seized his arm: “I don’t care — I simply will not let you do something this dangerous!”

Li Zechuan nearly got yanked off the bike by her. He grabbed the handlebars to steady himself, scowling: “What exactly are you to me? What right do you have to manage me?”

(2)

Wen Xia lifted her chin at him with a stubborn, unyielding expression. “Even if I’m just an ordinary classmate of yours, I can’t stand by and watch you risk your life. Get off the bike! I really will call the police!”

“Yellow Hair” was growing impatient and clicked his tongue. “Li Zechuan, why don’t you just ride through with your girlfriend? Born on different days, die on the same day — a couple chargrilled side by side. Quite touching, really.”

Li Zechuan kicked “Yellow Hair’s” motorcycle and snapped: “No one’s going to think you’re mute just because you keep your mouth shut!”

“Yellow Hair” swore and reached out to grab Li Zechuan by the collar. At that very moment, sirens wailed from beyond the loop road — in the distance, red and blue lights strobed and flashed.

Talk about perfect timing.

The riders gathered around instantly kicked their engines to life and scattered, each fleeing for themselves. The air was suddenly nothing but the roar of revving engines. Li Zechuan reached out, hauled Wen Xia up, and set her on the motorcycle’s back seat, saying curtly: “Hold on!”

Wen Xia wrapped her arms tightly around Li Zechuan’s waist as instructed. The instant the bike launched forward, the wind hit like a wall — and then another engine sound surged from behind. Wen Xia turned her head toward it and saw “Yellow Hair” on his silver-gray Harley.

This guy hadn’t fled. He was giving chase instead.

Clearly not prepared to let things end here.

On the Harley’s back seat sat a passenger, holding a stainless steel baseball bat. “Yellow Hair” accelerated wildly while his companion raised the bat high in the air.

Wen Xia’s heart jumped into her throat, but she didn’t scream — she just bit down on her lip and kept her arms locked around Li Zechuan’s waist.

Through the rear-view mirror, Li Zechuan took in the situation in full. “Yellow Hair’s” bike couldn’t match his speed; the two motorcycles were separated by half a bike’s length. The baseball bat in the companion’s hand couldn’t reach Li Zechuan — growing desperate, the man took aim at Wen Xia’s back and raised the bat to strike.

In a flash, Li Zechuan threw his body low, clamped down hard on the rear brake, and simultaneously opened the throttle to full while releasing the clutch. The tires screeched against the asphalt in a sharp wail, the bike leaning until it was nearly horizontal to the ground, sliding sideways in a ghost-like drift.

The bike was carrying two people; balance gave out quickly. An instant before they went down, Li Zechuan slammed a hard kick into the front frame. The motorcycle launched sideways and flew, colliding into “Yellow Hair’s” Harley with a thunderous crash — both bikes tumbling off the road and plowing into the wild grass below.

On the other side, as they hit the ground, Li Zechuan wrapped himself around Wen Xia, using every limb to shield her head and spine. In the chaos, Wen Xia felt the back of her head slam hard against something, and a clean, sharp crack of bone sliced through the air beside her ear.

The rolling finally stopped. The two of them lay at the roadside. Wen Xia scrambled to Li Zechuan’s side, urgent: “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Li Zechuan lay flat on the asphalt, reaching up with one hand to pull off his helmet, breathing in shallow bursts as he pointed at his left wrist. “Your iron-skull headbutt broke it. Go check if those two are dead first, then call an ambulance.”

Wen Xia bit her lip. “Didn’t you say we were nothing to each other? Why did you save me then?”

Li Zechuan lay there, his voice carrying a note of something like a sigh. “You’re right. I truly regret it — why did I save you.”

Wen Xia looked at him for a moment, then pressed a firm kiss onto his cheek and said: “Have you ever read a wuxia novel? Girls who receive someone’s kindness are always supposed to repay them with their heart. Li Zechuan, from today, you belong to me — you had better be good and do as I say!”

The night sky was reflected in Li Zechuan’s eyes. He didn’t look at Wen Xia and gave no response, his silence carrying a strange quality.

Wen Xia did not know then what a cold and bleak past this man — beautiful almost to the point of unreality — was carrying on his shoulders.

His heart had long been filled to capacity with cold. There was no room left for love.

The ambulance arrived quickly. All four of them were sent to the hospital together. Wen Xia had only minor scrapes. The other three fared considerably worse: one had a fractured wrist, two had leg injuries, and all required hospital admission.

On the way to the operating theatre, Wen Xia walked alongside the gurney, expression taut. “Don’t be scared, all right? It won’t hurt that much. If it gets to be too much, just let yourself cry — I absolutely will not laugh at you. Once the surgery is done, I’ll make you bone broth to drink.”

The nurse helping to push the gurney laughed and said to Li Zechuan: “A girl who genuinely cares for her man is hard to find these days. Young man, you need to treat her well — no more street racing and the like, putting this poor girl through such worry and fear.”

Li Zechuan was about to say she’s not my girlfriend when Wen Xia got there first: “Exactly. Even if he doesn’t think about how scared I am, he could at least think about the child — the little one is still so young.”

The nurse looked at Wen Xia in surprise. “A child already, at your age? Young man, all the more reason you can’t carry on like this — you need to learn to take care of your wife and provide for your family. No more fooling around!”

Li Zechuan looked utterly helpless. The words of protest died in his throat and never made it out.

Li Zechuan’s wrist wasn’t too seriously injured. After four days in hospital with an external plaster cast fitted, he was able to go home and recover. For the entire duration of his stay, Wen Xia came every single day, bringing him a different dish each time: beef bone broth, squab soup, chicken soup, fish soup — she had worked her way through nearly every creature in the food chain capable of being stewed.

The ward was a shared room. Li Zechuan’s roommate was an elderly gentleman who had injured his Achilles tendon doing square dancing. The old man smiled warmly and said: “Young man, your girlfriend is something special. Good-looking, attentive, and knows how to take care of a person. You’re a fortunate soul.”

Li Zechuan was about to say she really is not my girlfriend when the ward door creaked open and Wen Xia came rushing in, hair damp with sweat. “I’ve sorted out your sick leave — fifteen days. The department head says to rest up properly. A photographer’s hands are precious things.”

Li Zechuan blinked. “You went out specially just to apply for my sick leave?”

“Of course.” Wen Xia said. “Skipping class without notice means losing credits — do you not want your degree?”

Li Zechuan had been skipping classes ever since his first year of university — more times than he could count. Sometimes it was for freelance work; sometimes it was because he had drunk until his stomach gave out and couldn’t drag himself out of bed. Never once had anyone been so attentive as to arrange a sick leave note for him; never once had anyone prepared three different broths for him day after day without repeating a single dish.

Time had branded coldness into him, and in doing so had forgotten to give him warmth or love.

Li Zechuan closed his eyes. Meeting Wen Xia — it was truly a destined tribulation.

On the day he was discharged, Wen Xia arrived early. She had collected a whole pile of oral medications and consulted with the orthopedic doctor about all the relevant precautions, categorizing and recording each one in her phone’s notes application — more diligently than any primary school student taking notes.

The doctor told Li Zechuan: “Your girlfriend really cares about you. Remember to treat her well.”

Li Zechuan had given up trying to explain. He walked behind Wen Xia in silence, his arm in a sling.

The two of them flagged down a taxi outside the hospital entrance. Li Zechuan’s hand was inconvenient, so Wen Xia opened the door for him. As she moved, the reddened back of her hand was briefly visible. Li Zechuan acted before his mind caught up — he grabbed her by the wrist, frowning: “What happened to your hand?”

Wen Xia looked a little embarrassed. “I was trying to help when the housekeeper was making the broth, and accidentally got scalded.”

Li Zechuan glanced at her. “Can’t you just order delivery? Why do it yourself?”

“Delivery isn’t nutritious enough,” Wen Xia said quietly, “and it’s too greasy. The doctor said your diet needs to be light, otherwise it won’t be good for the wound healing.”

The driver let out an impatient honk. Li Zechuan’s throat moved. He said nothing more, turned, and got in the car.

Given Li Zechuan’s usual habits, Wen Xia had half-expected to find empty beer bottles scattered across the floor and the charred remains of cigarettes, or perhaps an entire wall covered in Gothic graffiti. But the moment the security door swung open, she found herself staring in mild surprise. The living room furniture was draped in white dust covers; there wasn’t a trace of life anywhere.

Li Zechuan gestured with his hand toward the interior. “Second door on the left is my bedroom. Don’t go into any of the other rooms.”

Wen Xia followed where he pointed and pushed open the door. Li Zechuan fumbled for the light switch, and the instant the light came on, Wen Xia felt as though she had tumbled into some enchanted dimension in time.

The walls and floor were black. There was no bed — along one wall lay an enormously thick cashmere rug. The round-backed chair, the rug, the small sofa, and even the picture frames on the walls were all white — light and dark set against each other, creating a sharp, striking visual tension.

The lamps and furniture had unusual, almost strange lines, clearly self-made. An Alienware desktop sat on the desk. Beside the desk stood several moisture-proof cases stuffed with photographic equipment of every kind, all jumbled together.

“Sit wherever you like.” Li Zechuan pulled back the black floor-length curtains to reveal a wide bay window with low steps leading up to it. Sunlight poured through, and he stood bathed in a wash of burnished gold. “Tell me what you want to drink and I’ll order delivery. I usually live at school — I rarely come back here. There’s nothing in this place.”

As he spoke, he rummaged through the pile of cushions on the bay window, found a cigarette box and a lighter, pulled out a single cigarette with one hand and bit down on it. He had just raised the lighter when a sharp sting hit the back of his hand — snap — and the lighter flew out of his grip.

Li Zechuan was sitting half-perched on the bay window steps. His gaze lifted, the deep black of his irises pressing down with a quiet weight, fingers still hovering at the corner of his mouth in the motions of lighting a cigarette.

Wen Xia pressed her lips together, expression unyielding. “Are you aware that you are sick?”

Li Zechuan looked at her, his voice dropping without his noticing: “You looked after me in the hospital for a few days — that’s more than enough to repay the so-called life debt. You don’t owe me anything, and in the future you don’t need to—”

Wen Xia cut him off: “A life debt can be repaid. But what am I supposed to do with the fondness I feel for you? Li Zechuan, can you really bear to watch it die?”

“Fondness?” Li Zechuan looked as though he had been goaded into anger — or struck in a tender spot. Under his sharp, single-fold eyelids a cold edge of light broke through. “Fine. I’ll show you exactly what kind of creature it is you claim to be fond of!”

(3)

Li Zechuan still had one arm in a plaster cast. The other hand closed tightly around Wen Xia’s wrist, flagging down a taxi. The driver, seeing the dark expressions on this man and woman, couldn’t help stealing a few extra glances at them.

Wen Xia said pleasantly from the back seat: “We’re in the middle of an argument — we’re not robbers. Nothing to worry about, sir.”

The driver chuckled and asked: “Where to?”

Li Zechuan said: “Guoren Hospital.”

Guoren Hospital’s full name was Guoren Psychiatric Hospital. It was well-known in the local area.

It was a weekday. There weren’t many visitors. Quite a few patients had gathered in the activity room — some reading, some watching television, others playing chess or cards, all chatting and laughing. Nothing about them suggested illness at all.

Li Zechuan walked straight to a corner where a woman in a patient’s gown sat on a deep blue sofa, two balls of yarn cradled in her lap, knitting intently.

A nurse said to Li Zechuan: “She’s been relatively stable recently, but we can’t let our guard down. When you talk with her, pay close attention to her eyes and expression. If you notice anything off, press the call button for me immediately.”

Li Zechuan nodded, glanced at Wen Xia, then walked slowly forward and crouched down in front of the woman. His voice was very quiet as he said: “Mum.”

Li Zechuan’s mother looked up at the sound. She had delicate, elegant features and beautiful upswept eyes. She looked young; when she smiled, a warm, shimmering light moved through her gaze.

Wen Xia stood behind Li Zechuan and saw the woman’s face with perfect clarity. She finally understood where Li Zechuan’s remarkable looks had come from.

“Xiao Chuan,” his mother said, setting down her knitting needles and taking his hand, rubbing it as if she feared he might be cold. She smiled. “You’ve come to see me? How lovely. I was just dreaming of you yesterday — you as a little boy, chasing after me begging for sweets. You were so adorable.”

Li Zechuan drew in a breath through his nose, reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “When I was small, you were afraid I’d get cavities and wouldn’t let me have any sweets. So I used to steal them from the boy next door. That boy was a crybaby — he couldn’t beat me, so he’d run home and tell on me. Dad wouldn’t let me have dinner, and you’d wait until Dad was asleep and sneak into the kitchen to cook dumplings for me.”

“You really were a handful back then!” His mother laughed softly, reaching up to touch his face. Her gaze fell on his plastered hand. “You’re injured? What happened?”

“Playing ball — took a fall,” Li Zechuan said, watching his mother’s expression carefully. “It’s not serious. It’ll be fine in a few days. Don’t worry.”

“How many times have I told you—” His mother’s expression changed in an instant; the smile vanished without a trace. She glared at Li Zechuan with a nearness of ferocity, her eyes widening to an unnatural degree. “I will not have you playing ball. Why will you never listen?! Your father abandoned me, and now even you won’t listen to me — what did I have you for?! You’re a wretch, just like your father! Exactly the same kind of wretch!”

His mother’s voice turned shrill. Her open palm cracked across Li Zechuan’s face. The blow whipped his head to the side and nearly knocked him to the ground; he shot out a hand to catch himself on the floor. She snatched up one of her knitting needles and lunged toward Li Zechuan’s head; he twisted away just in time.

Wen Xia went pale. The nurse and care attendant came rushing in at the noise and took hold of Li Zechuan’s mother, guiding her back to her room.

She was still screaming as they led her away, her words tangled and incoherent: “Why won’t you listen to me?! Why won’t you do as I say?! You worthless wretch! Ungrateful child! I regret bringing you into this world! It’s because of you that I ended up like this! You ruined me! You ruined my entire life!”

Wen Xia helped Li Zechuan to his feet. “Is your hand all right?”

The clear imprint of fingers marked Li Zechuan’s face. He shook his head and turned toward the exit.

There was a small gazebo in the hospital garden. It was empty. Li Zechuan sat down on the stone bench inside and took out a cigarette. He had no lighter on him, only a box of matches. With his left hand still in the cast, he couldn’t strike a match one-handed; he tried several times in a row, each time without success.

Wen Xia walked over and sat down beside him. She struck a match and held the flame to the cigarette for him.

Li Zechuan drew two long, deep drags. His chest rose and fell with difficulty. After a long while, he finally spoke: “You saw it all, didn’t you. That was my mother. Paranoid schizophrenia — hyper-sensitive, suspicious, prone to outbursts, severe delusions. I don’t know what my father did wrong, but he ran. Afterward she was committed under a formal order. I hadn’t even finished high school yet.”

Wen Xia tentatively laid her hand on Li Zechuan’s knee, her voice gentle: “But none of this is your fault.”

Li Zechuan looked at her sideways, his smile carrying a trace of bitterness: “All that just now — the sweets, the dumplings, stealing from the neighbor boy — it was all made up. None of it ever happened. She was nineteen when she was pregnant, unmarried. She gave birth to me in a hotel room. Her family thought it was a disgrace and cut off all contact. She had no income, no way to support a child — so she had to stay with her boyfriend. But the boyfriend was worthless: no job, refused to register the marriage, and hit her regularly.

“She was weak-willed but deeply stubborn. When he hurt her, she didn’t dare fight back — she took it out on me instead. Even eating a bowl of rice had rules, down to how many mouthfuls. Getting home later than twenty minutes after school — not a single minute’s grace. I wasn’t allowed any friends. I was beaten every day. In winter, the coldest time of year, I’d be locked outside and forbidden to come in — because I hadn’t gone to bed at precisely ten o’clock.”

He was smoking too quickly; the smoke caught in his throat, and he coughed for a long stretch before he could recover. Wen Xia slowly leaned toward him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Are you afraid that you’ll become like your mother?”

Li Zechuan suddenly extended his right hand toward her, turning his wrist to face upward. He wore a black mechanical watch. “Take off the watch. Look at what it’s covering.”

Wen Xia did as he asked. Beneath the watch face, hidden by the dial, was a round scar.

“Once, when I was unwell, I didn’t finish my meal. She picked up a chopstick and jabbed it into the back of my hand.” Li Zechuan’s gaze stayed on that scar for a long time before he continued. “It bled a great deal. It was very painful. I refused to admit wrongdoing, and I refused to cry — so she kept hitting me. First a slipper, then a belt. She told me I wasn’t sensible enough, that I had failed to help her keep my father around.”

The story seemed to pause there for a moment. Li Zechuan finished the entire cigarette in silence, then spoke again: “I always believed my mother was driven to madness by my father. Later I learned that both my maternal grandfather and uncle had suffered from the same illness. It runs in families — do you understand? It is written into my genes. On one side, violence; on the other, obsession. That is the gift the two people who brought me into this world left me. What is there about someone like me that is worth being fond of?”

As he reached that last line, Li Zechuan’s voice abruptly rose. Nearby, someone out for a stroll looked over at the sound.

Those searchlight-like gazes pressed against Li Zechuan’s back, filling him with unbearable discomfort. He pushed away from Wen Xia and walked toward the edge of the gazebo. Before he had taken two steps, a sharp pain erupted at the back of his knee — Wen Xia had kicked him there, hard, sending him to his knees.

Li Zechuan’s left hand was still in the cast. Wen Xia seized his right arm, twisted it into an arm bar, pressing down on the elbow from a height advantage, drawing it in with force — pinning him completely in place, unable to move.

Li Zechuan felt a surge of energy rush to his head; the joint of his right arm twisted and screamed with pain. He shouted: “Are you insane?! Let go of me!”

“I’m not insane! You’re the one who’s insane!” Wen Xia suppressed the urge to slap him across the face, gritting her teeth: “If your intelligence is failing you, go home and read more books instead of fixating on nonsense. Yes, hereditary illness is genuinely frightening — but if one parent has schizophrenia, the rate of onset in their children is only sixteen percent! You’re going to write yourself off entirely for a sixteen percent probability?! Have you been watching too many tragic television dramas?!”

Li Zechuan tried to retort, opened his mouth in a futile attempt, and couldn’t produce a single sound.

Wen Xia loosened her grip, crouched down, and settled beside him. “I have never seen a single shadow of violence in you,” she said quietly. “On the contrary — all I have ever seen is softness. You protected me when someone was following me. You stepped in to get me out of trouble. When a high beam was aimed at us, you covered my eyes and told me the world held many dangers. In the tales of foreign lands, the heroes wear red capes. My hero has yellow skin, single-fold eyelids, eyebrows faintly interrupted at the ends. He has saved me twice now, and I am very fond of him.”

Li Zechuan’s frame swayed; he nearly lost his balance. Wen Xia caught him and held him steady, her voice slow and quiet: “I don’t like watching you wallow in self-pity. What I like is watching you stand among a crowd of people — your gaze proud, your expression cool, but your heart genuinely warm — that way you have of fearing nothing and no one. That really is captivating.”

I have had many dreams. One of them was to stand beside you and build a kingdom together. Shoulder to shoulder, moving forward with courage — never exiling ourselves from the world.

Li Zechuan closed his eyes. Something like molten rock, blazing and scorching, rolled through the depths of his heart. After a long silence, he suddenly spoke: “Wen Xia. Look up.”

Wen Xia looked up in bewilderment. Thin, gentle lips descended and met hers in a deep, determined kiss.

His tongue pressed past her teeth, entering with an intensity that was both urgent and thorough.

It is said that the child who has been burned most loves fire. In a life, there must be at least one moment of throwing oneself in without reservation.

Wen Xia, Wen Xia — Li Zechuan repeated her name again and again, his voice very low: “You have taught me what it means to be afraid. You have made me long to live — long and long.”

(4)

At dusk, the two vehicles pulled into Suonan Baohuzhan one behind the other. Ke Lie had remained in Quma Town; only Zhaxi and Lian Kai were at the station. Li Zechuan made the introductions: this was journalist Fang Wenqing; these two were the year-round resident wildlife officers — Zhaxi and Lian Kai.

While Lian Kai was checking the relevant credentials, Cheng Fei didn’t dare push forward. He shrank back, keeping himself tucked behind the others.

Lian Laolei was famously sharp-eyed. He watched Cheng Fei from the corner of his eye, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Well, well — Mr. Cheng has come along as well. What an unexpected guest! Let me offer Mr. Cheng a word of advice: this time, whatever you do, don’t go wandering off on your own. The wolves on the plateau have long memories. Any piece of meat that got away from them — they’ll carry that grudge for a lifetime.”

Cheng Fei responded with an awkward laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a dark shadow moving — followed immediately by a frenzied burst of barking.

Yuanbao’s fur bristled all along his back; his eyes were wild, and the ridge of his muzzle furrowed in deep angry lines as he howled and lunged toward Cheng Fei.

A good dog protects its master. The sight of Li Zechuan, surrounded by a wolf pack, bleeding and battered — Yuanbao still remembered.

Li Zechuan gave a sharp whistle and grabbed the big dog by the collar, hauling him back.

Cheng Fei was badly shaken. He started shouting that he was going to report this to the higher authorities — that the station was keeping a rabid dog that posed a danger to human life.

Zhaxi drove a fist into Cheng Fei’s shoulder and roared: “Open those two holes under your eyebrows and take a proper look — this is a Tibetan mastiff, bred for guarding livestock. You think a gentle, sweet-tempered dog can guard sheep? What do you think this is — a pet Chihuahua?!”

Zhaxi had put considerable force behind that punch. Cheng Fei wailed in pain.

Lian Kai turned his back as if he’d seen nothing. He looked Wen Xia up and down from head to toe, then let out a quiet breath: “Thank heaven and earth — you’ve made it back safely. Station Chief Ma has been thinking of you two all day. He’s been waiting to hear your report.”

When they pushed open the door and went in, Ma Siming was breathing from a medical oxygen bag, his eyelids drooping, expression weary.

Lian Kai called out “Station Chief Ma” and quietly said: “They’re back safe.”

Ma Siming’s eyes stayed closed. His lips moved slightly as if to speak, but what burst out was instead a fit of wrenching, heart-tearing coughs.

Li Zechuan frowned and sat down beside Ma Siming, pressing a hand to his forehead to check his temperature. “Station Chief Ma, you really cannot put this off any longer. Please go to hospital for treatment as soon as possible.”

Ma Siming waved the suggestion aside. He pulled out the nasal oxygen tube and said in a hoarse voice: “I know my own limits. Once you’ve finished this mountain patrol, I’ll check in. Ke Lie sent word — he and his team intercepted a vehicle in Quma Town and detained two members of Nie Xiaolin’s gang. Under questioning, the suspects confessed that Nie Xiaolin had received a foreign order. The buyer had specifically requested Tibetan antelope wool and horns. Nie Xiaolin and his men stopped in Quma Town to stock up on supplies and are preparing to move toward the Tibetan antelope calving grounds, with Zhuonai Lake as their primary target.

“In recent years, as the intensity of patrols across the reserve has continued to increase, there have been no poaching incidents involving wild animals throughout the Three Rivers Source region for a long time now. Nie Xiaolin has had no access to pelts and has been starving for it — he won’t give up this deal. What’s more, he’s not young anymore. How many more poaching operations can he organize? This may be our last opportunity to catch him in the act with evidence in hand.”

Li Zechuan spread a map out on the desk, traced over it for a moment, then looked up. “It’s calving season right now. Every year, between thirty thousand and fifty thousand Tibetan antelopes from the Three Rivers Source region, Qiangtang, and the local Kekexili area converge on Zhuonai Lake to give birth. If they fall into Nie Xiaolin’s hands, it won’t matter whether they’re adults or newborns — not a single one will survive. We have to intercept them before they reach Zhuonai Lake.”

“The colleagues at Wudao Liang Station have already set up camp near Zhuonai Lake and are maintaining constant watch — that is the last line of defence.” Lian Kai pointed to the relevant areas on the map. “What we and the team at Budongquan need to do is strengthen patrols of the surrounding area. Not a single poacher must be allowed to get anywhere near the calving grounds. This time it’s not just us — Xinjiang and Tibet will be coordinating simultaneously. Wherever Nie Xiaolin runs, there will be nothing waiting for him but a dead end!”

Li Zechuan braced both hands on the table, paused for a moment, and said: “Will Cheng Fei and Fang Wenqing be coming into the mountains with us?”

“They’ve been sent by the higher-ups.” Lian Kai pulled two documents from a folder and slid them in front of Li Zechuan. “The old station chief’s death has continued to attract widespread attention from the outside world, and issues of animal protection and the environment are among the most prominent topics in public discourse right now. The public needs to understand the truth. That said, I’ve already made it clear: this patrol mission is no ordinary undertaking. We will only accept written note-taking during the journey. We will not accommodate large equipment, and we will not permit video filming. After all, we are not equipped to haul heavy cameras across the mountains — we’d have no capacity left to ensure the safety of either our people or the antelopes.”

Li Zechuan bumped his fist against Lian Kai’s. “Well done.”

Ma Siming coughed once, knocked on the table, and said: “How do you want to arrange the team roster?”

“The patrol team should prioritize quality over size — fuel and supplies are a serious constraint as it is.” Li Zechuan took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. Out of consideration for Station Chief Ma’s health, he didn’t light it, just clamped it between his teeth and tasted the paper. “All of the newly arrived volunteers are to stay here and keep the station running as usual. I’ll lead the team; Lao Lei will serve as deputy. Ke Lie, Nuobu, Zhaxi — plus those two excess baggage journalists. Starting from the Kunlun Mountain pass, going west from Yanshiping as our diameter, with Kusai Lake, Zhuonai Lake, and Kekexili Lake as core water sources, we’ll run repeated patrols.”

Lian Kai said: “Until the calving season is over?”

“No.” Li Zechuan fixed him with a look, his voice striking like a hammer: “Until Nie Xiaolin is arrested and brought to justice.”

“Add me as well.” Wen Xia spoke up at the right moment, her voice and eyes both steady and calm. “I’m a veterinary doctor. With Tibetan antelope calving season underway, I can be of considerable help. Beyond that, I have met Song Qiyuan and have a degree of understanding about him. I’ll take care of myself — I will not become a burden to any of you.”

A faint smile settled across Li Zechuan’s face — something close to tenderness. He looked at Wen Xia in silence for a moment, then said: “Alright. You’re coming.”

Wen Xia held his gaze. “When do we set out?”

There was a keenness in Li Zechuan’s voice like the edge of a blade drawn from its sheath: “From this moment on — be ready at all times. Have Sanlaoye prepare the supplies, and keep it all under wraps.”

Once the relevant matters had been discussed, Ma Siming kept Wen Xia behind alone.

Ma Siming was a solid, iron-hard man of few words, but when he did smile, he appeared exceptionally warm and kind. “Nuobu briefed me,” he said. “‘The station was established to punish poachers. A man who does wrong deserves to face the consequences — that is as it should be. But as for the suspect’s family member encountering difficulty, the station would not stand by and do nothing either.’ Those were well-spoken words. You have a clear sense of what matters.”

A faint flush rose in Wen Xia’s cheeks. Ma Siming went on: “I hear you and Sang Ji are old acquaintances. Sang Ji has always had a particular indulgence toward you. There is something I believe you ought to know.”

Ma Siming retrieved a document folder from a locked drawer, opened it, and placed it in front of Wen Xia. Not knowing what to expect, she read through the contents line by line. The color drained from her face.

Ma Siming raised a hand to stop her before she could say anything. In his hoarse voice he said: “You don’t need to explain anything on his behalf. The old station chief was already aware while he was still alive — this is something he and I looked into privately together. He is a good young man. The old station chief believed in him, and so do I.”

Wen Xia bit down on her lip — so hard that the taste of blood spread through her mouth.

Ma Siming patted Wen Xia on the shoulder, exhaling a long, deep sigh. “Extreme rigidity breaks easily. Sang Ji’s nature is too fierce and unyielding. I can see it in him — for this patrol, he has gone in with the mindset of not coming back. Catching the criminals matters, but good people must also survive — that is what true victory looks like. You’re a perceptive young woman. Some things don’t need to be spelled out. You already understand.”

Wen Xia seemed to sense something, and she lifted her head to meet Ma Siming’s gaze.

Ma Siming looked deep into her eyes, each word deliberate and measured — solemn and weighty, as though he were entrusting something precious into her keeping. He said: “When the moment comes — save him. Stop him. Make sure he comes back alive.”

Wen Xia’s mind went back to that day at the shore of Kusai Lake: Li Zechuan, retrieving the spiked knuckle duster from the mud, hanging it over his fingers, closing his hand tightly around it.

He had said: If someone must pay a price for all of this, then let them raise a flag upon my corpse — and let it stand as an eternal warning to those who bring devastation upon living things.

She finally understood where his uprightness and his composure came from. She finally understood why he had pressed her, again and again, to go home.

He walked forward alone, making death his final point of dignity — falling down, again and again, rising again, again and again — willing to shatter himself entirely rather than carry the faintest stain upon his name.

He had never once promised her a future — because he had never once imagined that he still had one.

Wen Xia’s eyes filled with tears. She pressed her fingers together, and her fingertips passed over the thin paper, leaving deep grooves in the surface.

Ma Siming struck a match. The flame spread with an almost gentle light, and it licked the papers in the document folder into nothing but ash.