Prologue

If I remember right, the line before “gold scattered will come again” is… “heaven made my talents for a purpose”?

One bowl, two bowls, three bowls…

Not until the third large bowl was scraped clean, not a drop of broth left, did Tao Yao contentedly wipe her mouth and give the dumbfounded shop owner a thumbs up. “How on earth do you make this golden-thread sausage noodle soup? The sausage is so fragrant, the broth so rich! I doubt you’d find a second shop like this in all of Luoyang!”

The young, plump, fair-skinned shop owner immediately turned bashful, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the cloth slung over his shoulder. “You flatter me, miss. Ever since my great-great-grandfather’s time, our family has made a living from cooking. There’s no great secret to it, just diligence—cook enough noodles and you naturally learn to master the timing. But ‘best in Luoyang’ is too much praise. If you like it, do come often. A customer like you is exactly what a small shop like mine hopes for.”

Of course he’d hope for it. Anywhere in Luoyang—no, anywhere in the whole realm of Great Song—what noodle seller wouldn’t love a young lady who could put away three big bowls in one sitting?

Tao Yao set the noodle money on the table and shook her head. “What you said isn’t entirely right. I know someone who cooks every single day and still makes food that tastes like pig slop. In this world, diligence alone isn’t always enough.”

The owner scratched his head, not daring to ask which unfortunate soul she meant, and simply asked casually while collecting the money, “You’re not from around here, are you, miss?”

“From the capital.” She stood to leave, pausing at the doorway to look up at the shop sign, then laughed. “Little Zhu’s… Little Pig… got it. I’ll come back next time.”

“Wait, miss.” The owner called her back, took a freshly baked flatbread from the hot oven, wrapped it in oil paper, and handed it to her. “You’re my first customer today. Have this first batch on the house—the weather’s cold these days and it’s easy to get hungry. No charge.”

What an honest sort. Tao Yao took the still-hot bread, eyes crinkling into a smile. “This is my second time in Luoyang. Last time I was in a rush and didn’t get to properly experience the place, but this time I think I got it right. Maybe because of your little shop, I’ll end up loving all of Luoyang.”

The young owner’s round face flushed instantly—none of his customers had ever been quite this enthusiastic before, let alone a young girl like her. He rubbed his hands together, flustered, stammering, “Then… then do come often, come often!”

Tao Yao nodded, but her eyes drifted toward the pile of seasonings by the stove, and she suddenly asked, “Has the salt in your shop been going missing lately for no reason?”

The owner started, scratching his head. “Now that you mention it, yes! There’s a good half-jar left one day, and by the next day only half of that’s left. I thought I’d miscounted, so I refilled it, but a couple days later it’s down to half again. I don’t use that much salt for cooking. I even checked the jar for leaks—there weren’t any. It’s been bothering me quite a bit lately.” He blinked, staring at her curiously. “But how did you know, miss?”

Tao Yao put on an air of importance, clasping her hands behind her back and circling around the stove, looking this way and that. “Ahem, I heard from an elder in my family—you can’t use a black jar to store salt.”

“Why not?” The owner stared at his black salt jar, thoroughly puzzled.

Tao Yao leaned in close and said in a low voice, “Black belongs to water, and water dissolves salt—the five elements at work, you see. Your salt is being consumed by your own jar.”

“You know about this sort of thing, miss?” the owner said, astonished. “But I’ve never heard of a black salt jar causing this kind of trouble.”

“If your noodles weren’t so tasty and you weren’t such an honest fellow, I wouldn’t bother getting involved in this.” Tao Yao waved her hand over the jar, continuing to spout nonsense with a perfectly straight face. “Take my word for it—switch to a different color, any color but black, and I guarantee not a single grain of salt will go missing again.”

The owner looked half-convinced. “Really?”

“I can’t very well eat your bread for free,” Tao Yao said, patting his shoulder. “Farewell.”

On this winter morning in Luoyang, thin mist drifted through the streets, few pedestrians about, many shops still shuttered. After hesitating a moment, the young owner of Little Zhu’s—having luckily landed his first sale of the day—poured all the salt from the jar into a new earth-colored one. Then he glanced out toward the street, but the cheerful-faced girl in red had already vanished into the drifting fog.

Good. From last night until now, the sky had stayed peaceful—no lightning, and certainly no thunder.

Tao Yao wandered like a tourist with nowhere in particular to go, munching contentedly on her bread, heading south for a while, then doubling back east, then a few steps later deciding that was wrong too and turning west. Pedestrians on the street were gradually increasing, and the sun seemed to be struggling to break through. It was, for the ordinary people of Luoyang, an utterly ordinary morning—provided, of course, that they couldn’t see the demon clutched in Tao Yao’s left hand.

The black salt jar was, of course, perfectly usable now, once she’d taken this gluttonous salt-rat away.

About the size of a chicken egg, plump and round as a limbless, tailless rat that had just finished stealing a snack, its white fur dusted with grains of salt, it was currently puffing out its cheeks and wailing at the top of its lungs, apparently convinced its final hour had come.

Tao Yao found the noise irritating. “Keep crying and I’ll toss you into boiling water to melt you down!”

“I’m hungry, squeak! I was so hungry I had to steal salt, squeak!” The salt-rat wailed, tears bigger than its own head bursting from its eyes, each one splattering on the ground into a tiny snowflake before vanishing—fortunate that they vanished, or its crying might genuinely have flooded the streets.

Tao Yao stopped walking and held it up to her face. “Salt isn’t cheap either. That plump kid runs a small business—how can you shamelessly eat for free every day? If I hadn’t happened to stop for breakfast, you’d have eaten that little shop into bankruptcy sooner or later.”

“What business is it of yours, squeak!” It clearly had no idea who Tao Yao was, sounding thoroughly wronged. “I was hungry, so I had to eat, squeak!”

“Speak properly to me, what’s with all this squeaking!” Tao Yao poked its head, soft and squishy like a deflated ball.

“Doesn’t matter what I say, I’m still hungry. I’m hungry, I need to eat!” It cried even harder, a light snow seeming to fall in front of it.

Tao Yao, who detested endless whining more than anything, simply let go, allowing the little creature to drop to the ground—so round and plump that it bounced a few times before rolling to a stop.

“In any case, if I ever catch you stealing someone’s salt again, I’ll pluck your fur out one hair at a time.” Tao Yao glared at it, issuing a small warning.

In truth, even the warning was mostly for show—even if she really did catch it stealing salt again next time, at most she’d drag it off just like this time. There wasn’t much else she could do to it. It ranked among the lowest of low-level minor spirits, not even possessing a proper physical form; speaking too harshly could frighten them to death. The Compendium of a Hundred Demons had only the barest entry on their kind—demons that gather around women in labor, invisible to mortals, origin unknown, shaped like limbless rats. Once the child is born, the creature attaches itself to the newborn, feeding on tears alone; laughter brings wind, weeping brings snow; bound to one person for life, inseparable. Called the salt-rat. Harmless.

Ranked below even ants as the most useless of minor demons. Many humans found themselves saddled with one of these creatures from the moment of birth—since they gathered near expectant mothers before the child was even born, waiting for the newborn to arrive, then racing to be the first to lick the infant’s first tear. Whoever won that race had its fate intertwined with the child’s from then on, destined to feed only on that child’s tears for the rest of its life, inseparable until the child left this world, at which point the creature’s own life would end too. Truly one of the more tedious categories among demonkind—insignificant in appearance, capable of even less in life, with nothing to look forward to besides hoping the person it was bound to would cry their eyes out. Those unlucky enough to be bound to someone with good fortune and little inclination to cry could only lament their bad luck—having chosen this person without any hesitation at the start, they had to endure hunger and stick with them regardless. They wouldn’t starve to death; barring accidental injury, their life span depended entirely on their bound person’s lifespan. Even starved thin, they’d simply stay thin. If truly unable to bear it, they might resort to stealing salty things like salt to eat—not as filling as tears, but better than nothing, enough to hold them over for a while. In the end, when the bound human died, the creature’s own unremarkable life would come to a close too.

Encountering this kind of demon, one couldn’t even be bothered to punish it—nor was there any need to.

This particular salt-rat today seemed to have a bit more spirit than usual—perhaps it was simply too hungry to think straight. A little scare would do, nothing more.

Tao Yao glanced at the sky. The sun had shown more than half its face now—too fine a day to waste. No rush to head back; today, at the very least, she’d eat and play her way through all of Luoyang. The thought alone lifted her irritated mood considerably.

Just as she was about to leave, a loud wail erupted behind her: “You’re just leaving! You’re really leaving! If you won’t let me eat, how am I supposed to get home! Tao Yao, you’re such a bad person!”

In the brief moment between it saying this and Tao Yao turning around, it should by rights have died ten different deaths already. Tao Yao’s foot even instinctively lifted—in theory, anyone able to see it had the power to crush it underfoot or swat it dead with one hand. But in the end, Tao Yao didn’t do it. Countless demons a thousand times more formidable than this creature wouldn’t dare call her a bad person to her face once they knew who she was, and yet here it was, scolding her with utter self-righteousness. A creature starved witless truly was capable of anything.

“You recognized me?” Tao Yao turned back around, crouching to look at it lying stubbornly against the wall, refusing to get up.

“You have no idea how many places I’ve traveled and how many people and demons I’ve seen over the years. I’ve long heard of the Ghost Physician of Peach Capital’s name. I’m not blind—how could I miss that golden bell on your wrist that never makes a sound no matter how you shake it?” It sniffed its nose. “Besides, you reek of medicinal herbs, and blood too—whatever it is, it’s definitely not a smell from this mortal world. If not Tao Yao, then who?”

Tao Yao smiled. “I thought you were just a mindless glutton. Turns out I was wrong.” Then her expression suddenly darkened. “Knowing I kill demons without blinking, you still dare talk to me like this?”

“The golden bell isn’t ringing, so you’ve got no killing intent toward me.” It still lay there, refusing to get up, having correctly gauged that Tao Yao wouldn’t do anything to it.

“Tsk tsk, suddenly getting all refined with your words.” Tao Yao glared at this shameless, death-defying little demon, and overlaying its words with its current posture, she found it rather amusing after all. She smiled and shook her bell. “Aren’t you afraid it might suddenly start ringing?”

“Someone of your stature—wouldn’t it be beneath you to kill someone as insignificant as me?” It had the audacity to treat its own insignificance as some enormous advantage, rolling around shamelessly. “Anyway, today you either kill me or treat me to some salt, or I’ll just keep crying and making a scene and rolling around forever.”

The fox back home was already shameless enough—who knew this thing could top it. So what if it had fur, big deal?

Tao Yao was so annoyed she almost laughed. First time in her life being extorted into buying someone salt…

“Why should I treat you to salt? Stealing is wrong to begin with. Get up right now or I won’t be polite about it!”

“I’m not getting up! Either kill me or treat me to salt!”

Passersby cast Tao Yao odd or sympathetic glances, probably wondering why a perfectly ordinary-looking girl was talking to thin air at the base of a wall—had some poor addled girl escaped from home? What a shame, such a cheerful-looking face too.

Tao Yao naturally noticed the stares and thought, crouching here arguing with it forever wasn’t going to solve anything. Fine—against this furry little deadbeat that made it snow the moment it cried, she couldn’t even work up proper killing intent, let alone anger.

But how could the esteemed Ghost Physician of Peach Capital possibly surrender to a tiny salt-rat?

Tao Yao’s brow furrowed, and gritting her teeth silently, she reached for the small cloth pouch she never went without…

“Mmph, not bad, not bad at all.”

Inside a salt jar the size of a child’s head, the salt-rat buried its head in and feasted with abandon, only its furry backside visible sticking out. Before long, the entire jar of salt was gone, not a single grain left.

Tao Yao chewed on a blade of wild grass, staring listlessly at the frozen little stream in front of her—truly unforgivable. A single small pill from her pouch could have made it vanish without leaving so much as a hair behind. She’d meant to reach for medicine, so why had she pulled out money instead? And paying for it would’ve been one thing, but why had she actually gone and traded it for a jar of salt… she’d said she wouldn’t surrender… sigh.

The salt-rat lay in the empty jar, belching contentedly several times, before finally regaining enough strength to float out.

“A lot of demons say you’re a vicious old hag, you know that?” It floated up in front of her, giggling.

She gave it a sideways glance. “So now you’re overwhelmed with gratitude for my gentle kindness, and you think those demons must all be blind.”

“No, you really are vicious,” it said frankly. “But you still treated me to salt, so next time I run into demons who say that about you, I’ll tell them that even someone as vicious as you couldn’t do anything about me—so all you lot who think you’re better than me, what’s there to be so smug about in front of me!”

“What kind of twisted logic is that!” Tao Yao couldn’t help but laugh despite herself, flicking a finger against its head like flicking a cotton ball, sending it spinning several times through the air before it stopped.

It shook its fur and floated back over. “Was I wrong?”

“Whatever makes you happy.” Tao Yao spat out the grass, stood, brushed the mud off her seat, and glanced at the sky. “You said you were hungry—I bought you salt. You said you were tired and couldn’t fly anymore—I’ve brought you back near your home. From now on, don’t pester me again, and don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me!”

“But what if I still can’t get any tears to eat?” It hurried to block her path, terrified she’d leave. “Salt only fills me up temporarily. If I eat salt every day, my fur will fall out, my breathing gets ragged, it’s really unpleasant.”

“What can you do about it?” Tao Yao grinned and clapped a few times. “Well then, I should really set off firecrackers to congratulate whoever I picked out for you. You salt-rats can’t stand to see your person happy—you spend every day hoping they’ll cry an ocean of tears. If you’re this hungry all the time, that just means that person’s life is a happy one. Besides, you won’t starve to death anyway.”

“Happy my foot!” The salt-rat was thoroughly dejected—if it had hands, it surely would have smacked itself twice. “I never imagined that the person I fought my way through the entire litter of my kind to claim, at top speed, would end up like this…”

Hearing this, Tao Yao’s curiosity was piqued. “End up how?”

“End up… just come with me and see for yourself, why not? You’ve got nothing better to do anyway.” It blinked its rice-grain-sized eyes.

“Nothing better to do?” Tao Yao pointed at herself. “Do you have any idea how many demons out there are hoping right now that I’ll save their lives?”

“And yet here you are eating noodles alone in Luoyang.” It sniffed, unconvinced. “And you’ve been arguing with me for hours!”

Tao Yao’s breath caught in her throat. She’d bought it a meal and was walking it home, and the thanks she got was “pestering”? A puny little demon dared use that word on her?

“Come on, come on, my home’s just ahead, past that stone bridge.” It paid no attention whatsoever to her current mood, turning to float onward. “Look at you, wandering around all alone—pretty pathetic, really.”

Say another word and you really will die.

Tao Yao took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the hand that had been reaching for poison.

She thought of the demons back in Peach Capital—not one of them dared so much as murmur in her presence; those bold enough to defy her were invariably great demons with world-ending power of their own. So did that mean demons living in the mortal realm tended to have their temper and their actual ability in inverse proportion? Probably still just needed some discipline…

From this nameless little stream on the southern outskirts of Luoyang, past the stone bridge ahead, then past a small temple called Mingjing Temple, one would come upon a ramshackle thatched hut on the verge of collapse. In all, along this not-very-long stretch of road, Tao Yao seriously plotted out at least twenty different ways to deal with the salt-rat.

Still a dozen or so paces from the hut, she could already hear violent coughing from within.

Drawing closer, the place was bare on all four sides, roofed but otherwise empty, the only decent item a blue-patterned cotton quilt in reasonably clean condition. Beneath it lay an old man, silver hair disheveled, face deeply lined, seemingly in a feverish sleep, his face flushed with an unhealthy redness, coughing intermittently. Not far off stood an iron pot, blackened inside and out from use, containing what might have been water or broth, lazily giving off steam, the charcoal fire beneath burning weakly, barely alive.

Behind the hut stood a dark gray wall, extending some distance, covered in withered vines, clearly long neglected. Directly opposite the hut, a hole about two feet high had been dug through it, presumably by stray dogs, through which the dense, desolate wild grass beyond the wall was faintly visible.

The salt-rat landed on the old man.

Tao Yao pointed at the old man and shot it a questioning look—this was the person it had chosen back then?

The salt-rat nodded, sighing endlessly.

No wonder it couldn’t even manage to eat salt properly…

Only a beggar would live in a place like this. To reach one’s twilight years with nowhere to call home—a pathetic life indeed. Thinking of how this insolent salt-rat had ended up with such rotten luck, Tao Yao nearly burst out laughing, but quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, afraid of waking the poor sick devil.

Yet a person like this hadn’t cried… Though salt-rats fed on tears, they didn’t need much—supposedly a single tear could sustain one for ten years. Salt was salty too, but no amount could compare to tears. For this salt-rat to be starved to this state meant this man hadn’t shed a tear in at least ten years. A man living a life like this, not crying for ten years—that was rare indeed.

Just as Tao Yao was pondering this, footsteps sounded behind her. She turned to see a middle-aged monk approaching with a bamboo basket.

Must be from Mingjing Temple. He looked up, saw Tao Yao, paused in surprise, and bowed. “May I ask what brings you here, benefactress? Are you a friend or relative of Benefactor Qu’s?”

“His surname’s Qu,” the salt-rat piped up. “The monk’s here to deliver medicine.”

Tao Yao hastily returned the bow, saying casually, “No, no, we’re not related at all, I’m just a passerby. I was headed into Luoyang and must have taken a wrong turn. What’s wrong with this elderly gentleman?”

“I see. The road into the city is that way.” The monk kindly pointed her in the right direction, then walked over to the old man, took a few steamed buns and some medicine bottles from his basket, checked the old man’s complexion, felt his pulse, frowned, and shook his head, murmuring “Amitabha” softly.

“Looks like he’s quite seriously ill,” Tao Yao said, watching the monk open a medicine bottle and carefully prop the old man up, feeding the medicine into his mouth—but no matter how much he fed him, the old man couldn’t swallow it, and it all trickled out the corners of his mouth.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t have many days left,” the monk said helplessly, laying the unconscious old man back down and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “His pulse is extremely weak—he can’t even swallow water anymore.”

“Do you know this beggar, Master?” Tao Yao blurted out.

“Benefactor Qu isn’t a beggar—merely a man without a home,” the monk corrected. “If you have no urgent business, benefactress, you’d best head back soon. The weather’s bitterly cold, and your family will worry if you’re out too late.”

Tao Yao pursed her lips. “They’d be thrilled if I never came back—one less mouth competing for food.”

The monk looked her over and smiled. “Judging by your bright, spirited manner, benefactress, you don’t seem to come from a poor household. Perhaps you’ve had a falling out with your family and are staying away out of spite?”

“Something like that. Never mind me—since you know this man, Master, why is he left lying here alone in this bitter cold? Doesn’t your temple have room for him? Looking at how gravely ill he is, if he keeps freezing out here like this, there’ll truly be no hope left.” Tao Yao asked, puzzled—she recalled that though Mingjing Temple wasn’t as grand as the great temples in the city, surely it had some spare room to house one person.

The monk sighed. “It was Benefactor Qu’s own wish. He said the New Year is approaching, and he insists on staying right in front of this wall, day and night, without leaving. I’ve invited him countless times to stay temporarily at the temple, but he firmly refuses every time, saying that even if he dies, he wants to die right here, and begs me not to interfere. He’s grateful enough just for the charcoal I bring him.”

Tao Yao paused, studying the old man’s face more closely—perfectly ordinary, nothing remarkable about it. Even forty or fifty years younger, his features would have been at best passable. However she looked at it, he didn’t seem like someone with much of a story.

“Is he of sound mind?” Tao Yao glanced at the crumbling wall behind the hut—as unremarkable as his face. What was there worth guarding with one’s life?

“Benefactor Qu’s mind is as clear as a mirror,” the monk said, not just affirming it but praising it highly.

Which made things stranger still. Tao Yao hadn’t expected that on her one-day tour of Luoyang, what would catch her attention wasn’t good food or fun sights, but a homeless old man and a crumbling wall. Truly bizarre.

Wait a moment—had the salt-rat deliberately led her here? After all, this was the person it had chosen; if he died, it would meet the same fate. Whether human or demon, few in this world were unafraid of death.

“We’re running low on charcoal.” The monk glanced at the old man, then rose and bowed to Tao Yao. “Since you’re in no hurry to get home, benefactress, might you watch over him a while as I return to the temple to fetch more charcoal? Should anything go wrong in the meantime, please be so kind as to send word to the temple.”

Tao Yao nodded without hesitation. “Go on, go on, I’ll keep watch here. If he dies before you get back, don’t blame me though.”

The monk gave a wry smile. “My thanks, benefactress.”

Watching the monk walk off into the distance, Tao Yao suddenly remembered something and called out, “What’s your dharma name, Master? Who should I ask for at the temple?”

“That’s Monk Kongyun. There’s only him and one little novice at Mingjing Temple,” the salt-rat said, floating over to circle the iron pot near the charcoal fire. “It’s getting colder and colder.”

“You’ve got all that fur—still cold?” Tao Yao sat down beside it to warm her hands.

“If he’s cold, it affects me too, to some degree—after all, we’re bound together for life.” The salt-rat sighed again. “Look how pitiful I am—cold, hungry, and might die soon too.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a loss, at least you got a good salty meal out of it,” Tao Yao said, rubbing her hands together with a smile. “Not many demons get treated to a meal by me. Consider it an honor—you can die satisfied.”

Seeing she was unmoved, the salt-rat sighed even more heavily. “Someone who watches death happen and does nothing to help—can’t feel too good about themselves either.”

Tao Yao shot it a sideways glance. “I feel just fine, thank you. Since you know who I am, you should know my rules.”

“I know—treat demons, not humans,” it said, floating in front of her, then dropping suddenly onto her lap, listless. “If he dies, I can’t live either. Isn’t that basically a terminal illness for me? Of course it is! You don’t have to save him if you don’t want, but please, save me!”

“Get lost!” Tao Yao flicked it away with a finger again. “Do you know how many demons burn paper offerings begging for my help? Cutting in line is the most shameless thing you could do. And besides, you haven’t even burned any paper!”

It floated back and landed on the old man again, looking dejected, on the verge of crying again. “Look at this state of affairs—even if you sold me, you couldn’t afford the paper offering to summon you.” With that, it simply floated down to the ground, hopping around on a few dried leaves. “How about I use leaves as paper and burn them for you right here! You just want the formalities observed, don’t you?”

“A person’s life is a matter of heaven’s will, the strong survive and the weak perish, natural law. If he can’t withstand this illness, he doesn’t have the right to live. If I interfere, that’s disrupting the mortal realm—understand?” Tao Yao’s expression darkened, deliberately stressing every word.

It shot up into the air, nearly colliding with her nose, huffing angrily. “Heaven’s will? Aren’t you part of heaven’s will yourself? The mortal realm is vast—you didn’t go to Old Li’s or Old Zhang’s noodle shop, you went specifically to Little Zhu’s. If you and I hadn’t had this connection, then Old Qu dying alone in the wind and snow would simply be heaven’s will, as it should be, and I’d have not one word of complaint. But heaven’s will clearly brought you right in front of him now—doesn’t that mean heaven doesn’t intend for him to die!”

Tao Yao paused slightly, turned to look at the dying man, considered for a moment, then asked, “Are you really that afraid of dying?”

It answered immediately, “Yes! Terrified!”

It had been especially afraid of death ever since sixty years ago.

As a salt-rat, it still hadn’t found the person it could claim “for life” by today—counting the days, it had at most one more year left. If it couldn’t claim someone within that year, it would end up like countless other unfortunate members of its kind, living out a mere three years from birth to death, hungry and pathetic the entire time.

Yes—without a bound person to attach to, a salt-rat’s lifespan was a mere three years, and it had to endure constant hunger throughout, a truly dismal fate.

So around every pregnant woman for miles, many of its kind lurked in hiding, waiting for the moment the newborn drew its first breath to launch the race that would determine life or death—whoever ran fastest, whoever tasted this new life’s first tear, gained the chance to live longer.

Only a chance, though. There was another unlucky path too: after winning the race against its kin and drinking the tear, the dependent it had fought so hard to secure might not live more than a few days before dying young. Two lives bound together, one death meant both perished—might not even make it to three years.

Even so, they all still fought tooth and nail for the chance, each one hoping the person they chose would live a long, hundred-year life.

It could no longer remember what divine strength or willpower it had summoned that winter night to win the final victory, only that amid the wailing cries of a newborn, it had tasted the first tear of its demonic life. The world called tears salty, but to its mouth it had tasted sweet as honey—so delicious. It hadn’t known the feeling of being full could be so intoxicating.

The person it had chosen was the only son of Scholar Qu’s family—”Scholar Qu” being merely an honorific bestowed by relatives and neighbors on Old Qu, since he’d spent ten years of hard study only to fail the exams again and again, never earning the slightest official rank. But throughout the entire county, he was still counted among the most learned in classical letters. Past forty when he finally had a son, he was overjoyed and named the boy Fulai—”comes again”—whether it meant “gold scattered will come again” or “success will come again” didn’t matter; in any case, Old Qu placed all his hope of redeeming every regret in his life onto little Qu.

Little Qu didn’t disappoint his father’s earnest expectations from the start—before he’d even turned four, he could recite a hundred poems from memory, and his handwriting was already presentable, better than many grown men’s. Back then, whenever visitors came calling on the Qu household, Old Qu’s greatest boast was having little Qu, in his babyish voice, recite something like “Bring in the Wine” or “Song of Everlasting Sorrow” in full, then bask in everyone’s admiring gazes, savoring the satisfaction of being a “child prodigy’s father.”

Back then, it would either doze on little Qu’s shoulder or lie bored among his brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone. Even on a beautiful day, with other children’s joyful shrieks ringing outside, little Qu could only sit obediently in his room, reciting poetry and prose over and over, copying famous calligraphy scripts again and again—only this way could he avoid being made to kneel in punishment, and only this way would he get something good to eat at night. He’d snuck out to play a few times too; caught and dragged back by Old Qu, he’d braced for a beating, but instead Old Qu pulled him down to kneel together before the ancestral tablets, neither hitting nor scolding him, only saying he didn’t want to keep little Qu locked up at home either, but if he let him waste his youth playing like ordinary children, how would he ever stand out among them, how would he have a bright future? As he spoke, Old Qu began to cry… Watching his old father’s tears and graying temples, little Qu suddenly felt worse than if he’d been beaten—have you not seen, in the bright mirror of the high hall, the sorrow of white hair, black as silk at dawn, turned to snow by evening—young little Qu had, for the first time in his life, found poetry within his own experience.

Facing father and son, the one who felt most regretful was it—why hadn’t it been born a few decades earlier?! Clearly choosing Old Qu would have been the right path—look at him, crying at the drop of a hat, crying when speaking heart-to-heart with his son, crying when he’d had too much to drink, crying when moved by a poem he’d written, crying for no discernible reason at all… Little Qu, on the other hand, hadn’t shed a single tear from birth to now, probably from receiving too much praise, or perhaps just naturally thick-skinned—the kneeling punishments clearly weren’t harsh enough. In any case, this child never seemed to have any particularly sorrowful moments. The one exception was when his pet puppy died—he buried it with red-rimmed eyes, but just as he was about to cry, a cat climbed over the wall, and he immediately wiped away his tears and ran off to chase the cat instead. Sigh, children forget so easily—not necessarily a good thing.

From that moment on, it had a vague premonition that its future wasn’t going to be comfortable.

Old Qu never truly found comfort either, because little Qu’s child-prodigy talents didn’t shine any brighter as he grew older. The poems he could recite at four outnumbered those he could recite at fourteen; his handwriting showed little improvement; the poems he composed grew increasingly mediocre. Little Qu’s reputation as a prodigy gradually wore away with time, and Old Qu couldn’t figure out where things had gone wrong—the boy had kept reading, kept being obedient, so why had the spark of his childhood talent simply vanished?

Little Qu himself didn’t much mind. It had been a long time since he’d performed reciting poetry for relatives and friends; in fact, even visitors to their household had grown scarce—everyone seemed busy these days. He still had to study, still had to practice calligraphy and painting, but beyond that there was so much else to do—like how to keep bugs off the peach trees in the yard, how to improve the family’s bamboo hat so it wouldn’t leak in heavy rain, how to thoroughly wash ink stains out of clothing, how to pick a bronze lock without a key, how to fold lanterns of different shapes, and so on. Life was far more than just poetry and prose.

Old Qu’s health kept declining. Every time he saw his son with sleeves rolled up, hammering and scrubbing away at something, he suddenly realized: Fulai, Fulai—”comes again”—nothing was coming again after all. Fate, perhaps?

But occasionally Old Qu would console himself: never mind, even if his son had remained a prodigy forever, what would it have mattered? Even the once-mighty, glorious empire had collapsed overnight—people as insignificant as ants like themselves, could they still dream of official rank, wealth, and glory amid a fractured world torn apart by war?

Truly, they couldn’t—even survival itself had become difficult.

The young emperor had nothing going for him but his youth; the throne and the territory were already coveted by external enemies eyeing them hungrily. All the feasting and revelry in the world couldn’t hold back tens of thousands of armored cavalry, and the rivers and mountains of Shu eventually fell into others’ hands. Worst of all, even the emperor was beheaded.

The year the emperor lost his head, Old Qu also died of illness—his health had never been good to begin with, and the shock of the nation’s fall only hastened his end.

Thirteen-year-old little Qu sat by his old father’s sickbed, holding his cold hands in silence.

Old Qu had no final words to leave behind. There wasn’t much money left in the household, just an old, worn house, and hardly any family left either—Madam Qu had died of illness when little Qu wasn’t yet a year old; the wet nurse who’d raised him had retired and returned to her hometown the previous year; even the young servant boy who helped around the house had left a few months back after going unpaid. So the most valuable thing left in the Qu household was little Qu himself.

“Can you… take care of yourself?” Old Qu asked, his breath faint, just before closing his eyes for good.

“I fixed the lock on the front gate myself,” little Qu said, forcing a smile in the candlelight.

Old Qu actually managed to laugh too, his mind clouded by illness, still thinking of his son as that babbling toddler reciting poetry—not realizing the boy had grown quite capable, climbing roofs, fishing in rivers, doing everything under the sun.

“When you have children someday… still make sure they study hard.” Old Qu let out a long breath.

Little Qu nodded. “I will.”

Old Qu sighed with satisfaction, his clouded eyes staring at the ceiling. “Fulai… gold scattered will come again…”

Little Qu gripped his old father’s hand a little tighter, if only to stop the thought rising in his own heart from escaping—something never possessed in the first place could hardly “come again”… but he didn’t dare say it, afraid it would hasten his father’s death.

In the third watch of the night, Old Qu’s life came to its end.

It still felt a bit sad, honestly—after all, Old Qu had appeared without fail throughout its limited lifespan for thirteen years. But mostly it felt happy—surely little Qu would finally cry his heart out now. Thank heavens, it would finally get a full meal. Thirteen years! Living on nothing but salt all this time had been truly bland and miserable.

But it was disappointed once again. From the moment Old Qu closed his eyes to the burial, that wretched boy little Qu didn’t shed a single tear. While burning paper offerings at Old Qu’s grave, it watched little Qu recite, from beginning to end, every poem he’d ever performed for relatives and friends since childhood, reciting from dawn straight through to the next dawn, before finally dragging his numb legs away.

It guessed little Qu probably never resented Old Qu—otherwise he wouldn’t have remembered so precisely which stretch of years had made Old Qu happiest.

On the way back, it watched him rub his eyes hard, rubbing them red, but never once did the tears it had been hoping for actually fall.

Another five or six years of hunger passed, and by then even it had run out of tears to cry.

The fractured realm showed no signs of improving. People had, by now, largely grown accustomed to years of continuous warfare; today’s emperor becoming tomorrow’s corpse under the blade was no longer even remarkable. The great empire built up in prosperous times had proven remarkably easy to destroy. They say troubled times produce heroes, but heroes were far too few and ordinary people far too many—the grand ambition of dominating the realm lay buried beneath the humble wish simply to survive, buried so deep no one knew if it would ever see daylight again.

Little Qu hadn’t lied to Old Qu—he really could take care of himself, making it through even the most chaotic times with all his limbs intact. He’d copied documents for people, learned bookkeeping from an accountant, worked as an assistant in a porcelain shop; his longest job was helping farm in the countryside, where he also wrote and read letters for illiterate villagers. All told, what he earned was generally enough to eat, sometimes even leaving a little extra to save.

By nineteen, little Qu had grown considerably taller, his features settling into something more refined—not exactly handsome, but rare among people his age, he remained cheerful and quick to laugh, always wearing an expression untouched by worry, which made him rather likeable. Cui’er, a girl who often came to wash clothes at the stream on the east side of the village, was particularly fond of him. He taught her to crush a certain unnamed wild grass from the village and mix its juice into her wash water, so the clothes came out clean without fading; when she had free time, he taught her to write characters with pebbles on the ground, and before long, Cui’er had unknowingly become the most literate person in the village. He told her about all his experiences from his travels, often making her laugh until she couldn’t breathe. Whenever there was a village festival, Cui’er was always the first to tell him about it. Mid-Autumn, Dragon Boat, Lantern Festival—they grew increasingly accustomed to time spent alone together, munching on roasted beans lightly salted as a snack while sitting on the field ridges discussing whether there was a moon goddess up there, sneaking up to the top of a wild hill in the dead of night to sit like fools in the whistling cold wind waiting for sunrise. Sometimes he’d tease Cui’er for her poor needlework, since the shoes she made him ended up with mismatched left and right sizes.

In short, little Qu felt his future life might soon include one more person, and for now the priority was earning as much money as possible so he could formally propose marriage to Cui’er’s family.

Vibrant, hopeful days truly did make a person happy.

The only one being driven half to death was it… this boy had actually fallen in love… it had heard that romantic feelings tended to put people at ease, which meant he’d cry even less now? Infuriating, absolutely infuriating! Was it going to have to starve alongside him for the rest of its life?? In an era so easily reduced to tears, how did this kid get so lucky?!

Half a year later, Cui’er got married—her groom the son of a well-off family in another town.

Before the marriage was arranged, Cui’er had come to find little Qu in tears, saying she didn’t want to marry, begging him to hurry and propose to her family.

Little Qu counted the money hidden under his bed—he didn’t even need to count it, really, there was so little.

He went to Cui’er’s home anyway. Not enough money, but he had the courage to make up for it—he truly loved Cui’er, and it was the first time in nearly twenty years of his life that he’d felt the impulse to entrust his remaining years to someone.

But courage and impulse crumbled entirely before a mountain of hefty betrothal gifts. However sincere his words, he was still driven out by Cui’er’s mother wielding a broom, cursing him as she struck: “You outsider, you can barely feed yourself and you dare drag my daughter down with you? Her father’s business debts have creditors coming by every single day—can you help us pay them off, or help us die instead? Come near Cui’er again and I’ll beat you to death, old woman that I am!”

Inside the house, Cui’er’s father sat with a dark expression, coughing violently.

Cui’er had at first tearfully argued back, even accusing her father of never having any business sense taking up trade in times like these. Her mother scolded her for being unfilial; too upset and angry to speak, Cui’er fell silent, until her father coughed up blood, at which point the family’s mutual accusations stopped, and young and old alike collapsed into each other’s arms, weeping.

He didn’t know how to comfort this family, but wasn’t he the one who’d just been beaten? Who was there to comfort him?

No one.

He quietly left Cui’er’s house.

Cui’er didn’t appear for several days, and he didn’t go looking for her.

A few more days passed, and Cui’er stood before him with red-rimmed eyes—by then it was nearly evening, the cold biting deep, no warmth to be found anywhere on either of their bodies as they stood outside.

Beyond the bare earthen wall, the two stood in silence, Cui’er not daring to meet his eyes, head bowed.

The north wind raged fiercely; as far as the eye could see, only the two of them stood as living things—the world seemed to have lost all sign of life in that moment.

“Live a good life from now on.” He didn’t need her to speak—the answer was already in his heart. He simply pulled out something he’d prepared long ago from his robes: a pouch Cui’er had once made for him, with a pair of mandarin ducks embroidered on it that looked more like ducks than anything romantic. He pressed it into her hands. “I don’t know what to buy as a wedding gift—keep this, buy yourself something you like.”

Cui’er’s hands were stiff as wood, pushing the pouch back toward him, shaking her head hard.

He refused to take it, pushing it back to her. “Marrying well is a good thing. It’s cold—hurry back.”

Cui’er’s tears fell harder and harder, choking on words she tried but failed to say.

No need for apologies, no resentment held. He touched her head gently, walked her to the fork in the road—this was as far as he could go. The road ahead, she’d have to walk with someone else.

He smiled, waved at her, and watched her leave.

Perched on his shoulder, it sighed—not because of his heartbreak, but because judging by his expression, it wasn’t going to get anything to eat this time either. This fellow, honestly, what would it possibly take to make him cry?

Just as it was thinking this, a single bright, glistening tear suddenly fell before it. Startled and delighted, it dove down and swallowed it whole in one gulp. Looking up, it saw him leaning weakly against the rough gray-black bark of an old tree, his own gray-black robes nearly blending into the nearly dead trunk.

A second tear hadn’t even fully formed before he wiped it away forcefully, though a smile still lingered at the corners of his mouth, as if refusing to show sadness meant he wouldn’t actually feel it.

It let out a satisfied belch, floated up in front of him, and planted a hard kiss on his cheek. “You finally cried!” It even hoped he’d fall in love again soon with another girl who’d end up marrying someone else—maybe then it would never have to worry about food again for the rest of its life.

In any case, that day, little Qu had no idea how he made it back home alone, and certainly no idea that a demon floated beside him the entire way, practically ready to break out drums and gongs in celebration.

Not long after Cui’er’s wedding, little Qu left that place.

There was no going back to his hometown—the ancestral house had burned down more than half in the war, probably entirely collapsed by now. When he’d first left to make his living, he’d thought that once he’d saved enough money, perhaps the world would be at peace again by then, and he could return to rebuild the house, marry, have children, and teach them to read and write—though he wouldn’t need them to memorize every poem in existence, wouldn’t need them to become child prodigies.

But after all these years of struggling, the money for rebuilding the house was nowhere near enough, and the world showed no sign of peace—if anything, growing more chaotic still.

Twenty, thirty, forty years old… only the years advanced effortlessly.

Somewhere along the path from little Qu to becoming another old Qu, he’d joined the army and fought in battles too—at least the military fed you properly. But he couldn’t bring himself to kill; a blade was far heavier than a brush, always unsteady in his grip, and the battlefield was too horrific to bear. He’d never in his life seen so much blood, so many severed limbs, the dead and wounded piled together, human life worth less there than a scrap of waste paper. Eventually, one day, he fled—not out of fear of death exactly, but because he felt he was doing something utterly meaningless, and couldn’t muster the strength to continue. When he fled, he brought along a wounded young comrade, only about ten years old, the kind of boy who still burst into tears at the sight of blood. Along the way, hiding in fear, when they had absolutely nothing to eat, he’d sneak into others’ orchards at night to pick fruit, but he refused to simply be a thief about it—he left written notes stating how much fruit he’d borrowed and promising repayment, signing his own full name. Surviving wasn’t easy; the wounded young soldier, wise beyond his years, urged him several times to abandon him and save himself. He wavered more than once—fleeing while dragging along a wounded soldier was genuinely difficult—but every time, he ended up saying, fine, I’ll see you a little further and then go, only to keep going further and further, each stretch bringing them a little closer to the young soldier’s hometown. The boy said he still had a mother and younger sister at home, that the mountains around his village stayed green year-round, flowers and fruit everywhere, and that you could even catch plump wild rabbits there—he dreamed of going home even in his sleep. Hearing this comforted him greatly; he even began to feel that home wasn’t just the young soldier’s dream destination, but his own as well.

Unfortunately, in the end, neither of them ever made it to that dreamed-of hometown.

The young soldier died along the road, his final delirious words calling for his mother, saying he wanted to wear new clothes.

Unable to find paper money to burn, he tore dried leaves into the shapes of clothing and burned them before the freshly dug grave in the wasteland.

He never returned to the battlefield again. Though he had no family or friends left in his hometown, he secretly went back anyway. Years had passed; the ancestral house he’d once hoped to repair had collapsed down to its last wall. The once-lively small town was now overgrown with weeds; anyone able to leave had left, and the elderly, weak, women, and children left behind squabbled endlessly over the ownership of a small bag of rice.

He sat outside his ruined family home the entire night, and left the small town the next morning, taking with him only the bronze lock from the front gate—proof he’d once shown his dying father that he could take care of himself.

He could read, write, farm, and fix locks—that would keep him from starving, at least.

He went to a large, populous city, and did everything except stealing, robbing, cheating, and kidnapping to survive. Making a living in troubled times was hard work, but he managed to save up a bit, and tried his hand at small business ventures, following others’ lead—despite thorough analysis and preparation, he still lost money badly. Some said business required a good eye and good luck; he began to wonder if he’d used up his entire life’s luck on the brilliance of his childhood, then laughed, pointing at his own reflection in the mirror: must be it! Better accept it!

No luck, but he still had strength—having promised his late father he’d take care of himself, he couldn’t very well break that promise.

Whether helping keep accounts at a small shop or brushing down horses at a stable, he always believed the chaotic world would settle down eventually, that everything would turn out fine then.

He’d met a girl or two he was fond of over the years too, but whether by misaligned fate or insufficient connection, nothing ever came of it in the end. He never denied his own limited means—taking care of himself alone was already a struggle; dragging another person forcibly into his life would only be doing them harm.

Another decade or so passed in a blur, and the fractured realm’s warfare only intensified, as if burning toward some final extreme, the treacherous, ever-shifting landscape waiting only for some figure destined by fate to swing the decisive blade.

He’d passed forty by now, a thoroughly middle-aged man, occasionally catching sight of a few stray white hairs at his temples when he looked in the mirror.

He’d long since stopped clinging to the idea of a fixed home—the world was unsettled, and wherever he went remained unsettled too.

It was New Year’s Eve. Coming out of a dilapidated temple heading toward the market, he pulled a small child who’d slipped and fallen into a river to safety. The child, too young to say where his parents lived, was shivering in the bitter cold, so he carried the child back to the ruined temple and built a fire to warm them both. Little did he know, disaster would strike right there in the temple—a group of villagers, harboring some misunderstanding, came storming in, and one woman among them snatched the child away, sobbing loudly, the child calling out “Mother” as he clung to her. Just as he opened his mouth to explain, the others, without a word, surrounded him and beat him savagely, cursing him as a child snatcher deserving a bad end, some even shouting they should drag him before the authorities.

A child snatcher? His heart cried out in bitter irony, but no explanation would help—the fists and kicks rained down mercilessly regardless.

Finally the child’s mother called for them to stop, saying that since the child had been found, a beating and a chasing-off would suffice—no need to stir up further trouble.

Then several men hauled him up and threw him out of the ruined temple, warning him to leave their territory at once, and that if he dared come back to snatch children from the village again, they’d truly beat him to death.

He struggled up from the ground, wincing in pain, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, and watched the group’s retreating backs with a sigh, saying plaintively, “I really am not a child snatcher. Why won’t any of you listen.”

What a terrible New Year’s Eve this was turning out to be.

He didn’t dare walk in the direction that crowd had gone—valued his life too much for that.

Limping into the marketplace, he entered a small tavern, ordered a jug of wine and a small plate of stewed meat.

The market was still lively before dark—it was New Year’s, after all, and being close to Luoyang, the population here was denser than elsewhere. The doors and windows of shops and homes were decorated with bright red festive characters and various paper window-cuttings; children in new clothes leapt and cheered through the streets; people who’d worked hard all year finally found a day to set down their burdens and catch their breath, most hurrying home with wives and children in tow. He was the tavern’s only customer, and the waiter kept reminding him they’d be closing early today.

After nightfall, cradling his unfinished wine and the stewed meat he was rationing carefully, he walked through the empty streets, firecrackers and fireworks sounding near and far all around him.

He raised his wine cup and said to himself with a grin, “Wishing myself great fortune.”

He drained it in one gulp.

It still lay on his shoulder, yawning.

Forty years now, and it had thought it had chosen the wrong person, but he’d stumbled through forty years of life all the same—not entirely a loss. Just that tomorrow, it still had no idea where it would go to steal salt next.

But it soon realized it wouldn’t need to steal any salt, because he was crying… crying while chewing on his stewed meat.

So many years… finally!

But what was he crying about? Hadn’t he already let go of attachment to everything, past caring about anything? A man of forty, surely he’d seen every storm life could throw at him by now.

He walked and drank at the same time, small sips each time, but with his poor tolerance, he still got drunk.

Hazily, he spotted lights ahead and stumbled toward them, only to realize it was another small temple—though not dilapidated this time, and with a faint scent of incense lingering.

He sat down on the threshold and poured the last few mouthfuls of wine into his mouth.

The wine jug rolled away and clattered to the side; he slumped over, leaning against the temple door.

“Forty years old… and not even one person to wish me a happy new year…” he slurred, right before passing out completely.

It landed on his lap, gazing up at this man it had followed for forty years, and suddenly snorted disdainfully. “It’s just one line about a happy new year.”

The old monk at Mingjing Temple said he’d been lucky—in weather this cold, a drunk man passed out outdoors was truly dangerous. Fortunately, someone had knocked on the door in the middle of the night, and when he came out to check, he found the drunk lying at the entrance.

He hurriedly thanked the old monk and insisted on donating what little money he had left to the temple, but the old monk refused, saying the benefactor needed that silver more than the Buddha did right now.

He laughed awkwardly. His clothes had been threadbare to begin with, and after the beating they were even more tattered, his swollen lip and eye making him look, at that moment, worse off than a street beggar.

“They mistook me for a child snatcher and beat me,” he said, not sure why he felt the need to explain—those people hadn’t believed him, but surely the Buddha would? “I really wasn’t… I…”

“Amitabha, no need to explain, benefactor,” the old monk said, waving his hand with a smile. “What’s been done doesn’t change based on whether it’s explained or not. The Buddha sees everything.”

He paused, then smiled, pressing his palms together too. “Understood. No need to say more, then.”

Before leaving, he caught the scent of steamed buns from the kitchen and, flushing red while clutching his growling stomach, asked if he might have a couple of buns before departing.

The old monk had the little novice lead him to the kitchen for a proper lunch.

On his way out, he quietly left what little money he had on the kitchen counter, unsure if it was even enough to cover the meal.

Just as he was leaving Mingjing Temple, he suddenly asked the old monk, “Who was it that knocked on the door last night?”

The old monk shook his head. “There was no one there when I opened the door. From a distance, there seemed to be a figure, but it slipped into the shadows and I couldn’t make it out clearly. Perhaps some passerby with a kind heart.”

“Did that figure go that way?” He pointed to the left. “Is there a household over there?”

“No household that way, only a ruined garden estate that’s been abandoned for who knows how many hundred years. You’d best head this way into Luoyang City instead, benefactor—more people, more life, wouldn’t that be better?” The little novice standing beside the old monk couldn’t help interjecting, his expression oddly strained. “Don’t go that way.”

“Why not?” he asked, puzzled.

The little novice said quietly, “That garden’s been abandoned too long, and there’s no living presence around it. I’m afraid you might encounter something malevolent.”

“More nonsense you picked up from who knows where.” The old monk rapped the little novice’s bald head. “A righteous heart meets no evil.”

The little novice rubbed his head, aggrieved. “But Benefactor Wu who sells rice at the market said so himself.”

“Haha, my thanks for the warning, little master,” he said, thanking the novice with a smile. “I’ll head that way first and take a look, then go into Luoyang.” With that, he knelt and bowed to the old monk. “I’ll remember this life-saving kindness.”

Two roads lay behind him—one toward bustle and prosperity, one toward desolation—yet for whatever reason, in that moment his heart was set entirely on walking the cold, deserted path.

Just as the little novice had said, no households appeared along this road at all. The distant mountains showed no color but layered shades of gray; the narrow stream had frozen over with a thin sheet of ice; withered yellow-green wild grass poked through the scattered rocks along the bank. Today was New Year’s Day, but the festive spirit hadn’t reached this place.

In truth, many of the places he’d traveled through resembled what lay before him now. Mountains and rivers cared nothing for human affairs, yet they too had their sorrows and joys; decades of unrest—how could the realm ever wear a smile?

The one thing that stirred his heart was an increasingly noticeable fragrance in the air. At first just the faintest wisp, growing stronger the further he walked. He sniffed as he walked, eventually tracing the source to a bare stretch of wall—someone on the other side was cooking over a fire, a small iron pot set atop glowing red charcoal, the rich broth inside bubbling and steaming, various vegetables and meats tumbling within. A slender, pale hand held bamboo chopsticks, unhurriedly plucking out steaming food and placing it into a small bowl held in the other hand—that was all he could see, since the hole in the wall was only large enough for a cat or dog, not a person.

Seated within the wall appeared to be a young gentleman in black boots and a white robe. Standing outside the hole, he could just make out a small portion of the man’s figure.

Strange, too—who would come to this deserted, forsaken place on New Year’s Day to cook a meal? Could the little novice have been right after all… but it was broad daylight, midday even; surely anything genuinely strange wouldn’t choose this hour to appear?

“Care for some?” The person within suddenly spoke, seeming almost to be talking to himself. “Tsk, made a bit too much.”

He startled. Was the person inside speaking to him?

“I’m asking you—want some?” The person inside seemed to sense his surprise and spoke on, unhurried. “I’m no malicious ghost or monster, and there’s no poison in the pot. Just happened to cook too much—consider yourself lucky.”

He couldn’t help but smile faintly. After a moment’s thought, he sat cross-legged in front of the hole in the wall and bowed. “I’m merely passing through, drawn here by the fragrance. To be invited by you, sir, is truly an honor—I only hope I’m not intruding on your quiet enjoyment.”

“You’ve had some schooling, haven’t you? You speak rather thoughtfully.” A cup of wine was passed out through the hole. “Just warmed a jug—care for some?”

He hesitated a moment, then accepted it and took a sip—sweet, much gentler than what he’d drunk the night before.

A bowl half-filled with hot soup and vegetables was passed out next. “It’s good, but be careful, it’s hot.”

The aroma was truly irresistible. He accepted eagerly, blew on it, then lifted his chopsticks and took a bite. Whatever divine seasoning this person had used, the ordinary lotus root and taro tasted a hundred times sweeter and fresher than usual; the fish, deboned and sliced paper-thin, hadn’t fallen apart at all, melting in his mouth—truly a rare delicacy.

“Sir, your cooking skills are extraordinary, truly extraordinary!” Having drained the last drop of soup from the bowl, he couldn’t help giving a thumbs up. “I only wonder why you, sir…”

“New Year’s—too many relatives at home, can’t even eat a meal in peace. So I simply hid out here instead.” The young gentleman leisurely stirred the broth with a wooden ladle. “A meal should just be a meal. All this social obligation ruins the appetite.”

Judging by his voice, this young gentleman was fairly young, and though his words were simple and direct, they carried an easy clarity that came from having seen through worldly affairs—it inexplicably put one at ease.

“True enough.” He raised his cup for another sip, smiling. “When I was young, every festival brought a house full of guests, and I was always made to recite countless poems to entertain relatives and friends, earning praise all around. Too bad I lack your talent, sir, or I too would learn to find a quiet spot like this and set up my own little feast, fine wine and good food.”

“Pass the bowl, have some more.” The gentleman extended his hand.

He hastily passed his bowl over. After that first mouthful of food and wine, his earlier reserve gradually fell away, his mind filled with nothing but the pot’s contents and the wonderful taste of each bite.

Not knowing where the man came from, not even knowing his face, a wall still separating them—and yet it felt as though no barrier existed at all. Two strangers who’d crossed paths by chance, absorbed in eating and drinking together in the New Year’s cold, somehow filled this colorless, desolate place with genuine warmth and vitality.

The gentleman must have prepared an enormous amount of ingredients, cooking pot after pot as if it would never run out, and just as much wine. Before he knew it, he’d drunk through more than three jugs. Last night’s wine had been unpleasant, bitter no matter how he drank it, burning uncomfortably in his chest and stomach going down. Today’s wine, however it went down, tasted sweet, and even getting drunk on it felt pleasant rather than distressing.

The conversation across the wall grew more and more, from poetry to the state of the realm, from wartime chaos to daily life. He moved from his childhood as a prodigy to becoming old Qu, from Cui’er to the young wounded soldier, digging up from his heart the people he could never forget yet rarely spoke of, telling them one by one to the person behind the wall. He mentioned that the IOU he’d once left in someone’s orchard hadn’t been written in jest—a few years back, passing through that village again, he’d actually gone to repay the debt, only for the orchard’s owner to look utterly baffled, saying people stole fruit from him all the time, no matter, times were hard for everyone these days. Before he left, the owner had even given him a bag of freshly picked peaches, wonderfully sweet—he could still savor the memory even now. He also spoke of the beating he’d taken the day before, feeling wronged by it, but admitted the old monk’s words had a point too—whether others believed him or not, he wasn’t a child snatcher regardless, and the child hadn’t come to harm, which was what mattered most. Once he’d worked through it that way, the injustice didn’t sting quite so much anymore.

“I’m not a beggar, and I’m not a child snatcher either. I’m just me—my name is Qu Fulai!” he said drunkenly, pointing at his own face, redder than rouge at this point. “Gold scattered will come again… come again…” As he spoke, he slid slowly down along the wall, gazing up with bleary, drunken eyes at the thick gray sky. “But… my father never came again… Cui’er never came again… the young soldier never came again either… I was young once, and before I knew it my hair turned white… the years never come again… half a lifetime of wandering, and all I have to show for it is a worn-out bundle and the clothes on my back. Nothing like the life I once imagined for myself.”

“More to drink?” Another jug was passed out through the wall.

“Of course! Meeting a kindred spirit, a thousand cups isn’t enough! Why wouldn’t I drink!” He took the jug and drank noisily, then propped himself up and peered hard through the hole. “Say, sir, why don’t I come around to your side? Let’s toast properly, what do you say?”

“Absolutely not,” the gentleman refused flatly. “My face is ugly—I don’t like being seen. If you dare cross this wall, I’ll leave immediately.”

He laughed heartily. “What’s a real man got to fear from looking plain? Anyone as young as you with such insight and bearing would be handsome regardless of looks. But if you’d rather I not, then I won’t. Eating and drinking together isn’t about admiring flowers or the moon—doesn’t matter whether we can see each other or not.”

They finished off another half round of food and drink, both belching contentedly.

“What kind of life did you always want?” the gentleman suddenly asked.

He hiccupped from the wine, giggled, gestured vaguely all around himself, and recited, “I’ve got ten acres of land, planted on the southern slope. Green… green pines… green pines…”

“Four or five green pine trees, two or three patches of mung beans. Bathe in the pond when it’s hot, sing on the bank when it’s cool.” The gentleman finished the line word for word without missing a beat, sparing him the embarrassment of his tongue-tied stumbling.

“Right, right, right… word for word!” He clapped his hands. “That’s what a good life looks like. Me… ” He lowered his hand, struggling to sit up and lean back against the wall. “I still want to keep waiting. Maybe things will get better soon.”

A few snowflakes drifted down on the north wind, melting away before they even touched the ground—could pass for an auspicious sign of a good harvest to come, perhaps.

“Then keep waiting a bit longer.” The rustle of clothing sounded from within the wall; the gentleman seemed to be standing up. “Today’s New Year’s Day—didn’t expect to share a New Year’s meal with a passing stranger like you, but it’s been quite satisfying. Happy New Year, wishing you great fortune.”

He paused, then broke into a smile. “No one’s wished me that in decades. Look at this—I’ve eaten your food and have nothing to repay you with.” He rummaged through his bundle and pulled out an old but still gleaming bronze lock, tossing it through the hole. “This is the lock from my ancestral home’s front gate. It was broken once, and I fixed it myself—I was only eleven that year. My father, on his deathbed, told me to take care of myself, and I told him I could even fix a door lock, so how could I fail to take care of myself? All these years, I’ve never turned to thievery, never joined bandits, never become a child snatcher. It’s been hard, sure, but at least I haven’t died a senseless death. When I meet the old man again in the afterlife, I can hold my head up. Given our chance meeting today, I’d rather you keep this lock as a memento—not worth much, but maybe it’ll bring you luck, haha.”

A hand reached out and picked up the bronze lock; the gentleman seemed to give a soft chuckle.

“Then I’ll accept it.”

“Are you heading back now, sir?” he asked.

“Well-fed and content, time to go.” The sound of things being gathered came from within the wall.

“May I ask your honored name, sir? If we meet again someday, shall we share another good meal?”

“No need for honors… surname’s Xian. As for meeting again… perhaps twenty years from now. If you still remember this meal twenty years from now, come here again and we’ll reunite.”

“Twenty years?” He wanted to ask why so long, but in the end didn’t, only smiling. “Then I’ll come back here in twenty years.”

“Mm. Farewell.”

“Farewell.”

The footsteps within the wall gradually faded away, and the ruined garden, inside and out, returned to its usual stillness—though perhaps the warmth of that meal still lingered in the air, enough to offset the decay and desolation threatening to seep back in.

His body still felt warm. After several dozen winters, today felt the most comfortable and content of all—perfect, like a dream.

He sat there a good while longer, not rising until the snow began falling harder.

As he walked, he turned back several times, probably still not fully sober, feeling somehow that he wasn’t quite alone on the road ahead.

He shook his head hard. He’d been taking care of himself all this time—what difference would another twenty years make? Looking up, snowflakes settled on his eyebrows.

New Year had arrived—not a time for crying, but for smiling.

Old Qu, tucked beneath his blanket, seemed to be dreaming of something, smiling with particular joy.

Monk Kongyun checked his pulse, tucked his arm back beneath the blanket, his furrowed brow relaxing considerably, and said, “Benefactor Qu’s pulse has steadied a great deal. He should be out of danger. Seems this batch of medicine finally suited his condition!” Then, glancing around, his expression turned puzzled. “Though there’s something odd about this hut.”

Tao Yao, focused on the soup about to boil in the iron pot, asked without turning around, “What’s odd about it?”

“Warm,” the monk said plainly. “Too warm. It’s practically a different world compared to outside the hut.”

“It just hasn’t been that cold the past couple days,” Tao Yao said dismissively.

“It’s still quite cold out there, though.” The monk walked to the edge of the hut, reached a hand out, then quickly withdrew it. “Try it yourself, benefactress.”

“Nothing to try—there’s charcoal burning in the hut, of course it’d be warmer inside. Master, shouldn’t you be heading back to the temple to keep brewing medicine to save lives, instead of fretting over this?” Tao Yao lifted a wooden ladle, scooped up some broth, and drank it, immediately looking blissfully absorbed. Turning to find the monk still there, she licked the ladle and said, “Master, this pot’s got meat broth in it—aren’t you worried the Buddha will scold you for smelling it too much?”

The monk sighed helplessly and stood. “I’ll head back to the temple, then. I’ll leave him in your capable hands, benefactress. It’s no small thing that Benefactor Qu has survived this crisis. Amitabha.”

“Master,” Tao Yao suddenly called out to him, “you’re the one who’s been going to all this trouble. Old Qu isn’t any relation of yours—why take such care of him?”

The monk pressed his palms together. “Years ago, Benefactor Qu, despite having empty pockets, still refused to accept even a single vegetarian meal for free. This humble monk hasn’t seen much of the world, but for a man like that, I’ve always felt a deep respect.”

Tao Yao laughed, thinking it sounded as though this fellow’s pockets were any less empty now.

The monk hurried off. These past few days he’d come punctually with freshly brewed medicine, and whether by luck in matching the right formula or Old Qu simply not being fated to die, his fever had gone down, and though he was still mostly unconscious, he could now swallow a little rice gruel. He’d probably survive after all.

The salt-rat lay comfortably on the ground by the charcoal fire. “It’s practically like spring.”

Tao Yao ignored it, scooping another ladle of broth to drink.

“Thank you for saving Old Qu,” the salt-rat said, turning its head to look at her.

“Don’t talk nonsense! I didn’t save him!” Tao Yao rolled her eyes. “Have you seen me use a single pill on him these past few days?”

“But you threw the fire qilin’s claw clipping into the charcoal fire,” the salt-rat said, sitting up and staring at the roaring charcoal pile. “I know what that does around fire. This hut’s warmth couldn’t come from charcoal alone.” It floated over to Old Qu’s side. “His illness—cold is likely the chief culprit. Even if he’d been moved to a room at Mingjing Temple, it wouldn’t reach this level of warmth.”

Tao Yao snorted, refusing to admit it. “I threw that thing into the charcoal to speed up cooking this pot of soup, not to save his life. If you want to thank someone, thank that monk—he’s the one who insisted on giving Old Qu medicine, not me.”

The salt-rat clicked its tongue. “Fine, fine, we’ll call it soup-making. I won’t disturb your rules.” It floated back over to her side, studying her face closely. “You don’t look the least bit fierce or wicked while cooking soup.”

“You didn’t look the least bit handsome either, putting all that effort into becoming ‘Young Master Xian.'” Tao Yao suddenly looked up, mockery filling her eyes. “Only half managed to look human?”

The salt-rat’s body wobbled, nearly toppling into the pot. “You figured it out?”

“Young Master Xian? More like Young Master Salty.” Tao Yao pursed her lips. “The realm’s at peace now, and this place is still deserted enough. So it’s obvious how, twenty years ago, some ‘random passerby’ had the outrageous luck to knock on the temple door and save his life, then upon recovering, instead of heading toward somewhere prosperous, got it into his head to wander into this ruined garden instead—if not you, who else could it have been? Useless as you are, you’re still technically a demon. Put in a little effort and you can manage to bewitch a human after all.”

“‘Bewitch’ sounds so ugly.” The salt-rat protested, unconvinced. “It already took everything I had just to turn half-human, and I had to transform dead branches, fallen leaves, and stones into pots, bowls, and food on top of that. I just wanted to share a New Year’s meal with him and wish him well—how is that ‘bewitching’ anyone?” It turned to look at Old Qu, now sleeping soundly, its voice softening. “His sixty years have been my sixty years too. From the moment he was born until now, in his twilight years, I’ve watched him cry, watched him laugh, watched countless meetings and partings, joys and hardships. He’s a man whose whole life never had a single moment of brilliance—never touched fine clothes, fast horses, high office, or riches, not even the shadow of them. He put in endless effort just to survive, nothing more. There are plenty of people like him in this world—I’ve seen it all before, and it doesn’t usually stir anything in me. But thinking back over his whole life, something still feels off to me. Sharing a New Year’s meal with someone, wishing them well—how ordinary a thing is that? You see it everywhere. And yet he never had it, not once. If he were an unlikeable sort, fine, but he isn’t even that. So you see, human fate really is strange.”

Tao Yao smiled and took another sip of broth. “You don’t approve?”

“Not that I don’t approve, exactly—just feels wrong somehow,” it said seriously.

“Wouldn’t it be better this way, though? If everything went his way all the time, wouldn’t you be even more starved?” Tao Yao said, adding vegetables and meat into the soup, taking a deep breath. “Being hungry all the time is no fun.”

It suddenly perked up, looking smug. “I used to think that too, years ago, but I’ve come to realize it’s not actually a good deal. Someone constantly heartbroken, weeping buckets—that kind of person tends to die young. Look at it this way—though I’m often hungry, I’ve lived a long time, haven’t I? Isn’t that partly thanks to Old Qu? I shared that meal with him, and he stayed happy about it for years afterward.”

“However happy he was, look what he’s still ended up as,” Tao Yao said, gesturing at Old Qu with her chin. “Went and got scammed in some business deal again, didn’t he?”

It sighed. “Bad luck, that’s all. But it’s much better than the old days—no more war, isn’t that wonderful? Honestly, he’s not as badly off as you might think. He’s actually saved a fair bit of money, enough for a small house if he wanted one. He’s just gotten so used to drifting alone that settling down doesn’t much appeal to him anymore. This trip back to old haunts was partly to donate incense money to Mingjing Temple in gratitude for saving his life back then, and partly…”

“Young Master Xian isn’t going to be able to come this time, is he.” Tao Yao cut in decisively, glancing at it. “Given your abilities, that meal twenty years ago already used up everything you had—there’s no way you could transform into human form again. Not even halfway, could you?”

It drooped, silently admitting as much.

“Well, that’s a problem for you then.” Tao Yao said with malicious glee. “This one of yours, mild-mannered as he looks, is actually more stubborn than an ox. If he doesn’t get to see Young Master Xian, he just might bury himself right here waiting.”

It looked up, troubled. “I thought if he waited long enough and nothing happened, he’d just leave eventually.”

“He’ll come back even if he leaves.” Tao Yao sniffed at the fragrant pot. “People always end up especially nostalgic for the good things they’ve encountered in life. Especially someone who’s had so few good things in his entire life.” She paused, then added, “That meal you shared with him might be one of the very few good things in his whole life.”

It froze for a moment.

Old Qu, wrapped in his blanket, half-opened his eyes and looked Tao Yao up and down carefully. “You are… Young Master Xian’s niece?”

“Don’t I look like it?” Tao Yao’s eyes widened. “Wait, that’s not right—you’ve never even met my… my uncle.”

“Met him half-way, so to speak, but I always imagined he’d be someone clever and elegant, with a refreshing air about him, tinged with a bit of aloof, untamed coolness.” Old Qu’s reminiscent gaze settled on Tao Yao’s face and stopped short. “You must take after your father, then?”

Tao Yao’s face fell. “Are you saying I don’t look as refreshing and elegant as my uncle?”

Old Qu laughed. “Not the same thing at all. You look like a girl straight out of a New Year’s woodblock print—festive, through and through.”

“Tch! No need for your compliments.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m here today on my uncle’s behalf, to keep his appointment.” She pulled out a rust-spotted bronze lock and pressed it into his hands. “He gave me this on his deathbed, said he had a meal appointment with an old friend twenty years ago that he couldn’t make himself, so he asked me to come in his place, insisted I arrive early too, and not to leave before New Year’s Day.”

Old Qu’s smile froze for a moment, then he said slowly, “So he’s already passed away…”

“My uncle was sickly from childhood. The doctors said he wouldn’t live past thirty—guess he ate well enough to make it to the year before last before he finally passed.” Tao Yao spun her lie with a perfectly straight face, gesturing toward the iron pot. “He specifically instructed me that if I came here and met an old man surnamed Qu who looked like a beggar but wasn’t quite a beggar, I absolutely had to treat him to a good meal.”

“So he really was a man of his word after all.” Old Qu ran his fingers over the bronze lock, fell silent for a moment, then suddenly brightened and scooted eagerly toward the iron pot, gazing at the ingredients tumbling in the broth, laughing. “That’s it, exactly—that’s the same big pot of all sorts of ingredients, back then, your uncle and I emptied several potfuls of this!”

“Well then… keep eating,” Tao Yao said, picking up a bowl and filling it to the brim for him. “If it’s not to your taste, don’t blame me—I’m not my uncle, after all.”

He reached out to accept it, blew on it gently, and took a careful, savoring bite.

“How is it?”

“Delicious.” He took a bite, smiled, every wrinkle on his old face filled with a long-forgotten joy, as if he held a mountain of gold in his hands.

Tao Yao immediately looked pleased with herself. “In this bitter cold, what greater happiness than a bowl of my eight-treasure mixed hot pot soup!”

“Mm, happiness indeed.” He drained the bowl and held it out again. “More, please.”

Another bowl went down, and the more he ate, the happier he looked—yet the redder his eyes grew too, until finally tears actually fell into his bowl.

Tao Yao didn’t ask, nor did she plan to comfort an old man crying over a bowl of soup, only murmuring to herself, “Not crying when he should, crying when he shouldn’t—how strange indeed.”

Hearing this, Old Qu rubbed his eyes without a word, and only after finishing four full bowls did he wipe his mouth and say, “Crying takes a lot out of a person too. The sadder you are, the more you need to conserve your strength, or you won’t be able to do anything at all.” He looked at the glowing red charcoal, smiling. “But you know, all the tears I’ve saved up over the years never really disappeared. They sit inside me like ice, and whenever my heart warms even a little, they melt a bit too. A little girl like you probably wouldn’t understand what I mean.”

Tao Yao chewed on a piece of meat. “I’m nothing like you. I cry when I want to cry, laugh when I want to laugh—if you can’t even control your own joy and sorrow, what’s the point of living? Life would be far too dull.”

“Of course you’re not like me,” he said with a smile. “You were born decades after me, after all.”

Tao Yao glared at him. “Even if I’d been born at the same time as you, I still wouldn’t turn out like you.”

“Mm, true enough. Look at you, so young yet carrying such presence—that part reminds me a bit of your uncle.” He nodded in agreement. “Better not to end up like me, mediocre my whole life. Struggled through chaotic times and still accomplished nothing by the time death came knocking.”

“‘Gold scattered will come again’… your father must be truly disappointed.” Tao Yao scooped up the last bit of soup from the pot for herself, drank it down, and belched contentedly. “Well then, meal’s done, my uncle’s dying wish fulfilled. I should get going.”

His face, flushed healthy red from the meal and warmth, saw Tao Yao about to leave and quickly called out to stop her, extending his hand—a small piece of broken silver had appeared in his palm from who knew where. “Ashamed to say it, but twenty years ago I had nothing good to give, and twenty years later, still nothing. If you don’t mind something so meager, please take it. My thanks for going to the trouble of treating me to such a wonderful meal.”

Hearing this, Tao Yao turned back and snatched the silver from his hand without the slightest hesitation. “Well, even a flea’s worth of meat is still meat. Better than that worthless bronze lock, anyway.”

“Straightforward, aren’t you.” He laughed—this little girl hadn’t said a single kind word this whole time, yet somehow wasn’t the least bit unlikeable. “My thanks for not looking down on a useless old man like me.”

“If you didn’t exist, no one would have fixed the bronze lock on your family’s gate, no one would have taught Cui’er to read, the young wounded soldier would have gone unburied, and as for that little rascal who fell in the river—he might well be married with children of his own by now.” Tao Yao said, her back to him, weighing the silver in her hand. “If I remember right, the line before ‘gold scattered will come again’ is… ‘heaven made my talents for a purpose’?”

Old Qu froze completely.

“I’d guess that if you meet your father on the road to the underworld, he won’t beat you after all,” Tao Yao said, tucking away the silver and waving. “Farewell, we won’t meet again.”

“You knew all along?” he suddenly exclaimed, then relaxed. “Must have been your uncle who told you. Remarkable that he remembered.”

Uncle… pah! What was going on these past few days—first borrowed as someone’s wife, now someone’s niece! All these demons taking advantage of her for free!

Tao Yao didn’t respond, hopping out of the hut in two quick steps, then couldn’t help sucking in a sharp breath of cold air—yep, it was still winter out here after all.

By evening, business at Little Zhu’s had picked up considerably compared to the morning.

Tao Yao sat near the outer edge, unhurriedly eating noodles.

Buying a jar of broth from him the other day had absolutely been the right call—with this rich stock as a base, even boiled wild greens would taste delicious. A place this good deserved one more visit before she headed back to the capital.

The young owner of Little Zhu’s, busy serving customers, had a round face flushed rosier than usual. Earlier, someone resembling a matchmaker had come to see him, chattering away about something that left him blushing and bashful; as she left, he’d even given her a rack of ribs.

“Heading back, miss?” He noticed her bowl nearly empty and hurried over to add another ladle of hot broth. “It’s cold out—drink some more.”

“Should be heading back. Got delayed by some minor business,” Tao Yao said, taking a sip of broth and giving another thumbs up. “Delicious! Worth the long trip out here just for this.”

“If only you lived in Luoyang, miss, it’d be so much easier to visit. Today’s noodles are on the house, call it a farewell gift.” He said this earnestly, then glanced toward the seasoning area. “That trick you gave me really worked—not a single grain of salt missing since I switched jars.”

Tao Yao held back a laugh. “Then this bowl is really on you, huh.”

“Say the word if you want more, it’s all-you-can-eat today.” He smiled, gesturing toward the steaming stove. “I’d better get back to work.”

“Was that old woman earlier here to arrange a match for you?” Tao Yao asked curiously. “Your face went red as a monkey’s backside.”

“Shh!” He turned instantly flustered, rubbing his hands together bashfully. “Nothing’s settled yet… can’t really say, can’t say.”

Tao Yao burst out laughing. “What’s there to be embarrassed about? Look at you, so hopeless.”

“Afraid I’m not good enough, that I don’t deserve her,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I heard she’s willing, though… ah, never mind, the water’s boiling!”

Tao Yao shook her head with a smile, slurping down the last noodle in her bowl.

Just then, a commotion arose outside—some wealthy household’s procession passing by, carriages and sedan chairs moving in grand fashion, even the accompanying servants dressed in fine clothes, the dust kicked up by the procession filled with envious, awestruck glances.

Once the brief excitement passed, the street returned to its usual rhythm—people strolling, vendors calling out their wares, buyers haggling over prices, the ordinary men and women of the marketplace filling the everyday scene once more.

This mortal world held pearls and brocade robes as much as it held firewood, rice, oil, and salt—glorious or mundane, through these four seasons, past and future alike, surely there was a place in it for everyone.

At the city gate, Tao Yao suddenly stopped, not turning around. “How much longer are you going to keep following me? I told you, you don’t need to see me off!”

The salt-rat, which had been floating beside her the whole time, stopped behind her. “I grew up alongside Old Qu—learned my manners and etiquette from a young age too. You saved my life; I have to see you off properly, no matter what.”

Tao Yao turned back around. “You’ve reminded me of something. Though I never actually treated Old Qu, if you insist on saying I saved your life, I won’t argue the point. You should know my rules regarding patients, right?”

“Be your medicine, I know,” it said quickly. “I’m willing! As long as you don’t look down on me.”

“Like I said—even a flea’s worth of meat is still meat.” Tao Yao reached out a hand, then suddenly remembered the salt-rat had no claws, so she settled for patting its head with a finger instead, considering the matter sealed. “Alright, go on home. Your Old Qu there, useless and unlucky as he is, only you’d ever want to stick around him.”

“I… I have no choice but to stick with him, or what would I eat!” it protested, then asked curiously, “Is it the same in Peach Capital as it is in the mortal realm? Are there demons in Peach Capital who have it as hard as I do?”

Peach Capital… it had been quite a while since she’d left, without even realizing it.

Tao Yao thought for a moment, then said, “Whether there are demons in Peach Capital who have it as hard as you, I couldn’t say. But there’s certainly none as shameless and bold as you, being an utter deadweight and still daring to run wild in front of me.”

The salt-rat blinked. “I think you might actually be complimenting me?”

“Get lost,” Tao Yao said flatly.

“Okay.” The salt-rat made as if to leave, floated a few steps away, then stopped and turned back to her. “You’ll go on to save a lot more people, won’t you?”

Tao Yao frowned. “How many times do I have to say it—I treat demons, not humans. And besides, I’m heading back to Peach Capital eventually. What happens to the mortal world has nothing to do with me.”

“But I think you’ll end up protecting this place.” The salt-rat’s eyes held a certain light, as if it had just confirmed something significant.

Tao Yao found the remark oddly sudden, blurting out, “Why would you think that!”

“I couldn’t quite say. Maybe it’s the blissful look on your face while eating noodles, or maybe it’s the tender smile you gave the shy young shop owner, or maybe it’s that instant when you tossed the fire qilin’s claw into the charcoal fire.” Having said this, the salt-rat grinned at her. “Well, I’ll be heading back now. Safe travels, Physician Tao Yao.”

No idea what nonsense this demon was babbling about. Tao Yao snorted, watching its round little body float away back the way they’d come.

Why would she?

Just because of a bowl of noodles?

Just because of the young shop owner’s bashful, hopeful expression about his future?

Just because of all these ant-like creatures fighting through countless hardships just to keep living?

Or… because of all those unnoticed, quiet moments of people depending on each other that she’d witnessed with her own eyes?!

Standing there in the winter sunset of Luoyang, she found herself unconsciously lining up a whole row of answers.

But why did she need to answer this question at all?

She shook her head—must be too full, brain getting a little clogged up.

Never mind, better hurry back. She’d been out for several days now, no idea whether those two brothers had made it back yet. Young Master Liu and Mo Ya certainly wouldn’t care whether she lived or died, but Steward Miao would definitely be worried about her. All because of this troublesome little creature, wasting so much of her time.

Just then, a strange breeze stirred her hair, entirely lacking the harshness the season called for, carrying instead something of spring’s light warmth—laughter brings wind, weeping brings snow—that demon was surely still smiling out there somewhere, and smiling happily too.

She made a slicing gesture toward the salt-rat’s retreating figure, muttering under her breath, “Next time I run into something this much trouble, I’m just poisoning it and being done with it!”

But no sooner had the harsh words left her mind than the salt-rat, still floating in midair, suddenly split cleanly in two, as if sliced instantly by a blade—not even a squeak escaped before its form and spirit both vanished entirely.

The street was crowded with people, yet no one but Tao Yao witnessed the little demon’s sudden end.

Tao Yao rushed forward, but found no trace of it anywhere, in the air or on the ground—only a faint, unnatural tremor lingering in the air.

She clenched her fists, scanning her surroundings. Amid the coming and going of the crowd, nothing seemed out of place. She refused to believe the killer could vanish without a trace right in front of her; quickly composing herself, she focused her attention and looked skyward again, more closely this time, and there—faintly visible above the crowd—a translucent, serpentine shape, its outline so faint that even a divine being would need exceptionally sharp eyes to spot it.

Whatever it was, daring to kill a demon she’d just saved right under her nose was no small matter.

Dusk deepened, the north wind picked up again, and among the throngs weaving through the marketplace, not a single soul noticed the girl in red standing still, staring coldly in one particular direction, nor the crisp, clear sound ringing from the golden bell at her wrist.