(1)

The moment they recognized the man’s face, everyone in the room froze, then scrambled to their feet. Ke Lie reached directly into his jacket and released the safety on his handgun.

Song Qiyuan stood holding the child, his gaze sweeping slowly across the faces in the room — unhurried, unafraid — and instead a mocking smile appeared on his lips.

The Tibetan girl standing before Song Qiyuan was the one who looked startled. She murmured softly, “Grandmother, who are they…?”

The old grandmother introduced them: “This is Gelsang Qu Zhen, my youngest granddaughter — nineteen by the lunar calendar. These officers are police comrades from the protection station. They were the ones who saved your father all those years ago.”

Gelsang Qu Zhen had a lively disposition. First she offered her thanks, then she turned and hooked her arm through Song Qiyuan’s, smiling as she said, “This is Brother Qi — once when I went out and twisted my ankle, Brother Qi carried me back. Come inside, Brother Qi! I learned how to make gloves and made a special pair just for you. I could never find the right chance to give them to you, so you absolutely must try them on today!”

When Qu Zhen finished speaking, Song Qiyuan did not respond immediately. The room fell instantly silent — one could hear the howling wind outside, eerie in a way that felt strangely out of place.

The old grandmother, oblivious to the situation, called out warmly to everyone: “Sit down, sit down — why is everyone just standing there? Nobody is leaving today. Your grandmother will make flatbread for all of you!”

Li Zechuan closed his hand over Ke Lie’s wrist and pressed the half-exposed gun barrel back down. Song Qiyuan was holding the child — effectively giving him a hostage. The room was cramped with so many people crammed inside, and firing recklessly risked hitting the wrong person. This was not the moment to act.

Ke Lie’s expression was icy and grim. Li Zechuan kept his eyes fixed firmly on Song Qiyuan and said, with unmistakable intent: “That’s right. Nobody is leaving today.”

To play host to this roomful of guests, the old grandmother brought out the best she had — one large bowl of Amdo-style noodle soup per person, bone-in mutton boiled in salted water, and homemade stuffed intestage sausage. A rich and heady aroma of meat filled every corner of the small dwelling.

Qu Zhen stretched out her arms, wanting to take the baby so Song Qiyuan could eat properly, but the little one tilted his head and burrowed deeper into Song Qiyuan’s embrace, refusing to come out.

Song Qiyuan smiled slightly and said, “It’s fine. I’ll hold him.”

As he spoke, he hugged the child and retreated into the corner. The dining table stood before him, and the wall was directly to his right and at his back — he had tucked himself in as completely as possible.

There was an empty stool to Song Qiyuan’s left, right beside the stove and pleasantly warm. Fang Wenqing and Cheng Fei were unaware of Song Qiyuan’s true identity, so before the others had even taken their seats, Cheng Fei had already claimed the spot nearest the stove and sat down right beside Song Qiyuan.

The table was hushed. There was only the sound of chewing and the scraping of knife blades paring meat from bone. Qu Zhen kept piling food into Song Qiyuan’s bowl, a bashful smile on her face.

Song Qiyuan seemed to have little appetite — after two sips of noodle broth he set down his chopsticks. He turned his head aside and coughed twice. Then he caught sight of the little Tibetan dog bundled up like a sugar cone, and couldn’t help but laugh, addressing Wen Xia: “That’s your handiwork again, isn’t it? Why is it that no matter where you go, you can’t shake that habit of meddling in everyone’s affairs?”

“No appetite, coughing, shortness of breath, blood in the phlegm,” Wen Xia said, crunching through a piece of cartilage and swallowing it. “Those are the intermediate-stage symptoms of high-altitude pulmonary edema. You said it yourself — up here, even a dizzy spell can kill you.”

Song Qiyuan’s expression stiffened for a split second, then he smiled again, offering a noncommittal “Oh,” his emotion unreadable.

Song Qiyuan was not like Li Zechuan, nor was he like any of the robust men born and bred on the open plains, hardened by wind and snow. He was always smiling — as though it were the only expression he had ever been born with. His peach-blossom eyes and the teardrop mole beneath them grew seductive alongside that smile, like a butterfly soaring through flame, branding its brilliant mark wherever it passed.

Qu Zhen, bewildered, looked at Song Qiyuan with concern: “Brother Qi, are you ill?” She reached out and pressed her palm to his forehead. “You feel a little feverish. I’ll go get you some medicine!”

Qu Zhen stood up and moved past Cheng Fei. Cheng Fei shifted aside. In the corner, only Song Qiyuan remained. Li Zechuan, seated across from him, drew his handgun under the table and aimed the barrel at Song Qiyuan’s knees. He released the safety and chambered a round. Lian Kai deliberately made a bit of noise to cover the mechanical click of the hammer being cocked.

The arrow was nocked; the moment hung by a single thread.

“You’re on this patrol sweep to capture Nie Xiaolin and his crew, aren’t you,” Song Qiyuan said suddenly. He flipped the baby in his arms face-forward, settling the child to sit on his knee, two chubby little legs dangling beneath the table, swinging back and forth.

Li Zechuan’s gaze flicked upward. The scar at the tip of his brow shifted slightly. He took a swallow of highland barley liquor, his manner deceptively casual: “Oh? Do you have information to offer?”

“A small piece of unofficial intelligence — make of it what you will.” Song Qiyuan picked up a scrap of mutton and tossed it into his mouth, chewing as he spoke. “Nie Xiaolin didn’t come this time for poaching. You’ve raised the bounty on the wanted notice, so he doesn’t dare show his face anywhere with too many people. He plans to go through Kekexili, cut through Tibet, and then slip across the border. If you don’t catch him this time, there won’t be another chance.”

Lian Kai gave a cold snort: “Why should we believe you?”

Song Qiyuan smiled slightly and didn’t answer. Instead he turned to Wen Xia: “The three children are all safe and well — they’ve been sent to an orphanage in Ge’ermu and settled there. Little Douzi says to tell you to come visit when you have time. She misses you.”

Little Douzi was the big-eyed little girl whom Wen Xia had rescued from the man with the scarred face.

“Good that they were sent away,” Wen Xia said. “Staying with you, they would only suffer more.”

“You’re not wrong — having a good father is the most important thing for a child. Take Officer Li, for instance,” Song Qiyuan said, turning to look at Li Zechuan with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, his tone coolly deliberate. “Having Nie Xiaolin as a father must be the greatest shame of your life.”

The moment the words landed, everyone in the room was stunned into silence. Beneath the table, Wen Xia groped until she found Li Zechuan’s hand. She felt him trembling, and so she gripped it tight, as though she could channel her own strength into him.

Lian Kai and Ke Lie managed to keep their composure, but Nuobu leaped straight to his feet, knocking over his bowl and chopsticks. He stood there, jaw dropped wide, stammering: “Sa… Sang Ji — and someone named Nie — how could that be possible?! I don’t believe it!”

“Ha! So it was an inside job all along!” Cheng Fei jumped up as well, his eyes blazing with gleeful excitement, his already sharp-edged features made more unpleasant still by the look of smug satisfaction. He thrust one hand out and pointed his finger straight at Li Zechuan’s nose: “The reason Nie Xiaolin has gone uncaptured for so many years is because someone was tipping him off! Blood runs thicker than water — father and son fight best side by side! Officer Li, you’ve straddled the line between law and crime, done business on both sides — you must have made quite a fortune in dirty money. I’m going straight to my superiors to report this, to expose your true face, strip you of that uniform, and see if you’re still so arrogant without it!”

“You’re lying!” Nuobu, hot-blooded and young, couldn’t tolerate the provocation. He launched himself at Cheng Fei and grabbed him by the throat: “Don’t slander Brother Sang Ji! Don’t talk nonsense!”

Cheng Fei stumbled backward, knocking over a stool and the small heating brazier, sending charcoal flying and sparks scattering across the floor.

In the chaos, a single gunshot rang out. The overhead light exploded in a shower of glass, plunging the room into complete darkness. Qu Zhen’s voice broke through the blackness: “Grandmother! What’s wrong with you? Get up — please get up! Don’t frighten me like this!”

“Wen Xia, Nuobu — you two look after the elderly and the child!” Li Zechuan, pistol in one hand and a short blade in the other, vaulted up onto the tabletop, seizing the high ground. “Everyone else, hold the door — don’t let Song Qiyuan get out!”

A dark shape hurtled toward him. Li Zechuan rolled on instinct and thrust his arms up to catch it — it was heavy in his hands, and at the same moment he heard the sound of an infant crying.

Song Qiyuan had thrown the baby he’d been holding at Li Zechuan. Had Li Zechuan not caught it in time, the child would very likely have been dashed to its death.

Li Zechuan spun around and shoved the baby into Wen Xia’s arms. In the darkness, a tiny flash of light erupted — a cold and brilliant flare, like the eyes of death itself.

“Get down!” Li Zechuan roared, and lunged forward, throwing his body over Cheng Fei and pinning him to the ground. A bullet grazed his brow bone and flew past — blood began pouring instantly, flooding his vision with a brilliant, vivid red.

Song Qiyuan fired several shots to suppress everyone in the room, then bolted for the door and fled. Cheng Fei let out a terrified scream. Li Zechuan didn’t spare him another glance — he was already up and running in pursuit. Lian Kai and Ke Lie followed close behind. Nuobu made to follow as well, but he suddenly heard Wen Xia’s voice, steady and forceful: “Nuobu — get to the car now. Take the old grandmother to the hospital. Her heart condition has flared up. Her life is in danger!”

The moment he heard hospital, Cheng Fei was the first to bolt upright, howling: “I need to go to the hospital too! I am not staying in this cursed place!”

Nuobu could have throttled him, but now was not the time to indulge that impulse.

Everyone worked together to carry the old grandmother to the vehicle. The four-wheel drive could not fit too many people — Nuobu driving, Qu Zhen holding her little brother, and Cheng Fei wedged in as well, packed in tightly.

Wen Xia said, “I’ll stay behind with Reporter Fang. Nuobu, watch over them.”

Nuobu clenched his jaw and gave a deep, firm nod. Just before the vehicle started moving, Wen Xia said suddenly: “Nuobu — do you believe in Li Zechuan? Do you believe he’s a good man?”

Nuobu’s eyes grew hot. A single enormous tear escaped. He dashed it away with the back of his hand, his voice thick: “I believe him. I’ll always believe him!”

Wen Xia touched the top of his head, her own eyes reddening, and said softly: “Good.”

As long as we all believe in him, that man who stands like a mountain range will never fall.

The patrol squad had only five vehicles. Zhaxi had taken one to transport the father and son caught collecting illegal salt. Nuobu had taken one. Of those in pursuit of Song Qiyuan, Lian Kai and Li Zechuan had each taken one. Only the small supply truck remained in the courtyard. Wen Xia unloaded the goods from its bed, then climbed into the driver’s cab. Fang Wenqing blocked the door and looked at her: “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Going to help Li Zechuan,” Wen Xia said, starting the engine. “Song Qiyuan is a reckless madman. They may run into trouble.”

“You know the man is a madman and you’re going to walk straight into it?” Fang Wenqing held the door firm and refused to let go. “This isn’t your professional responsibility. You have no obligation to do this. A true hero deserves respect. Playing at heroics only makes a person look ridiculous.”

Wen Xia did not get angry. She even smiled a little, her dark eyes deep and still: “Hold on to your philosophy of ‘none of my business, keep out of trouble,’ and stay right here where it’s safe. Don’t wander off.”

With that, she slammed the door with a resounding bang. The truck’s tail lights sliced through wind and snow, casting a smear of deep red across the darkness.

The wind had eased somewhat, though it was still fierce — it struck the face like a blade.

Song Qiyuan had not arrived by vehicle. He had come on horseback. It was a fine horse, powerful and strong, capable of outpacing a four-wheel drive at full gallop.

The wind whipped up gravel and tore fresh cuts across the backs of Song Qiyuan’s hands and his face. He pulled on his goggles to shield his eyes and pressed low against the horse’s back, riding into the wind.

His chest ached with a suffocating heaviness, and the difficulty breathing brought on an overwhelming sense of asphyxiation — a feeling worse than death.

Song Qiyuan curved his lips into a thin, cold smile. That young woman had been right after all — high-altitude pulmonary edema. He had not died under the patrol squad’s bullets, yet here he was, being laid low by illness.

He had coughed up a mouthful of blood-streaked spittle right in front of Nie Xiaolin, and that man had simply called him useless.

He had borne a body full of sins for nothing. In the end, he couldn’t even get a single word of concern.

Snow had begun to fall — a fine, dense mist of it. Two vehicles clung relentlessly to his rear. Gunfire tore across the open plain. Song Qiyuan felt a sudden sharp pain explode in his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he reached into his jacket and felt for something — found it, pulled the iron ring, and hurled it at his pursuers.

A homemade hand grenade, improvised by poachers — and it packed considerable force. It detonated with a thunderous boom, erupting in a blinding flash. Rocks and gravel blasted outward and then rained back down, clattering against windshields. Lian Kai reacted fast enough, wrenching the steering wheel hard and swerving sharply to escape, but not before a tire was shredded.

The explosion carried far across the open plain, its impact tremendous. Li Zechuan and Ke Lie were in the other vehicle — Li Zechuan grabbed the two-way radio and shouted into it: “Lao Lei!”

The shockwave had slammed Lian Kai back against his seat. He coughed once, then said through gritted teeth: “I’m fine. Lost a tire. You two keep going — don’t worry about me!”

Ke Lie’s face was like still water. He pushed the accelerator to the floor. But on terrain with no roads, a vehicle wasn’t necessarily faster than a horse.

A faint silhouette appeared in the corner of his vision. Li Zechuan lowered the window and extended the rifle barrel, his scope locked onto the center of Song Qiyuan’s back. Before he could squeeze the trigger, there came a sudden bang — the vehicle lurched out of control, all four wheels spinning out at once, churning up a vast cloud of sand and dust.

The scope had already lost the target. In the chaos, Li Zechuan fired a single shot — the round traced a streak of light through the air and was swallowed by the darkness.

“What happened?” Li Zechuan demanded urgently. “Blown tire?”

Ke Lie pressed his lips tightly together, released the steering wheel, and shoved open the door. The moment he stepped out, his foot sank — the ground gave way and sand swallowed him up to the waist in an instant.

“Dachuan — don’t move!” Ke Lie shouted. “It’s quicksand! Song Qiyuan led us straight into a quicksand pit!”

(2)

Li Zechuan threw himself up onto the roof of the vehicle and grabbed Ke Lie by the collar from behind, trying to haul him up. But the sand clung to the body, exerting enormous pressure. A person trapped in quicksand cannot get enough leverage to push themselves free, and those on the outside struggle just as hard to pull them out — which is precisely why quicksand is called a place of death.

Both man and vehicle were sinking. The more one struggled, the faster the descent.

Ke Lie exhaled slowly. Even now, his voice remained measured and calm: “Dachuan — use me as a bridge. Step on my body and jump clear. Go after Song Qiyuan. Catch him.”

“Save it!” Li Zechuan’s eyes had gone red, as though they might bleed tears at any moment. “We catch the criminals and we save the brothers — every good person deserves to live. The ones who should die are those animals!”

Ke Lie spread his body backward as flat as he could, distributing his weight to take advantage of the quicksand’s buoyancy and slow the descent. But it could not stop the sinking entirely. Li Zechuan lay flat on the roof of the vehicle; Ke Lie had already disappeared from the chest down into the sand.

Lying tilted back, eyes turned to the sky — the wind was strong, the cloud cover thick. Only a scattered few stars blinked through, faint and intermittent.

“Did you come to Qinghai… to find Nie Xiaolin?” Ke Lie began to ask. He had almost said “father,” but the word felt unbearably bitter.

“No,” Li Zechuan said. His grip on Ke Lie’s collar didn’t loosen. The wound above his brow was still seeping blood, gathering at the corner of his eye like a tear made of red. “I’m illegitimate. I took my mother’s surname. On the household registration, it was only her name and mine — which is why, when you investigated Nie Xiaolin, you never connected him to me. Nie Xiaolin is a madman. He tortured my mother until her mind broke, and then he disappeared. He never looked in on us again — not once. From high school onward, living expenses, medical bills, tuition — all of it I earned myself, taking whatever photography jobs I could find. Back then, if someone paid me, I’d shoot anything. My teacher said I was wasting my talent. But when you can barely put food on the table, what does talent matter?”

It was rare for Li Zechuan to say so much in one go. The snow was falling harder now, landing on his skin, drifting into his eyes, stinging with a persistent, cold ache.

Ke Lie let out a long sigh: “When did you find out? That the Nie Xiaolin here in Qinghai was your father?”

“When the old station chief died,” Li Zechuan said. “I saw him, and he saw me — that was when I understood just how cruel fate likes to be. From that moment on, I swore I would personally capture this beast, to get justice for the old station chief, and to avenge my mother.”

“No wonder you never touched a camera again after that.” The quicksand had risen past his shoulders. Ke Lie’s voice was still measured, nearly devoid of inflection. “Dachuan — live well. The old station chief is gone. Station Chief Ma is getting on in years. The banner of the protection station still needs someone to carry it. It’s so hard out here — young people don’t want to come. The fact that you came means a great deal to me. Working alongside you has been an honor.”

“Save it!” Li Zechuan’s eyes were burning red. His hand, still gripping Ke Lie’s collar, had sunk into the sand alongside it. He could feel a whirlpool-like suction — immense, and merciless. “Nobody is allowed to die! None of you are allowed to die before me!”

Ke Lie stared at the night sky one last time with extraordinary deliberateness, then closed his eyes. A line from an old English song drifted through his mind —

When I was young I’d listen to the radio Waiting for my favorite songs When they played I’d sing along It made me smile ……

He recalled the melody of that song and said quietly: “Dachuan — let go. Step on my shoulder and jump clear. You can still make it.”

“Then be a man and hold on!” The glow of blood and fire burned together in his eyes. Li Zechuan let out a roar like a cornered beast: “I’m the one who brought all of you out here. I’m responsible for bringing every single one of you back safely — all of you, every last one. Otherwise, what do I say to Station Chief Ma? What do I say to the old station chief who gave his life for this?”

The words had barely left his mouth when headlights fell straight across both of them, harsh and blinding. The glare was so fierce that Li Zechuan had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them again, he recognized a familiar silhouette.

It was Wen Xia.

Wen Xia jumped down from the truck bed, tow rope in hand, and her voice carried a smile: “Alright, gentlemen — story time is officially over. Let’s get you out.”

Li Zechuan laughed — just once. But that laugh, and those eyes, were filled to the brim with pride.

He had this sudden impulse to take Wen Xia’s hand and introduce her to everyone he knew. This is my woman. I am proud of her.

Wen Xia used the tow rope to haul both men free from the quicksand. As for the vehicle, there was nothing to be done — even with the tow rope pulled to its breaking point, the off-road vehicle could not be dragged back out. Li Zechuan watched his truck sink and vanish without a trace.

That had been his own money, representing roughly half of everything he owned, and it went down without so much as a sound.

The wind had stilled. Snow was still falling. As far as the eye could see, the landscape lay barren and desolate.

Li Zechuan drew a long breath of sharp, frigid air, then turned and called to Ke Lie and Wen Xia: “Let’s go. Back to base first. Once Zhaxi rejoins the group, we’ll need to draw up a new plan.”

Wen Xia leaned against the side of the truck. The darkness blurred her features. Li Zechuan walked over and pulled her into his arms, his chin resting on her shoulder — a posture of complete surrender and trust. He said softly: “I’ve never believed in miracles. Now I have no choice. Wen Xia — you are the only miracle in my life. If everything I have endured was the price of finding you, then every bit of it was worth it.”

Wen Xia raised her arms and held him in return. The faint smell of gunpowder still hung in the air, making the quietness of that embrace all the more precious by contrast.

On the way back, they came across Lian Kai. Even without a vehicle, Lian Laolei had refused to give up — he was on foot, making his way toward wherever the gunfire had been. Snow had turned his eyebrows and hair white, like a Father Christmas bearing gifts. The group doubled back to where the tire had blown — the off-road vehicle had suffered significant damage, but with some repairs it could still be driven, which was at least something to be grateful for.

While they worked on the vehicle, Wen Xia gave a brief account of Nuobu and Cheng Fei’s whereabouts.

Lian Kai grunted: “They always say bullets have no eyes — so why couldn’t one of them have found the back of Cheng Fei’s thick skull? It would’ve spared us a lot of trouble from his blabbering!”

“His mouth is on his own face. What he says with it is his own business.” Li Zechuan tightened a bolt with a wrench, unhurried: “Besides, I have nothing to hide.”

Lian Kai grew more agitated the more he thought about it. He flung his tool down with a loud clang: “You shouldn’t have saved that ingrate so many times. He’s nothing but an ungrateful wretch!”

“Then how would I be any different from him?” Li Zechuan looked up and gave a small smile. His single-fold eyelids lent him a sharp, defined look; the scar at the tip of his brow amplified it further.

He said: “He does something that harms me, so I find every way possible to destroy him — if that’s how everyone lived, this world would be beyond saving. He made a mistake. The law will hold him to account for it. Until then, I won’t stand by and watch him die while I do nothing. I’ll take up arms for what’s right — but I’ll never kill for personal grudges. Letting someone die when you could act is the same as killing them yourself.”

Lian Kai went still for a moment, then slowly, a smile worked its way across his face. He reached out and gripped Li Zechuan hard by the shoulder: “You’ve persuaded me again. I’ll remember that — we take up arms for what’s right, but we never kill for personal grudges.”

Ke Lie stood a little way off. The faint glow of starlight fell across him, stretching his silhouette long and straight. His eyes, too, held something moved.

With the repairs done, Li Zechuan stood up — and noticed a large patch of blood on the hem of his jacket, still wet, not yet congealed. He paused, then walked toward Wen Xia. She was sitting on a sheltered rock, knees drawn up, chin resting on them. Li Zechuan reached down and lifted her to her feet outright, his voice sharp: “Where are you hurt?”

Ke Lie and Lian Kai noticed Li Zechuan’s movement and looked over.

Wen Xia sniffled, eyes wide with innocence: “My side.”

Song Qiyuan had fired several shots without bothering to aim, and somehow Wen Xia had been the unlucky one — a bullet had grazed her at the flank, tearing open a gash.

Li Zechuan was too furious for words. He braced her back and lifted her sideways into his arms. Lian Kai and Ke Lie, wordlessly and simultaneously, turned their heads away, not even allowing their peripheral vision to drift in that direction.

Li Zechuan laid Wen Xia in the back seat of the off-road vehicle, lifted the hem of her clothing, and undid the belt too. The wound wasn’t long, but it ran somewhat deep — the flesh had peeled back at the edges and had caught a bit of grit. One look was enough to make Li Zechuan’s heart ache terribly. He pressed his lips together and glared at Wen Xia with barely contained fury: “Why didn’t you go with Nuobu to the hospital? Do you think you’re made of iron?”

Wen Xia tilted her face up and looked at him steadily. After a long moment, she said only: “I was worried about you.”

Li Zechuan felt something inside him crack — whatever had been sealed away behind ice split apart, and sunlight poured through. In an instant, it was spring.

He turned away from her, somewhat flustered, and rummaged out the first aid kit and a bottle of mineral water, saying: “The wound needs to be cleaned, then stitched. It’s going to hurt. Bear with it.”

Wen Xia stretched her arm out and took Li Zechuan’s hand in hers. A single tear — burning hot — fell at precisely that moment, landing on the back of her hand, blooming there like a glass flower catching light.

Li Zechuan had the water bottle in his hands, but couldn’t get the cap off — because his hands were shaking. A long moment passed before he said: “When did you find out? About me and Nie Xiaolin?”

When Song Qiyuan had exposed him in front of everyone, every face in the room had gone shocked — except hers, which remained perfectly composed. She had even given him something to lean on.

Wen Xia did not conceal the truth: “Station Chief Ma told me before the patrol sweep set out. He seemed to sense something like this might happen, and asked me to give you encouragement.”

Li Zechuan smiled slightly, his gaze going soft. He stroked Wen Xia’s hair and said: “And you weren’t afraid I might actually be one of the bad people?”

“Not at all,” Wen Xia said, and she was smiling too. She leaned into his shoulder and said quietly: “You’re too slow-witted for that. You could never learn how to be a bad person.”

She was such a gentle young woman — yet she always had a way of showing her unyielding side at exactly the right moment, steadying him, astonishing him.

His eyes grew warm again. Li Zechuan pressed his lips carefully around her injury and kissed her forehead, murmuring: “All I want is to treat you well. But you keep doing things that move me — and then I feel as though I still haven’t been good enough to you.”

Wen Xia looked lovely when she smiled. She took Li Zechuan’s hand in both of hers, fingers interlacing tightly, as though determined never to let go: “It’s all right. We have the rest of our lives. You’ll have more than enough time to make it up to me.”

By the time the group made it back to the old grandmother’s house, dawn was already breaking. The large dog crouched at the doorway, watching them warily, but did not bark again. Nuobu had already returned. He reported that the old grandmother’s condition was serious — she was still unconscious. The little brother had been frightened and had also come down with a fever. Qu Zhen was keeping watch at the hospital. Her parents — the old grandmother’s son and daughter-in-law — had already been notified.

Cheng Fei refused to continue with the group and insisted on returning to the Suonan Baohuzhan. Nuobu didn’t try to stop him; he let him go.

At the parting, Qu Zhen had begged them through red-rimmed eyes to please capture Song Qiyuan no matter what. Nuobu later said he would never forget the look in Qu Zhen’s eyes then — whatever affection had once been there had been replaced, measure for measure, by hatred.

Zhaxi also returned — he had escorted the father and son caught illegally collecting salt to the Wudao Liang protection station. Lian Kai gave him a brief summary of events. Li Zechuan spread the map out on the table, pressed his finger to a location, and said: “We need to change direction. We can’t continue toward the Zhuonai Lake protection station. Based on what Song Qiyuan said, Nie Xiaolin plans to go through Kekexili, cut through Tibet, and cross the border. The Tanggula Pass is the only route he can take. Nie Xiaolin and the patrol squad have a long history — he won’t dare use the national highway or the Qingzang road openly, but he won’t stray too far from them either. If we use the Tanggula Pass as our anchor point and track him along the route, we’re bound to find something.”

“The question is, how credible is Song Qiyuan’s information?” Lian Kai said. “That man has a black heart through and through.”

“Nie Xiaolin once used violence against Song Qiyuan,” Li Zechuan said. “My guess is there’s something complicated between them. What Song Qiyuan most wants to see is the two of us locked in a fight where both sides lose. He and we share one thing in common — neither of us wants Nie Xiaolin to slip across that border and go free.”

Lian Kai still looked uncertain. Li Zechuan went on: “Nie Xiaolin first put out word that he’d received an order from overseas — a client specifically requesting antelope hides, at a very attractive price — drawing our attention toward Kusai Lake and Zhuonai Lake, the main calving grounds in the heart of Kekexili. Then he doubled back the opposite direction and made straight for the Tanggula Pass along the national road. It was a smart plan — except he didn’t account for Song Qiyuan being a thorn in his side.”

Zhaxi nodded: “I think Dachuan is right.”

“The antelope calving season is at its peak, and there’s more than one patrol squad circling the area,” Ke Lie said from where he sat nearby, cleaning his rifle. He interjected: “We could temporarily detach ourselves from the main effort, take the Yanshiping and Tanggula Pass corridor as our axis, and conduct focused patrols along that stretch. Hand Zhuonai Lake off to the other teams. At the same time, we notify the Tibet side to set up a checkpoint along the provincial boundary. Whether Nie Xiaolin is after the antelope or trying to cross over, he won’t get away.”

(3)

With the plan settled, the patrol squad moved quickly. Lian Kai took charge of coordinating with the other patrol teams and the Tibet authorities, bringing them up to speed. Times had changed, equipment had improved — the patrol squads were all equipped with satellite phones now, though whether the signal would actually connect was a matter of fate.

Nuobu and Ke Lie inventoried the remaining ammunition and provisions, checked over the vehicles, and made any necessary repairs on the spot.

Fang Wenqing stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, her expression unreadable.

Wen Xia said: “Cheng Fei has already headed back. What about you? Will you keep going?”

“Of course,” Fang Wenqing said, watching her with a look that carried a hint of something dry. “I still want to find out just how worthy of admiration he really is.”

Just as before, Fang Wenqing placed particular weight on the word “find out,” as though it were a challenge.

The wound along Wen Xia’s side sent a long, dragging ache through her. She had no patience for sparring with Fang Wenqing and turned to go back inside.

Fang Wenqing called out after her, her tone and expression both carrying the air of someone who enjoyed watching events unfold: “You’re injured, aren’t you? Didn’t I say so? That you might end up dying for him out here — does that not seem rather fitting in hindsight?”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to choose your words carefully?” Li Zechuan appeared without warning, hands still dirty, rinsing them off beneath the cold water pipe, his voice mild but unhurried. “If you really have nothing of value to say, then don’t say anything. It’s genuinely very tiresome.”

Fang Wenqing, caught short, gave a cold laugh and turned away.

Before leaving, the group tidied up the old grandmother’s small home as best they could — leaving it as neat as possible, though the broken table, chairs, and light fixture were beyond repair. The little Tibetan dog, which had been bundled up like a little ice cream cone, had passed away at some point, lying there without a sound. Wen Xia felt a pang of sorrow and joined Nuobu in finding a clean spot to bury the little creature.

Not knowing when the old grandmother might be discharged from hospital, Wen Xia filled the large dog’s bowl to the brim with food, hoping it wouldn’t go hungry.

Li Zechuan said: “Don’t worry. Tibetan mastiffs aren’t just cold-resistant — they can go without food for remarkable stretches. Even after ten days without eating, their bark is still as loud as ever. They were bred in the harshest and most bitter places on earth. Fighting spirit comes naturally to them.”

Wen Xia smiled: “That actually sounds quite a lot like you.”

Li Zechuan turned the comment over in his mind, trying to figure out why it felt slightly off. Nuobu called out from nearby: “Brother Sang Ji, can’t you tell? Xiao Xia is calling you a dog!”

Lian Kai swatted Nuobu on the back of the head: “Grown-ups are talking. Children should stay out of it.”

Nuobu’s face crumpled with aggrieved protest, but the others broke into laughter — even Ke Lie allowed himself the smallest turn of the lips.

With everyone’s backs turned, Li Zechuan quietly tucked some money under the tea tray on the small table. The old grandmother had opened her home in good faith to offer them shelter from the storm, and had ended up caught in their chaos. He couldn’t make his peace with letting it go unaddressed. Then an arm appeared from the side — Lian Kai pressed some money under the tray as well, saying: “You shouldn’t have to carry it alone.”

Li Zechuan smiled and knocked his fist against Lian Kai’s.

The sunlight was good. The mood was good. The patrol squad set out on the road once more.

The sky stretched high and blue. The vehicles roared forward. The wind, for once, was left behind. In the distance, mountain ranges wore caps of brilliant white — perpetual frozen snow, unmelted through the ages. Animals crossed the open land in herds — Tibetan wild donkeys, or perhaps white-lipped deer — their hooves kicking up vast curtains of dust. Eagles wheeled overhead, their cries carrying far and wide.

Here and there, mani stone cairns appeared, and prayer flags in five vivid colors snapped in the wind, their bright hues bringing something gentle to the stark open land.

Li Zechuan made a deliberate stop to let Wen Xia pick up a stone and add it to a mani cairn, a gesture said to bring good fortune and long life. Fang Wenqing raised her camera and took a few photographs, then added a stone of her own. Nuobu and Lian Kai followed suit. Zhaxi pressed his palms together and recited a short passage of scripture.

In the sunlight, Zhaxi’s dark face was dusted with a faint and quiet radiance — flickering, luminous, reverent. It was the mark of a people.

Ke Lie alone remained where he stood, absorbed in watching something. Li Zechuan followed his gaze — and saw them. Pairs of long, slender, whip-black, lustrous horns.

Tibetan antelopes. A whole herd of them. Several hundred strong. Their tawny-golden fur shimmered like drifting sand. Far away, they ran and lived — vast and free.

All the hardship they had endured, all the nights sleeping rough in wind and weather — this was what it had been for. No slaughter. No blood. All living things quietly and peacefully going about their lives, each one held safely in the world.

Ke Lie said quietly: “How beautiful.”

Li Zechuan stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him: “There will be more and more of them, as time goes on. Our efforts haven’t been wasted.”

The eagles spread their wings. Somewhere, a bar-headed goose called. The spirit was bathed clean. The air through the lungs was clear. On the wind came the sound of singing — someone’s voice, distant:

Who gazes day and night toward the blue sky above Who yearns for a dream that would last forever Could it be there are still songs of praise to be sung Or that solemn and unchanging grandeur of old ……

Further on, all signs of human life fell away. They could only make camp near water sources when they needed to rest. Toward evening, they found a small lake — most likely a seasonal lake formed by mountain snowmelt. Its surface reflected the color of the sky, a gemstone blue, glinting with faint ripples, like the mirror of someone beautiful.

Nuobu sighed with feeling: “How stunning!”

Wen Xia looked toward Fang Wenqing and said, smiling: “Could I trouble you to take a photo of me?”

Perhaps the scenery had softened her mood — Fang Wenqing’s face carried a trace of a smile. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and nodded: “Of course. What sort of shot did you have in mind?”

Wen Xia said “just a moment” and turned to retrieve something from the truck. She raised both hands high and unfurled it into the wind — a Tibetan-style wrap, deep red at the base, embroidered all over with interlocking geometric patterns, ornate and richly beautiful, full of character.

The wind picked up. The lake surface shimmered. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of chanting sutras — like an echo drifting back from the snow mountains, still and peaceful. The water was blue, the sky almost translucent. Wild grass reached above the knee. Prayer flags fluttered. Galsang flowers bloomed wild across the hillside.

Fang Wenqing adjusted her camera settings with care, pressed her hand to the shutter button, and peered through the viewfinder.

Wen Xia threw her arms wide and released the wrap. The wind caught it, carried it upward, turning it in folds and billows before it descended, light and slow.

Li Zechuan was standing closest. The wrap fell and draped over his head. He breathed in a faint, clean fragrance — like galsang flowers. Wen Xia was enveloped beneath it alongside him. In the darkness, something pressed gently against his lips. It was a kiss, soft as breath.

The shutter clicked — clear and crisp — and the moment was frozen.

The red Tibetan wrap concealed both their faces. But the girl’s raised tiptoe told the entire story.

Darkness over the eyes. Wind-horse flags and five-colored prayer banners crackled and rustled at their ears. Wen Xia held his hand and said softly: “May we keep this love for the whole of our lives.”

Li Zechuan felt his heartbeat fall out of rhythm. He pressed his lips to her forehead: “Yes — to love each other, for all our lives.”

The photograph appeared on the camera’s display screen. Fang Wenqing looked at it for a moment, then said flatly: “So childish.”

Though the words themselves held no mockery, and no contempt could be detected in her voice or expression.

The sky deepened. Everyone began to busy themselves making a fire and cooking. Wen Xia picked up a bottle and went to the lakeside to fetch water. Li Zechuan had circled about halfway around the lake and stepped in to stop her with a hand on her shoulder: “Leave it. The water can’t be drunk.”

Wen Xia was puzzled: “Why not?”

Li Zechuan raised a hand and pointed: “No fish in the lake. No birds on the lake. No hoofprints along the bank from animals coming to drink. The water likely contains an excess of minerals. It’s toxic.”

Fortunately, before leaving the old grandmother’s home, Lian Kai had filled a clean plastic canister with ten liters of water — enough that the group wouldn’t go thirsty. Even so, it would need to be rationed. Who could say when they’d next find drinkable fresh water.

Ke Lie built up a fire. Dried flatbread was threaded on sticks and held over the flames to toast, along with corn and potatoes. Everyone sat gathered around the fire, their shadows stretching across the sandy earth. Wen Xia was struck by a whim and began making hand shadow puppets in the firelight. Nuobu, still young at heart, came scrambling over to join in — rabbits, little deer, and snails.

Wen Xia suddenly spread her hands over Li Zechuan’s head and laughed: “Look! A turtle!”

Four fingers for the claws, one for the head, swaying left and right — surprisingly lifelike.

The group fell apart with laughter. Li Zechuan laughed too — in exasperation. He dug out a potato from the fire and tossed it at Wen Xia while it was still hot. Wen Xia caught it, cried out at the burn, and frantically passed it back and forth between both palms, not daring to grip it firmly.

The mood was wonderful. Lian Kai said: “Dachuan, did you bring your harmonica? Play us something.”

Li Zechuan knew quite a few instruments — harmonica, guitar, drum kit. Wen Xia had seen him play the drums: electronic sound, driving rhythm, heat and sweat, alcohol, lights cutting chaotic patterns through the dark, and in the middle of it all, he was the only thing the eye could rest on. Sweat slid along his skin and disappeared past the open collar of his shirt.

That reckless, wild young man seemed to have been buried alongside his mother’s death, lowered into the ground with her.

Wen Xia looked at Li Zechuan, and felt a sudden tenderness for him. He sensed her gaze and smiled slightly, then ruffled Wen Xia’s hair and told Lian Kai: “What do you want to hear?”

Nobody could think of a song that seemed particularly suited to the moment, so they left it up to him.

The harmonica was black, wrapped in a piece of soft cloth, polished to a shine all over. Li Zechuan raised it to his lips, thought for a moment, and began to play.

The tune was fierce. It scattered into the wind, carrying with it the taste of heavy snowstorms.

Wen Xia recognized it from the first few bars and began to hum along, quietly, following the melody of the harmonica. She sang the first line of lyrics, and Nuobu joined in, then Lian Kai —

White clouds, blue sky Back in those days long ago A crowd of loud and boisterous young men Covered in dust, ambition aimed at the horizon Never asking how deep or how far the world went

Ke Lie poked at the fire with a stick, stoking the flames. Warm red light reflected across everyone’s faces and eyes, full of ardor and sincerity.

The harmonica and the voices wove together and carried far across the open plain —

The young men who set out into the wind With fire blazing in their eyes Sprinting wild through mountain and field A brilliant sun blazing above their heads

The full patrol squad sang together. Their voices weren’t the most polished — but every note rang with force. Fang Wenqing stood up, positioned herself at the edge of the group, raised her camera, and took a photograph.

After days of relentless travel and hardship, everyone wore exhaustion on their faces and grime on their clothes — yet their eyes were still bright, like the sun at first rising, radiant and clear and utterly unguarded.

What were they doing all this for?

Fang Wenqing studied the image on the display screen and turned the question over in her mind.

For the money? That small monthly stipend?

For the fame? A photograph in the newspaper, with their faces and names removed?

Not for recognition, not for reward — then for what?

Especially Wen Xia and Li Zechuan, who had no reason to be out here, who could have had far better lives elsewhere.

Fang Wenqing looked toward Wen Xia, full of questions. The young woman was too shy to lean against Li Zechuan’s shoulder in front of everyone, but her fingers had quietly wound themselves into the hem of his jacket. Li Zechuan peeled the skin off a toasted potato, blew on it gently to cool it down, and held it up to Wen Xia’s lips. Wen Xia bit straight from his hand and gasped at the heat.

Lian Kai burst out laughing without the slightest pretense of tact. Wen Xia didn’t mind in the least — she curved her eyes and laughed too.

They were so simple. And so happy. Unmoved by fame, unmoved by wealth. Living only for justice, for integrity without stain.

Where some carried hearts full of self-serving desire, others burned with unclouded and wholehearted righteousness.

Where some inflicted wounds, others moved to mend and save.

Fang Wenqing tilted her head back and saw a sky full of stars. A line came to her, unbidden: When the light is within you, the whole world is bright.

Wen Xia turned and caught sight of her: “Reporter Fang, come and eat something. The temperature’s too low — food goes cold very fast.”

Fang Wenqing nodded. She very much wanted to tell Wen Xia: I understand now. I understand all of it.

The convoy pushed on. The altitude kept climbing. Everyone began to show varying degrees of altitude sickness. Wen Xia was one of the more severely affected — when her headache became unbearable, she hid from Li Zechuan and used a knife to make a small cut along the surface vein of her arm to let a little blood out. This sort of thing was naturally impossible to conceal. When Li Zechuan saw the wound on her arm, he slammed his bowl down in anger.

He found a pain reliever from the first aid kit and fed it to Wen Xia with warm water, then bundled her into the back seat along with an oxygen pack, told her to breathe in the supplemental oxygen and rest quietly.

When they passed through a low-lying clearing sheltered between hills, they found a natural spring with clean, drinkable water. Lian Kai took Nuobu to fill their containers. Zhaxi let out a sharp whistle — everyone followed the sound and discovered signs of an encampment in the windward-sheltered spot: evidence of where someone had set up and made a fire.

Ke Lie made a circuit of the area and found two discarded plastic fuel drums. He unscrewed the caps and sniffed — diesel. Whoever had camped here had brought a diesel generator with them.

Apart from that, there was a great deal of litter scattered about, a disrespectful mess left on the plateau.

Lian Kai said furiously: “Could it be tourists?”

Li Zechuan crouched beside the remains of the fire and poked through the ashes and cinders with a stick. Something rolled out. Everyone looked more closely before they could make it out — a skull, small, like a rabbit’s. Scorched black by fire.

Ke Lie said: “Tourists don’t hunt rabbits and roast them.”

Li Zechuan narrowed his eyes: “We’re going the right way.”

Zhaxi reached beneath the ashes and pressed his palm down: “Still some warmth left. They haven’t gone far.”

Lian Kai spat out the grass he’d been chewing: “After them!”

(4)

The vehicles shot out with the wind. Li Zechuan found his own compound bow, strung it, and propped it within reach. Wen Xia suddenly felt a knot of anxiety tighten in her chest. The altitude sickness had left her lips bloodlessly pale, and her eyes were brimming with worry.

Li Zechuan placed one hand on the steering wheel and pressed the other gently over her eyes: “Don’t look at me like that. The arrow is nocked. I can’t afford even a moment of hesitation or doubt.”

Wen Xia reached up and covered his hand where it rested over her eyes. She gripped it firmly, nodded: “I understand.”

How much longer passed, she couldn’t say. Then a long-distance transport van appeared in their field of vision, coming toward them, heading directly at the patrol squad. The windows of the van were covered with blackout film — impossible to see what was inside.

Li Zechuan activated the two-way radio: “Have them stop. If anything sudden happens — don’t open fire unless we’ve confirmed it’s Nie Xiaolin. Gunfire carries too far out here. We don’t want to spook the real quarry before we’re ready.”

Everyone confirmed: “Understood.”

Nuobu and Lian Kai pulled the off-road vehicle sideways across the road to form a barricade, then waved the transport van’s driver to signal him to stop.

The van clearly slowed first — but when it was less than fifty meters from Lian Kai and Nuobu, the driver suddenly floored the accelerator. The vehicle surged forward like a horse broken free, hurtling straight at the two of them.

Zhaxi roared: “Watch out!”

In a flash of pure instinct, Lian Kai slammed his shoulder into Nuobu and shoved him clear, then pressed himself flat against the van’s hood and threw himself into a sideways roll — just barely clear. His footing gave out on landing, and he staggered and went down.

The van slammed into the barricaded off-road vehicle with a deafening bang, ramming it aside like it was nothing. Wheels spun, throwing up blinding curtains of dust and grit. In the instant the two vehicles collided, the van’s speed dropped fractionally. Li Zechuan drew the bow and nocked an arrow in one fluid motion. The arrow left the string with a thin, quiet whisper and punched through the van’s rear tire — the tire blew with a crack.

A vehicle with a blown tire slows sharply. Ke Lie moved with the quickness of a leopard. No one else had time to register what he was doing before he had already seized the side mirror, vaulted off it, and landed on the van’s hood.

Fast in the telling; faster still in the doing. Every movement completed in an instant.

The driver saw first a pair of eyes — cold, translucent, with a chill that cut to the bone. Then an explosion of sound. Ke Lie swung his pistol grip and smashed through the windshield. Razor-edged fragments scattered like snow, some finding the driver’s eyes. The driver screamed in pain. Ke Lie’s lips were pressed into a thin line; his hand shot in through the opening, seized the driver by his collar, and slammed his head hard against the steering wheel.

A single, dull impact.

The van finally stopped. Unexpectedly, there was only one person inside — the driver. He had injured his eyes, and blood covered his face. He dropped to his knees and cried out in pain.

Li Zechuan made a rapid sweep of the surrounding area in every direction. The open plain stretched out to the horizon, wide and bare. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Zhaxi pried open the luggage compartment and found several yak hides inside an iron drum, along with a few hunting rifles of the type hunters made themselves, rounds already chambered.

Lian Kai grabbed him by the collar and said in a low, hard voice: “Illegal possession of firearms is already a crime. Cooperate and you may receive lenient treatment. Where is Nie Xiaolin?”

The man flailed his arms in every direction, howling in pain: “I don’t know! I don’t know anything! My eyes — my eyes!”

Li Zechuan’s gaze settled into something dark and heavy, saturated with a smoldering fury. He seized the driver’s collar with both hands, leaned in close to his ear, and said something very quietly.

The driver went rigid for one second, then became even more frantic, all four limbs scrabbling convulsively at the ground beneath him, screaming repeatedly: “You wouldn’t dare! I don’t believe you’d go that far!”

Li Zechuan said nothing. His eyes were cold, driven by a white-edged fury. He drew his handgun, pressed the muzzle to the driver’s forehead, and chambered a round — a sharp, clean mechanical sound. The driver’s eyes were injured, so his hearing had become acutely heightened in compensation. The sound of the hammer being cocked was, to him, like the quiet sigh of death itself.

Li Zechuan’s index finger rested on the trigger. In his mind, he began counting down.

Three, two…

“Don’t shoot! I’ll talk — I’ll tell you everything!” The driver dissolved into sobs, lunged forward, and wrapped himself around Li Zechuan’s legs. “You were closing in too fast. The people who were supposed to get Nie Xiaolin across the border wouldn’t show themselves. He got nervous, gave me money, and told me to provoke you — and then lead you away!”

Li Zechuan’s brow furrowed. He shoved the man away with his boot, somewhat irritated, and stepped aside. Ke Lie instinctively moved into the space he vacated, a ghost of motion disturbing the air as he went. Li Zechuan glanced at Ke Lie. Ke Lie’s expression was unchanged, his eyes steady. Li Zechuan was about to say something — and in that precise instant, a bullet passed through Ke Lie’s head. A bright bloom of crimson erupted.

The whole world went silent. Wind, snow, the circling eagles — all of it drained to black and white, a backdrop without sound. The bloodstain on Ke Lie’s body was the only color remaining — the only thing that could still cut the eye.

Blood dripped into the earth, each drop punching a tiny dimple into the ground. A tall, slender silhouette fell, striking the earth with a sound that was unnervingly muffled.

Nuobu screamed, the sound tearing out from somewhere deep and raw: “Ke Lie!”

Nuobu tried to lunge forward — to reach that fallen figure, to hold onto him, to make him stand back up.

Li Zechuan was shaken for less than a second. Then a rage and grief of enormous proportion tore through him like an explosion. He seized Nuobu by the back of the collar and dragged both of them rolling behind the vehicle, taking cover, while bellowing commands at everyone: “Stay down! Sniper!”

Lian Kai pulled Fang Wenqing and Wen Xia in behind the off-road vehicle. Zhaxi’s eyes had gone blood-red. He tightened his grip on his rifle.

Wind swept across the open plain. The cold reached through to the bone. Despair began to spread — rising, circling above them.

“Ke Lie!”

Nuobu was crying so hard his face was drenched. He struggled and fought against Li Zechuan’s hold, trying to break free. His nostrils were flooded with the smell of blood and the taste of tears.

Ke Lie lay there — only a few steps away — eyes still open, blood seeping out and spreading beneath him in a wide, dark stain, like an embrace.

“Wake up! Don’t sleep! I’m begging you — look at me!” Nuobu broke down completely, hands and feet trembling, his throat producing a raw, hoarse sound.

Li Zechuan’s own eyes were burning red. He wanted to cry too. He wanted to shout it out. But not now.

Nuobu could fall apart. He could not. Nuobu could give in to what he felt, without restraint. He could not.

He had to look after the people still alive. He had already lost one. He could not lose another.

A bitter taste spread through his mouth — he must have bitten through his lip. Li Zechuan’s brow was pulled into a deep, hard furrow, and his eyes were an inferno.

Another bullet came — it clipped past Nuobu’s head and punched into the car door, showering sparks.

Nuobu had gone numb. He only looked at Ke Lie, hand outstretched toward him, waiting for a response that would never come.

Li Zechuan could barely hold Nuobu back. In the end he swung his fist and struck Nuobu hard at the side of his neck. Nuobu went half-limp and fell, face pressing into the dirt — tears, mucus, and muffled sobs all soaking into the ground.

Li Zechuan raised his binoculars and looked in the direction the shots had come from. In the distance, tucked inside a clump of dry scrub grass, something was catching the light and glinting repeatedly. He turned back and knocked twice against the car door. Zhaxi, hearing the signal, threw his rifle over. Li Zechuan caught it cleanly and raised it, looking through the scope — pure black, stifled, seething with barely contained fury.

He found himself, for a moment, thinking of all the times he used to hand the long-range shooting assignments to Ke Lie. Ke Lie was a natural marksman. He had just been commended with a third-class merit citation — the formal public recognition hadn’t even been announced yet.

Ke Lie rarely spoke. He was always cold and distant. But he was always there — steady, quiet, loyal, brave, a mountain range guarding this stretch of earth.

Such a brilliant young man. Gone, just like that, taken by a single bullet, never to return.

The taste of blood in his mouth grew heavier. Li Zechuan clenched his teeth and made a signal toward Lian Kai. Lian Kai nodded, pulled off his outer jacket, balanced it on the tip of a knife blade, and extended it out past the edge of cover — exposing it to the sniper’s line of sight.

The bullet came instantly, punching into the jacket. Cotton stuffing burst outward, drifting through the air like dandelion seeds — white, weightless, like a mourning banner. Through the scope, Li Zechuan detected the slightest ripple of movement. He pulled the trigger without hesitation. A burst of red bloomed in the dry scrub grass in the distance.

“I hit him,” Li Zechuan said urgently. “Lian Kai, Zhaxi — go! Now!”

“Yes!”

Lian Kai and Zhaxi sprang from behind cover, scrambled into the cab, fired the engine, and the vehicle shot out across the open ground like a dragon unleashed.

Li Zechuan made himself not look at Ke Lie’s body. He reached down and hauled Nuobu upright. Nuobu’s eyes had gone vacant and glassy, filled entirely with tears, and he kept repeating: “Brother Sang Ji — Ke Lie is gone…”

Li Zechuan felt a pain like being cut open, as though both his soul and his heart were being torn apart. His face showed nothing. He raised his hand and slapped Nuobu hard across the face.

Nuobu, as though he hadn’t fully registered it, still said the same thing: “Brother Sang Ji — Ke Lie is gone…”

Li Zechuan’s lips were pressed shut, his eyes very red — but dry. He raised his hand again. A second slap. Blood broke at the corner of Nuobu’s mouth. Then a third. A fourth.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Wen Xia threw herself forward, trying to stop him.

Li Zechuan shoved her aside with his free hand. Slowly, a flicker of awareness returned to Nuobu’s eyes. He stared at Li Zechuan as though he’d been deeply, grievously wronged. Li Zechuan raised his hand one last time, slowly and gently, and wiped the tears from Nuobu’s face: “Are you back with me?”

Nuobu nodded. His voice was rough and raw, but the crying had stopped: “I’m back.”

“Good. Listen to me,” Li Zechuan said, his voice low and deliberate. “Take the injured driver, Ke Lie, and both of the women, and go to Yanshiping. The driver’s eyes need treatment, then he’s to be handed over to the local law enforcement to be processed. Wait for me at Yanshiping. I’ll get there as fast as I can, and we’ll regroup.”

He did not say “the body.” He still called him by name — Ke Lie — as though that man were still alive, still fighting.

Nuobu slowly closed his eyes. His throat worked. Li Zechuan pressed a hand to the back of his neck and brought his face in against his own shoulder. He felt the boy shaking beneath his hand — fine, uncontrollable tremors — and a cry compressed somewhere deep in his throat, so desperate.

After a moment, he heard Nuobu’s voice: “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of them.”

The cheerful, restless boy who had always chased after Li Zechuan calling him “Brother Sang Ji” seemed to grow up in an instant. Steadiness displaced fragility, and behind his eyes a resolve began to take shape and push toward the light.

Li Zechuan gripped Nuobu’s shoulder hard, then turned.

He saw Fang Wenqing. She had been shaken — her gaze had lost some of its focus — though overall she was holding herself together.

Li Zechuan said: “This is as far as you come. I can’t guarantee your safety if you go any further. Go with Nuobu to Yanshiping. Whatever you want to know — when this is over, I’ll tell you everything myself.”

All the edges in Fang Wenqing’s manner seemed to retract at once. She nodded quietly: “All right. I’ll do what you say.”

Li Zechuan moved past her. Fang Wenqing suddenly closed her hand around his wrist and said, very low: “You have to come back.”

Li Zechuan paused mid-step and looked at her.

Fang Wenqing managed to hold together a small, careful smile: “Don’t misread it. As an ordinary colleague — I want you to come back safely.”

“Thank you,” Li Zechuan said, nodding. “I will.”

With everyone else seen to, the last was Wen Xia.

Li Zechuan walked over to her, and looked at her in silence, for a long moment.

Wen Xia deliberately averted her gaze, looking out into the distance — to where the snow mountains and eagles lived. She said: “I told you. Wherever you are, I’ll be.”

Li Zechuan cupped her chin and brought her gaze back to him, back to his face. His eyes and voice were equally certain — almost cold in their steadiness: “Where Ke Lie fell just now — that was where I was standing. The one Nie Xiaolin wanted to kill is me. I’ve already cost one person their life. I won’t cost another. Do as I say. Go to Yanshiping. Wait there for me. I will come back.”

Wen Xia’s eyes flared: “I—”

Before she could finish, Li Zechuan suddenly reached out and locked his hand behind her head, pulling her sharply toward him. Wen Xia had no time to react — she was met by cold lips, and a kiss.

Their breath mingled with the brittle cold of the air. Skin against skin, neither warming the other. Wen Xia froze in place, but she didn’t struggle. She let Li Zechuan press deep, searching and thorough.

In that half-dazed moment, something cold touched her wrist. Wen Xia was jolted alert — on instinct she tried to push Li Zechuan away. There was a metallic clank, and something snapped shut around her right wrist, holding it fast.

A handcuff, glinting silver in the light — one end around Wen Xia’s wrist, the other locked to the crossbar of the truck.

Wen Xia wrenched at it violently, metal against metal, a clamor of crashing noise. She screamed until her voice broke, eyes brimming with tears: “Li Zechuan! You bastard! Let me go! You bastard!”

Li Zechuan did not look back at her. He turned and tossed the handcuff key to Nuobu: “Look after them.”

“Li Zechuan!” Wen Xia screamed at his back, her voice splintering with the sound of tears. “I’ll hate you for the rest of my life!”

Li Zechuan pulled open the driver’s door. He didn’t turn around. His voice was perfectly quiet: “Love or hate — whichever it is, as long as either one can hold you for a lifetime — that’s enough for me.”