A single shot ended it cleanly — there was no time to feel pain. Ke Lie’s expression remained as it always had been: cold, composed. Nuobu’s hand trembled as he raised it, brushing over Ke Lie’s eyes, easing them shut.

Sunlight fell in sharp, clear streams. The wind howled. An eagle soared overhead, the beat of its wings cutting through the air with piercing clarity.

Nuobu pressed his face against Ke Lie’s chest and listened carefully for a long moment. He wanted to find some trace of a heartbeat. He wanted him to still be alive.

But there was only silence — deep, endless, and still.

Tears threatened to spill again. Nuobu raised his hand and struck himself across the face, scattering them before they could fall. He did not ask Fang Wenqing for help. Alone, he carried Ke Lie’s body and lifted it into the back of the truck. Afraid that Ke Lie might sleep uncomfortably, he found a blanket, folded it neatly, and tucked it beneath his head as a pillow.

The young man lay quietly there, his long lashes lowered, his features handsome. Nuobu gently wiped away the blood that had seeped from the corner of his mouth, leaving him clean.

“Sleep now, Brother Ke Lie.” Nuobu brushed the dust from Ke Lie’s shoulder, his voice soft. “I know you’re tired. Sleep.”

Nuobu found himself thinking, inexplicably, of the song they had all sung together — the final lines of that song:

Strong spirits burn through ice-cold blood, The wind laughs and slices the rainy night, The young man who fades into the wind — When will we ever meet again?

The young man who fades away — when will we ever meet again? Some farewells, it turns out, become final ones just like that…

Fang Wenqing leaned against the truck door, watching quietly for a moment, then said abruptly: “Was it worth it? He was still so young.”

Nuobu didn’t turn around, and didn’t snap back. He had truly grown up. Calmly, he said: “You are not one of us. You wouldn’t understand.”

You have never stood where we stand. You have never truly read this land. And so you would not understand — our perseverance and our honor, our conviction and our struggle, carried without regret.

Wen Xia was still handcuffed to the crossbar. Nuobu gripped the key tightly and said: “Xiao Xia, you have to promise to listen to me before I’ll let you go. Brother Sang Ji put you in my care — I’m responsible for you.”

Wen Xia had long since screamed herself hoarse. She said nothing, only gave a silent nod, her eyes dim, her expression complicated.

Nuobu sighed, stepped forward, slid the key into the lock, and turned it gently. A soft click.

The moment Wen Xia was free, she reached to Nuobu’s waist, drew the handgun holstered there, quickly disengaged the safety, and pressed it against her own head.

There was no surprise on Nuobu’s face — only exhaustion. He said: “Xiao Xia, don’t do this.”

Wen Xia said: “Get me a hiking pack. Fill it with water, food, a first-aid kit, oxygen bags, and a compass. I’m going to find him.”

Nuobu said: “Xiao Xia, you saw it yourself — the patrol team had four vehicles in total. Brother Sang Ji only left one for us. He did it on purpose. He doesn’t want you to go off alone. Come with me to Yanshiping — wait for them there. They’ll come back.”

Wen Xia didn’t yield. Her index finger rested on the trigger. “You have three seconds to decide — either give me what I need, or watch me die.”

Nuobu had known from the start that he couldn’t stop her, so he stopped trying. He prepared the hiking pack according to her specifications and tossed it over. Calmly, he said: “There are no spare vehicles. You’ll have to go on foot. The terrain here shifts constantly — it’s easy to get lost. Keep your reference points in sight at all times. Don’t let them leave your field of vision. Keep the gun — for self-defense. And… stay safe.”

The wind churned up the sand and dust, vast and endless, blurring Wen Xia’s face and whatever expression she wore. Nuobu could only hear her voice as she said: “I told you — I have never been someone who knows how to wait. No matter what, if he dares leave me behind, I’ll give him a slap for it. He shouldn’t have ignored what I said.”

The wind was cold. Wen Xia stood where she was, watching as Nuobu walked away and disappeared. In the truck were Fang Wenqing, the injured driver, and Ke Lie — sleeping forever now.

Thinking of Ke Lie sent a pain through her chest, one that refused to be wiped away.

She hadn’t been at the protection station long, and had rarely spoken with Ke Lie. The one time they truly talked had been that evening — she had invited him to Beijing, promised they would visit Tiananmen together and then go for hot pot. She had even thought that Ke Lie and Wen’er would get along well, and she would have to introduce them.

There would never be another chance for that now.

Wen Xia pulled on her hat, tightened her goggles and face mask, and bundled herself up completely. Tears fell against her goggles, froze into ice, then evaporated into frost.

She did not dare imagine whether Li Zechuan might end up like Ke Lie. She did not dare picture that man falling. So she simply didn’t think about it — she just kept her head down and pushed forward.

Wen Xia confirmed her general direction with the compass. Suddenly, her ears caught something. She stood still and listened. Gunshots.

In the vast stillness of the wilderness, gunshots could travel over ridges and around hillsides, carrying for great distances.

She bit her lip, buried every trace of weakness and fear, and walked toward the direction the sound had come from.

She had to find him. No matter what condition he was in. No matter when.

Snow began to fall. The wind grew stronger and stronger. Sand and snow mixed together, dropping visibility to almost nothing.

Somewhere in the distance, a large predator cried out — impossible to tell whether wolf or bear. The sound was mournful, like the end of the world.

The sniper was draped in a hand-made ghillie suit, lying prone in a cluster of dead grass, indistinguishable from a plant. Unless he fired, he was nearly impossible to detect. Li Zechuan’s shot had struck him in the shoulder and at the same time exposed his hiding spot. The sniper had no desire to prolong the fight — he leapt into a jeep and fled.

The jeep was coated in desert camouflage and further concealed beneath a ghillie cover of shredded cloth and burlap, which was why it had gone unnoticed.

Lian Kai and Zhaxi each drove their own vehicles and quickly caught up, giving chase. The terrain was rough and jagged — all three vehicles moved at moderate speed, unable to pull ahead and unable to shake loose. They were locked in a stalemate.

The chase led them around a sheltered mountain hollow. In one corner of the hollow, three vehicles were parked, with eight or nine people gathered around them. The sniper rolled down his window and shouted: “Boss, help me!”

Song Qiyuan heard the cry first and rose to his feet. His face was even paler than it had been in recent days. He let out a suppressed cough, and his lips curved into a cold, sinister smile.

So they’ve followed us here, just as expected.

A short, stocky man exploded in furious curses: “Useless trash! I told you to take them out — not lead them straight to us!”

The one speaking was Nie Xiaolin.

When enemies meet face to face, Lian Kai’s eyes went cold, the whites flooding with red.

The sniper was shouting too: “Boss, they’re outnumbered! We can still take them out right now!”

Lian Kai floored the accelerator in a surge of reckless speed. Something came hurtling through the air and smashed against the windshield with a heavy crack, pale yellow liquid spreading across the glass.

A familiar smell reached his nostrils. Diesel.

A moment later, someone raised a rifle and squeezed off several shots. The tracer rounds struck the diesel-soaked windshield. With a thunderous blast, black smoke engulfed raging tongues of flame — the front of the vehicle was swallowed in fire in an instant.

Lian Kai didn’t bail out immediately. He roared, his eyes blazing with iron and fire, pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor, veins rising across his forehead like thick cords, and drove straight through the warm yellow flames, ramming toward the densest cluster of enemies. Ke Lie’s face flickered before him — that forever-composed young man, the good brother who had fought at his side for years…

Fury and grief crashed over Lian Kai in a wave. Life and death ceased to matter.

Nie Xiaolin’s men scattered in all directions. Bullets hammered the body of Lian Kai’s vehicle like rain, leaving unmistakable marks. Spent casings flew in every direction, still smoking. One man was too slow — flames caught the hem of his jacket and spread rapidly. He screamed and rolled desperately across the ground. Zhaxi reached his arm out through the window, extended the dark barrel of his gun, and put an end to the man’s suffering.

The fire burned freely. With a tremendous boom, black smoke lifted a red mushroom cloud skyward. The air was thick with the acrid reek of burning. The scorching heat seared the skin.

Someone was crying. Someone was screaming. Song Qiyuan moved among them, unhurried, keeping pace — he seemed to have little investment in escaping, made no real effort to fight back, and appeared entirely indifferent to everything around him. Breathing had grown difficult. He let out a muffled cough and spat — and what landed on the ground was unmistakably red with blood.

Nie Xiaolin struck him across the face with a sharp slap. “Useless! Get up there and take them out!”

Song Qiyuan’s head snapped to one side from the blow. He shook it slowly, trying to clear the dizziness, then picked up his gun and walked toward the burning vehicle.

The fire burned higher and higher, edging steadily toward the fuel tank. Lian Kai had no choice but to abandon the vehicle. He threw open the door, rolled as he hit the ground, and before he had even stopped moving he was already raising his gun and firing. The barrel spat flame. Those who were hit collapsed to the ground, wailing and weeping, their faces streaked with tears and mucus. The smell of gunpowder hit like a wall. The hollow had become a killing ground.

The wind howled. Snow fell in wild, uneven flurries. The pure white could not cover the warm crimson. Metal threw off blinding light in the sun.

The mountains and the plains fell silent. A battle with no retreat — no one here had any way out.

Zhaxi’s vehicle blew a tire. He leapt out. Someone kicked his wrist and the gun was knocked from his hand. It didn’t matter — he still had his knife. The blade of the cold weapon shimmered with a frigid light, dense with the color of iron, and when it met steel the sound rang out like weapons clashing on an ancient battlefield.

Two men closed in to surround him. Zhaxi let out a furious shout and swung the long blade in a wide horizontal arc. The poachers’ improvised rifle was cleaved in two. Sparks flew and scorched his eyes.

The enemy was unnerved by the ferocity in Zhaxi’s bearing. Their faces showed fear. Zhaxi’s eyes were red, and in his chest surged a tide of fierce pride mingled with grief and fury.

He thought of Ke Lie — his blood brother, the one who lived and died alongside him. If Ke Lie were here, he would have been a formidable partner. His aim was always steady. Eight hundred meters, and every shot found its mark.

But he was gone now.

He would never come back.

A bullet grazed Zhaxi’s shoulder. He drove his fist with full force into his attacker’s throat. The sound of shattering bone was unnervingly clear. Iron and fire. Life and death. The blood in his whole body was boiling. Snow landed in the wound — cold and stinging.

Song Qiyuan drew a bead on Lian Kai’s head from behind. But he was far too ill — his hand would not stop shaking. Three shots all went wide. When he squeezed the trigger a fourth time, there was only a soft mechanical click of the firing pin striking empty metal. He was out of ammunition.

Lian Kai was grappled by someone and thrown to the ground. Song Qiyuan walked over, drew the short knife at his hip, and pressed the blade against the side of Lian Kai’s neck. A gunshot tore through the air. Song Qiyuan felt a sudden, searing pain in his upper arm. A Land Wind vehicle came roaring into view. Li Zechuan’s eyes were flooded with iron, a dark current churning in their depths, bottomless.

Song Qiyuan spat in contempt, clutched his arm, and climbed into the one vehicle that was still intact. Nie Xiaolin, covered by his men, came running over, seized Song Qiyuan by the collar, pressed a gun barrel against his head, and struck him again. Nie Xiaolin’s face was contorted, his expression savage as he screamed: “Thinking of running and leaving me here alone? Dream on! If I die, none of you get to live! Drive! Protect me and get me out of here!”

Song Qiyuan ran his tongue over his split lip, planted his foot hard on the accelerator. The rear-view mirror caught a glimpse of his own eyes — filled with dark, brooding menace.

The engine roared. Lian Kai was still pinned down, unable to break free. He bellowed: “Da Chuan! Go after Nie Xiaolin! Now!”

Li Zechuan’s eyes had been searching for the sniper who had fired from hiding. He found him quickly — he spotted the man climbing into a jeep behind Nie Xiaolin. The wheels kicked up a churning wall of sand and dust. Li Zechuan wrenched the steering wheel hard, cutting across at an angle, and latched on tight to the jeep’s rear end. The two vehicles tore off across the uneven terrain, locked together.

The wind was fierce. The snow was heavy. Heaven and earth turned to white.

Li Zechuan accelerated with reckless abandon, driving as though he wanted to push through the floor of the vehicle. The sniper fired erratically behind him. One bullet shattered the windshield and the glass burst apart like rain. A shard carved across his brow bone, leaving a wound over an inch long — barely missing his eye. Wind poured in and slashed across his face like a blade, searing through him, chilling the blood as it froze.

The situation was critical. Li Zechuan suddenly swung into a turn, and the Land Wind vehicle shuddered and vanished from sight. The sniper in the back seat assumed he had been shaken off and was about to breathe a sigh of relief — when a violent gust swept past, and the Land Wind vehicle surged out from a sharp angle, slamming broadside into the jeep’s door.

The tires shrieked against the earth in a high-pitched wail. Nie Xiaolin screamed like a madman, pounding the back of the driver’s seat to urge Song Qiyuan faster. But it was already too late. The Land Wind vehicle drove them relentlessly to the edge of a gully. The gully was not deep, but its slope was steep. Li Zechuan’s eyes were as dark and deep as the sea, beneath his hooded lids there flashed a light keen as a blade’s edge, and he slammed the accelerator once more with savage force. The jeep gave way and overturned, rolling down the steep slope of the gully.

Sand and dust billowed along the way. Heavy snow swirled.

The wind cut sharply. The Land Wind vehicle followed the descent. The jeep lay at the bottom of the gully with all four wheels in the air, trailing black smoke. Gasoline poured out and snaked freely across the ground.

Through the windshield, shattered into a web of cracks, Li Zechuan could see Song Qiyuan’s face — covered in blood, eyes closed, his condition unknown.

Li Zechuan climbed up onto the jeep, landed with a heavy thud, pressed his gun barrel against the fuel tank, and said in a low voice: “Hands on your head. Climb out slowly. Otherwise I will shoot through the tank — nobody walks away.”

“Don’t shoot!” It was the sniper’s voice, ragged and breathless. “I surrender! Don’t shoot!”

First he threw out a homemade rifle, then two short knives. Li Zechuan kicked them far away. The sniper worked himself halfway out through the twisted, mangled window, hands clasped behind his head, his face covered in blood. He began to crawl out slowly, inch by inch.

A faint sound moved inside the vehicle. Li Zechuan stepped aside instantly. A bullet grazed the hem of his jacket and hit the gasoline-soaked ground. Fire erupted and raced along the trail of fuel, blazing straight toward the jeep. A wall of scorching heat rolled outward.

Flames licked the body of the jeep and turned it into a ball of fire in an instant, crackling and roaring.

Nie Xiaolin reached a hand out through the window on the other side, whimpering piteously: “Son — save me, please. I’m trapped!”

He was the one who had fired the shot. He was the one who started the fire. And now he was the one begging to be saved.

Li Zechuan suddenly felt the bitter absurdity of it. Part of him desperately wanted to put a bullet through that man’s skull — but something stopped him. Something heavier.

He cuffed the sniper and left him to one side. Then he circled around, stripped Nie Xiaolin of his weapons, tore off the door, smashed apart the seat that had pinned Nie Xiaolin’s legs, and dragged him clear before the fuel tank could ignite.

The instant they were clear of the jeep, Nie Xiaolin’s expression transformed. He locked his arms around Li Zechuan’s right leg, and something gleamed coldly in his hand — a blade concealed in his sleeve, which he drove with brutal force into Li Zechuan’s knee.

The pain was agonizing beyond measure. Sweat poured from him like rain. Li Zechuan clenched his jaw and made no sound. Nie Xiaolin’s eyes blazed red, his face twisted and savage as he lunged forward to wrench the gun from Li Zechuan’s hand, shrieking curses: “You little bastard! How dare you lay a hand on me! A son who strikes his father deserves heaven’s wrath! I am your father! I gave you that life — do you understand that!”

The wind carried snowflakes like cotton drifting down, settling in the eyes, stirring a haze shot through with the color of blood. Li Zechuan’s gaze was perfectly still. Not a trace of reason had left him despite the pain. His voice too was calm, each word deliberate, each one landing with weight: “You brought me into the world and then abandoned me. What gives you the right to call yourself a father? The surname I carry was not given to me by you. My life has nothing to do with you.”

Nie Xiaolin pried at Li Zechuan’s fingers with all his strength, nearly snapping them at the knuckle. Li Zechuan squeezed the trigger, firing off the remaining rounds in rapid succession to empty the chamber, and at the same time drove his knee upward in a hard, punishing blow into Nie Xiaolin’s abdomen. He seized Nie Xiaolin’s arm at the joint with one hand and wrenched it backward against the joint with violent, grinding force.

Nie Xiaolin couldn’t withstand it. The pain tore a howl from him. Li Zechuan brought his palm down in a sharp, chopping strike against the back of Nie Xiaolin’s neck and knocked him unconscious, then fastened his hands behind his back with handcuffs.

The wind went on. So did the snow. Blood loss was draining his strength with terrifying speed — a white, dizzying light began to wash across his vision. Every part of him wanted to slip into unconsciousness. He could not allow it. Li Zechuan grabbed a fistful of snow and bit down. The cold snapped against his tongue, harsh enough to make him shudder, and his mind sharpened again.

His right leg was soaked through with blood. Li Zechuan forced himself to stand.

From the corner of his eye, a shadow moved. A crack of gunfire — sharp, searing pain tore through his right knee. Li Zechuan’s body swayed, and he sank to one knee on the ground.

The wind swept through the wilderness, howling. An eagle spread its wings overhead. There was noise, and there was stillness.

Blood had soaked through his black tactical gloves. Li Zechuan raised his hand to wipe his eyes, then looked up. Song Qiyuan was standing there. The barrel of his gun still trailed gunsmoke, leveled directly at his heart.

Eyes like peach blossoms, the corner of each marked with a small teardrop mole — framed by a smile, exquisitely captivating, like a butterfly in flight. Song Qiyuan said: “The mantis stalks the cicada — Officer Li, you’ve lost again.”

“You did it deliberately, didn’t you — telling us where Nie Xiaolin was.” Li Zechuan wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. He showed no fear, and no surrender. He analyzed it with cool precision: “You wanted us to capture Nie Xiaolin. Or simply to kill him. In this whole confrontation, your marksmanship was clearly excellent, yet you held back and never fought freely — because you were keeping a low profile, waiting for an opportunity to slip away in the chaos. The people who were supposed to help Nie Xiaolin cross the border never showed themselves either — that was your doing, wasn’t it? You hate him. Why?”

“Only someone who has known love can know hatred.” Song Qiyuan tilted the gun barrel slightly. A spray of blood landed in the sand — it was impossible to say whose. He stepped on it, pressed down gently with the tip of his foot, and said quietly: “I don’t have hate. I simply want him to die. Nie Xiaolin is a madman — brutal and vicious. You know that better than I do, Officer Li.”

“He enjoys watching others suffer. Watching others bleed. The more pain you’re in, the happier he becomes.” Li Zechuan gave nothing away in his expression. He flexed his wrist, just slightly, and a small blade, roughly two inches long, slid from his sleeve and dropped into his palm. He concealed it quickly, then continued: “In my eyes, the two of you are the same. No different.”

Song Qiyuan gave a faint laugh and said: “Since you already know everything, why go to the trouble of saving him? Have you heard the story of the man who saved a snake? People like us are serpents by nature — cold-blooded from the very beginning, impossible to warm. And now look — you’ve not only lost the use of your leg, you’re about to lose your life as well. Was it really worth it?”

Li Zechuan said nothing. Through the wind and the drifting snow, his vision blurred. He could no longer stand, so he stopped trying. He turned his gaze toward the distance — and seemed to see something there. A quiet softness dissolved into his expression.

The safety was pushed off. A round was chambered. Song Qiyuan pressed the barrel of his gun against Li Zechuan’s head, still smiling, those peach-blossom eyes as vivid as a butterfly in flight: “Take one last look at this world. I truly pity you — after everything, you walk away with nothing. How sad.”

“You don’t need to pity us. Because we are nothing like you.”

A clear, composed voice rang out without warning — steady beneath its quiet, carrying unmistakable weight.

Wen Xia stood behind Song Qiyuan. She pressed the handgun Nuobu had left with her against the back of Song Qiyuan’s head, and said calmly: “Nie Xiaolin has committed crimes. The law will pass judgment on him in time. Until then, we cannot stand by and watch him die while doing nothing. We take up arms in the name of justice — but we do not kill for the sake of personal vengeance. To let someone die when you could have saved them is itself a form of killing.”

How familiar those words were. So very familiar.

Li Zechuan looked past Song Qiyuan and held Wen Xia’s gaze — his bearing composed and still, his eyes full of gentle warmth.

Even if your crimes are many, even if your methods have been brutal, even if you have caused me great harm — it is not for me to execute you. The law will pass its own judgment. What I must do is bring you to your knees beneath the rule of law, to repent for what you have done, for as long as it takes.

I have passed through the darkness and seen the righteous path of the world. I stand here, immovable, to hold in check all those who harbor predatory ambitions.

These were words he had never spoken aloud. But she would understand them on her own.

Their convictions stood together. Their souls did too. They understood each other’s hearts — and every choice the other had ever made.

Every word of I love you carried full weight. It had never been otherwise. This love came from the soul, and it burned without end.

Wen Xia’s sudden appearance clearly caught Song Qiyuan off guard. He hesitated for just a moment. Li Zechuan seized it — he hooked his index finger around the trigger guard, preventing Song Qiyuan from pulling the trigger, while the small blade he had concealed in his palm flashed out like a falling star, tracing a faint glimmer of light, and buried itself in the back of Song Qiyuan’s gun hand.

The instant the gun was knocked loose, Wen Xia fired. The bullet struck Song Qiyuan in the back of the knee. Through the blaze of pain, he looked up and found Wen Xia’s eyes.

Extraordinarily beautiful eyes — like the ocean, with great whales passing through them, parting the ancient stillness.

She had never allowed herself to cry in front of him. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how frightened she was, she never cried. When she looked at him there was always resentment — and contempt, and mockery.

She had never tried to understand him. Or perhaps she had simply not found him worth understanding. She had drawn an uncrossable border between them with her justice and her law — he on one side, she on the other.

He found himself suddenly wanting to ask her: Do you still remember? In that old house in Qu Ma Zhen, I protected you once too. I killed for you. And in the end, I was the one who let you go.

Do you remember any of that?

His throat worked silently for a long moment. In the end, the words never left him.

Song Qiyuan closed his eyes and gave a very quiet laugh. This was not the first time he had taken a bullet — but it was the most painful.

The pain reached all the way in, deep into the heart of him.

Engines rumbled. Warning lights flashed. More people surged in from all directions — Lian Kai, Zhaxi, and the other members of the patrol team. They quickly formed a ring, a wall that could not be broken through.

Song Qiyuan knelt on the ground with both arms wrenched behind his back. Lian Kai’s voice was grave and deep: “Song Qiyuan — for the illegal poaching of nationally protected Class One wildlife, the illegal possession and use of firearms and ammunition, and deliberate homicide, among other charges, you are under arrest.”

Song Qiyuan was led away. Before he left, he turned and looked at Wen Xia one last time.

That look was too complicated to name — too complicated even for him to explain.

The gunfire had finally stopped. The world fell quiet. The wind went on. So did the snow.

All feeling had left his right leg. Li Zechuan could not even hold himself upright on one knee — he swayed and nearly fell. Wen Xia rushed forward and caught him, wrapping her arms around him. She saw the blood — so much of it, pooling out from beneath him.

Wen Xia’s fingers were so rigid with cold that they would not bend. Li Zechuan rested against her shoulder. His breath fell against her ear — warm and alive, reaching deep into her lungs. The two of them held each other in silence amid the snow.

Snow fell into her eyes and broke apart in soft, diffuse light. She had finally found him. She finally allowed herself to let go — and cried out loud.

All the way here, through the snowstorm, through the unrelenting sound of gunfire, she had not dared to cry. She had been afraid to spend even a drop of the strength in her body.

Now, at last, she could hold him.

Li Zechuan held her just as tightly — close, and not letting go. More blood flowed with his movement, soaking into the ground and the hem of her coat. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and every motion, every look, was filled with tenderness, flowing like water.

He said: Be still. No more tears.

He said: For this entire life — I love you.