Prologue

When a person is truly happy, their smile shines with light.

A man and a woman came flying out of the “Yuanbao Hall” in front of them, their trajectory smooth but their landing a disaster—the woman’s hair bun had come completely undone, a large section of her long hair singed, wisps of smoke still curling up from it.

It was dusk, and the street was crowded with passersby. A ring quickly formed around the man and woman, people whispering and snickering, the kind of crowd that never tired of a good spectacle.

From the wide-open shop door, a man sauntered out. He wore a white headscarf and a white robe, his face pale and delicate, his black hair neatly tied back. He looked to be in his twenties, with fine, handsome features, and leaned lazily against the doorframe. In one hand he held a foot-long white jade abacus; in the other, a lit white candle. Calmly, he addressed the man and woman still sprawled on the ground, unable to get up. “The rule at Yuanbao Hall is no haggling. I told you both that from the very start.”

“You can’t hit people just because we tried to haggle!” The man, past forty, sat up, a bright red handprint still glowing on his cheek. He pointed and cursed. “Do you think I won’t report you to the authorities?”

“Report me! Yes, do report me!” The woman, having gathered her wits, wailed even louder, slapping her knee with one hand and pointing at him with the other. “You—a lowlife who makes his living off the dead—how dare you lay hands on us! And you burned my hair! There’s no justice left! No law left in this world!”

He chuckled and turned back into the shop. Seeing this, the couple cursed even more fiercely.

A moment later he reappeared at the door, still holding the white candle, though the abacus in his other hand had been replaced with a large bowl full of what looked like water. Without a word of explanation, he took careful aim and splashed the contents over the two of them.

At once a strange odor spread through the air, like spoiled wine.

Before either of them could speak, the candle had already slipped from his hand and fallen to the ground. The instant the flame touched the liquid soaking the earth, it roared up and shot straight toward the pair.

“Ah! He’s trying to burn us again!” The woman sprang up in an instant, yanking her husband up with her, and the two fled howling before the flames could reach them, cursing all the way. “You madman, you’ll be struck down by heaven! One of these days they’ll shut down your shop and take your head!”

He bent down, picked up the extinguished candle, and without so much as glancing at the crowd, said, “Would anyone else like to try the Vermilion Phoenix Wine I just finished brewing? The moment it touches skin and catches flame, it burns a person to ash in mere moments—perfect for cremating remains.”

The crowd scattered at once, several of them muttering about bad luck, looking at him with equal parts fear and loathing.

“Do come back if you ever have business for me!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out cheerfully, as if nothing had happened, then went back inside and returned with a basin of water to douse the flames still licking at the ground.

Outside the door stood someone who hadn’t moved this whole time—a little girl in red with her hair in two braids, arms crossed, regarding him with an expression that said more than words ever could.

“Tsk tsk, look who’s here.” He glanced at her, neither surprised nor pleased, simply looking left and right. “All alone? Where’s the little monk?”

A small bald head poked out timidly from behind her, and above that bald head, a half-black, half-white fox face peeked out slyly. All three sets of eyes fixed on him.

He looked at them and blinked. “Got yourself a new pet?”

“Hardly. Still just useless baggage.” She walked up, looking faintly regretful, then tilted her head back to look at the gleaming golden characters above the shop door reading “Yuanbao Hall.” “It’s been a while, Ye Fengjun.”

Inside the inner chamber of Yuanbao Hall, sandalwood incense curled through the air, and the room was piled with joss paper, candles, and all manner of paper funerary offerings. Tao Yao toyed with a freshly folded paper figure. “Your craft hasn’t improved one bit—why make her so fat and ugly? Aren’t you afraid the customer will climb out of the coffin in protest?”

“The customer liked plump beauties while she was alive.” Ye Fengjun set a plate of pastries in front of Mo Ya and the fox, patting each of their heads affectionately. “Eat up, the both of you—look how thin you’ve gotten. I bet you haven’t had a proper meal since you started following Tao Yao around.”

Tears welled in Mo Ya’s eyes, his expression radiating a very clear you understand me.

“Ye Fengjun, don’t go making up stories about other people’s lives,” Tao Yao said without turning around. “You make it sound like following you would lead to a good life.” She set down the paper figure and turned to Mo Ya, who had already popped a pastry into his mouth. “If I were you, I wouldn’t eat food from someone like that.”

“But… it’s so good!” Mo Ya grabbed one in each hand—eating one himself, feeding the other to the fox in his arms. Both creatures looked thoroughly content.

Ye Fengjun sat down, watching them happily from across the table. “That’s a cute little fox. Why does its tail look like a rabbit’s? Does it have a name?”

“Get lost,” said Tao Yao.

“Why curse at me?” Ye Fengjun shook his head. “You haven’t improved your temper one bit.”

Tao Yao rolled her eyes. “Who has time to curse you? I’m saying the fox’s name is Get-Lost.”

Ye Fengjun burst out laughing. “You two have some kind of feud?”

“No, no, that’s not its name!” Mo Ya, mouth still full of pastry crumbs, hurried to protest.

“I already told you—it’s either the fox or you,” said Tao Yao, pointing first at Mo Ya, then at the fox. “Or if you like, the fox can be Mo Ya and you can be Get-Lost. Take your pick.”

Mo Ya’s face flushed red with indignation. “Tao Yao, you can’t keep bullying people like this! We agreed—each of us gives a little. Let’s just call him Gungun!”

Tao Yao snorted.

“Gungun… not much better.” Ye Fengjun scratched his nose. “You two have been together for so many years now, if nothing else you ought to have some family feeling for each other. There’s no warmth between you at all.”

Tao Yao ignored him, her gaze drifting to a black lacquered wooden box sitting square in the middle of the shelf. It had no lock, only strange patterns painted on in gold lacquer.

No one besides her and Ye Fengjun could open that box.

She merely brushed her fingers lightly across it, and the lid obediently sprang open on its own. Inside lay no gold or jewels, only a stack of white paper, each sheet seven inches long and three inches wide, with a small vermilion dot like a cinnabar seal in the center of each one.

She closed the lid and set it back in place. “You called me here just to discuss how Mo Ya and I get along? Seems like a waste of the paper I gave you.”

“No need to be so stingy about it. There’s still plenty left—enough for years to come.” Ye Fengjun waved this off.

“Business seems to be going well for you.” She sat down at the table, touching neither his tea nor his pastries.

“Can’t complain.” Ye Fengjun smiled faintly. “When a person dies, it’s like a leaf falling—and a fallen leaf always meets its lord in the end. I named this place well, and I opened it in the right line of work too—business really doesn’t worry me. Just yesterday, Old Master Huang from the south side of the city bought a whole set of paper offerings from me for his ancestral rites—quite the spender. That was my most expensive set in the whole shop, the Supreme Deluxe—complete with mansion, carriage and horses, golden boy and jade girl attendants…”

“Don’t go gilding your own face. Back when you were down on your luck, the only skill you had was paper-folding, and it was only thanks to my keen eye that you were persuaded to open a paper-offerings shop. The smartest thing you’ve ever done in this life wasn’t naming this place, and it wasn’t opening this shop—it was meeting me!” Tao Yao cut him off without ceremony. “And I’m not talking about your business with the dead—I mean the ‘paper’ business! I gave you a thousand sheets last time, and now you’ve got less than two hundred left.”

Ye Fengjun shrugged. “That business is naturally the better one.”

“Even our Gungun has stopped by your shop before,” Tao Yao said, tilting her chin at the fox.

“Is that so? No wonder I don’t dislike it.” He smiled. “Though so many spirits and demons come to see me, I honestly can’t keep track of them all.” He paused, then changed the subject. “But the amount you gave me last time really was much more than usual. Normally you only give me a hundred sheets—why the sudden generosity?”

“Making more money for you and you’re still complaining?” Tao Yao shot back.

“I’m thinking of you,” Ye Fengjun said seriously. “Everyone knows you’re bone-lazy—despite carrying the title ‘Ghost Doctor,’ you rarely leave your den in Peach Capital, let alone travel the martial world. Anyone seeking treatment from you needs the luck of their ancestors smiling down on them. Now that so many more ‘papers’ are circulating out there, surely more spirits and demons will come looking for you than before. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Whether they come looking for me is one thing, whether I go is another—you needn’t concern yourself with that,” Tao Yao said, glancing at him. “As long as you handle what I’ve entrusted to you, I won’t make things difficult for you, and our arrangement stands forever.”

Ye Fengjun made a show of relief. “They say, ‘The person is dead—if there’s business, burn paper.’ But when it comes to you, Miss Tao Yao, it’s more like, ‘The person isn’t dead at all, and yet if there’s business—burn paper.’ A fine tale to tell, really.”

Tao Yao looked up at the ceiling. “What a fitting summary.”

The “paper” from Yuanbao Hall in Shu was, to countless spirits and demons, a talisman that could save their lives. Whoever obtained one of these sheets need only write down their identity, their affliction, and their location, then burn it—and the information would reach Tao Yao. Whether she was willing to lend a hand afterward depended entirely on her mood. She and Ye Fengjun were old acquaintances, bound by a gentlemen’s agreement: neither would speak of the other’s past, including Ye Fengjun’s true identity. In short, he now lived as nothing more than an ordinary resident of Chengdu, making his living from this small paper-offerings shop called Yuanbao Hall, while secretly selling the “life-saving papers” Tao Yao gave him to spirits and demons for even greater wealth and treasure on the side. His little life was, all told, quite comfortable.

However, because spirits and demons frequently passed through Shu, it inevitably drew the attention of certain “experts” in the field. The saying “Shu is thick with demons” had spread far and wide, and so in recent years, apart from the ever-more-prosperous Daoist temples on Mount Qingcheng, cultivators of every stripe from all over kept flooding into Shu without end. To Tao Yao, these cultivators were neither friend nor foe, and she had set a rule for Ye Fengjun: sell paper only, and stay out of everything else.

This rule, Ye Fengjun had always kept faithfully.

But this time, the one burning paper to summon her was, of all people, Ye Fengjun himself. If not for him, she would already be on her way to Bianjing with Mo Ya and Gungun. She’d heard the capital, right at the emperor’s feet, was the liveliest place of all, teeming with strange and wondrous tales—well worth the trip.

By now, the plate of pastries had been licked clean, and Mo Ya and Gungun were smacking their lips in perfect unison.

“Good, wasn’t it?” Ye Fengjun asked.

“So good,” Mo Ya said, still savoring it. “Though there was a bit of an astringent aftertaste at the end. What kind of pastry was that?”

“Astringent?” Ye Fengjun blinked, then blurted out, “I added date-blossom honey to that batch of poison—it should taste mildly sweet, not astringent at all.”

Mo Ya froze on the spot, mouth agape, pointing at him. “You… you fed us poison?!”

“I was just testing it. Everyone says the Tang clan of Shu is unrivaled in poison-craft, and I refuse to accept that,” Ye Fengjun said, somewhat aggrieved. “This particular poison of mine doesn’t rot your guts or burn through your bowels—it clears out the five organs, eases the breath, and sends you off into the west on the wings of a beautiful dream. Isn’t that impressive?”

“But I don’t want to go off into the west yet, I’m still young, I still have alms to collect,” Mo Ya wailed. “In ancient times Shennong tasted a hundred herbs himself—why don’t you test your own poison instead of using us?”

Ye Fengjun waved a hand, sheepish. “I’m just not fond of sweets, is all.”

“You…” Mo Ya clutched his stomach, then anxiously turned to the fox. “Gungun, are you all right?”

Gungun’s eyes rolled in slow circles, and it let out a satisfied burp.

“It’s over…” Mo Ya choked out, “Amitabha, to think today would be the day I, Mo Ya, pass into nirvana. I don’t know if I’ll get to see the Buddha after I die, but I hope the Buddha lets Gungun be reborn as a human in the next life, so he won’t have to be a fox poisoned to death in a fit of stupidity again. Waaah.”

Tao Yao looked on with malicious glee. “This is what you get for being greedy—I told you long ago not to eat anything from this man. He’s the kind of lunatic who sets people on fire over a failed negotiation, and you two dared to eat his food.”

“Tao Yao, if you won’t save me, at least save Gungun,” Mo Ya wailed, throwing himself at her legs. “I won’t be able to chant sutras for you anymore. If you feel lonely, I’ll leave you my prayer beads as a keepsake.”

“Don’t! If you really did get poisoned to death, he’d actually be doing me a favor.” She shoved him off just before his snot could drip onto her.

“This isn’t the time for a will and testament,” Ye Fengjun said, patting Mo Ya’s shoulder and giving him a wink. “I have the antidote right here!”

“What?” Mo Ya’s grief instantly turned to joy. “So you never meant to poison me to death?”

“You never even haggled over price with me—why would I want to kill you?” Ye Fengjun said seriously. “I just need you to tell me everything you felt after taking the poison, and I’ll give you the antidote right before it kills you. Don’t worry.”

Mo Ya’s face crumpled. “Can’t you just give it to me now?”

“I told you, I’m testing the poison. If you don’t hold out to the very last moment, how will I know it works? Just think of it as a favor for me, you and Gungun both,” he said with a sly grin.

“Shopkeeper Ye, we’re currently discussing the lives of one man and one fox—could you show a bit more concern, please?” Mo Ya hugged Gungun, wanting to lose his temper but afraid of breaking his vow against anger. There wasn’t a single normal creature to be found around Tao Yao!

Before he could finish, an odd gurgling noise rose simultaneously from both Mo Ya’s and Gungun’s stomachs. Then Mo Ya let out a loud, resonant fart, sprang to his feet, and, red-faced, stammered, “I need to go… go…”

“The outhouse is out back!” Ye Fengjun pointed, and Mo Ya and Gungun vanished in an instant.

Tao Yao pinched her nose and glared at Ye Fengjun. “What exactly did you feed them?”

“It’s a new poison—bound to have a few side effects even I don’t fully understand yet.” Ye Fengjun poured himself a cup of tea, chuckling. “Go ahead and drink, the tea isn’t poisoned.”

“As if I’d believe you.” Tao Yao said impatiently. “Just tell me—what exactly did you waste one of my sheets of paper for?”

Ye Fengjun’s smile faded. “Would you help me save a demon?”

“Save a demon for you?” Tao Yao raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought all you did was profit off the dead, brew poisons, and torment animals.”

“I love this world dearly.” Ye Fengjun said, perfectly earnest. “And I respect every life in it, including the ones already gone.”

“What demon?”

“Shujin.”

Zhu Xiaobao was one of the rare customers who had left a real impression on Ye Fengjun.

The reasons: one, he had money; two, he wasn’t a nag; three, he never took the ordinary path.

Everything Yuanbao Hall sold was made for the dead, never for the living—yet Zhu Xiaobao, of all people, kept coming for the living, and had even gotten Ye Fengjun happily agreeing to do business with him.

If Ye Fengjun remembered right, the young man’s first visit had been on New Year’s Eve, a year ago.

It hadn’t been a particularly cold winter that year—almost mild. On New Year’s Eve, every household along the street had hung festive lanterns and pasted up spring couplets, and most of the shops had already closed early. After sending off the last customer, who’d come to buy incense and candles for ancestor worship, Ye Fengjun poked his head out to survey the thinning crowd, thinking to himself that he’d wait one more stick of incense’s worth of time, and if no one else showed up, he’d close for the New Year. His drinking companions had already set up a steaming hotpot at the famous Tianxiang Tower, just waiting for him to arrive and feast—the thought alone was enough to put him in high spirits.

But just moments before he was about to shut the door, someone came dashing in, gasping for breath.

“Young sir, this shop’s closing up for the day. Please come back after the third of the New Year,” Ye Fengjun said, sizing up the young man in his early twenties, whose face was flushed red from running, snot dripping from his nose.

The young man braced one hand against the door to keep it from closing, and with the other, pulled a small pouch from inside his robe, gasping, “Please… please, shopkeeper, spare me a moment… it won’t take you long at all… I’ll pay in gold!”

As he spoke, the young man hurriedly untied the pouch and shook out three thin, glittering pieces of metal, holding them up right beneath Ye Fengjun’s nose.

“Oh?” Ye Fengjun’s eyes lit up.

“Real gold,” the young man said, looking at the three golden flakes in his palm. “A bit thin, perhaps, but genuine, no question.”

Ye Fengjun considered this, then stepped aside. “What are you looking to buy? Come in and pick something out. I just finished folding a Jasper Pool Immortal Terrace yesterday—perfect to burn for your ancestors. There’s also freshly-folded gold and silver ingots, and the incense is finer than usual. Why don’t you just buy the whole set, young sir, and I’ll give you a good price.”

“No, no, that’s not what I want,” the young man said, waving his hands.

“Not that?” Ye Fengjun’s face fell at once. “Then what does anyone come to Yuanbao Hall for, if not that? It’s New Year’s, young sir—if you’ve come all this way just to toy with me, I’ll get quite cross.”

“You’ve misunderstood, shopkeeper.” The young man hastily stuffed the gold flakes back into the pouch and thrust it into Ye Fengjun’s hand without argument. “I’ve come to buy a paper butterfly—the kind whose wings can move. I asked all over the city, and everyone said Shopkeeper Ye of Yuanbao Hall has the finest paper-folding skill under heaven, so I rushed straight here.”

Ye Fengjun blinked. “A paper butterfly?”

“Yes!” The young man nodded vigorously. “I’d be grateful for your help.”

Ye Fengjun looked him over, puzzled. “Did your ancestor have a fondness for butterflies in life?”

“No, no—my mother is still alive,” the young man quickly explained. “She’s in poor health, and doesn’t have many hobbies besides this—folding little cats, dogs, birds, that sort of thing. She’s been trying to fold a butterfly these past few days, but no matter what she does, she can’t get it right, and it’s worried her sick—can’t eat, can’t sleep properly. I’ve tried to reason with her, but she’s still upset. Ah, the older people get, the more childlike they become, it seems—stubborn as anything.”

“I see…” Ye Fengjun weighed the pouch in his hand and clicked his tongue. “The things I fold with my own hands are priceless and not easily sold. But seeing as this is filial devotion on your part, I’ll make an exception, just this once. Your accent doesn’t sound local—what’s your name?”

The young man beamed. “My surname’s Zhu—Zhu Xiaobao. My mother and I came from Luoyang two years ago. We live in Chenghuang Alley now.”

“Zhu Xiaobao… right, I’ll remember it.” Ye Fengjun gave him a solemn pat on the shoulder. “Kid, you’re the first person to buy something from me for the living. Sit for a bit, this will only take about a third of a stick of incense.”

Zhu Xiaobao hastily bowed in thanks.

When Ye Fengjun said a third of a stick of incense, he meant exactly that.

The delicate paper butterfly that appeared before them had a fine thread hidden beneath its belly—pull it, and the wings would flutter gracefully. Not only was the craftsmanship first-rate, but the wings had also been painted with intricate patterns. Though it was just a plaything, the care put into it was plain to see.

“So beautiful!” Zhu Xiaobao marveled.

Ye Fengjun smiled. “Just a trifle, put together with barely any effort.”

Zhu Xiaobao asked him to box it up carefully, then left Yuanbao Hall, thanking him profusely the whole way.

Once the shop was closed, Ye Fengjun took out the pouch, shook out the three gold flakes, and bit down on each in turn—genuine gold indeed. Satisfied, he tidied up and set off happily for the hotpot feast.

By then it was well past the dinner hour, and the streets were nearly empty, only the occasional pop of firecrackers breaking the quiet. He swung his arms and jogged along, but as he passed through a dim, unlit alley, he suddenly stopped and stared at his own right palm. A faint, hazy red glow floated on his skin, and upon closer inspection, a few tiny flecks of gold dust clung there—such an unremarkable little thing, yet it gave off this strange light in the darkness.

Ye Fengjun frowned.

On the fourth day of the New Year, Zhu Xiaobao came again.

Ye Fengjun, in the middle of folding a paper house, saw him and set down his work, greeting him with a smile. “Come for more folding lessons?”

Zhu Xiaobao rubbed his fingers together, embarrassed. “Yes… but…”

“Why so awkward?” Ye Fengjun asked, puzzled.

“It’s just… about that butterfly you were kind enough to part with last time. My mother loves it dearly. But…” He rubbed his nose, red from the cold, and said carefully, “She took it apart to see how it worked, and now she can’t put it back together no matter what she tries. Shopkeeper Ye, could you teach me how to fold it? I’ll show her once I’m home—that should ease her mind.”

Ye Fengjun shook his head. “Your mother really is a mischievous one. My craft isn’t something just anyone can simply take apart and figure out.”

Zhu Xiaobao quickly pulled out a pouch and shook out two gold flakes. “This is a smaller sum than last time—I’ll make up the difference next time. Please do me this favor, shopkeeper.”

Ye Fengjun looked him over again, teasing. “Young Master Zhu spends so freely—does your mother know about this?”

Zhu Xiaobao said nothing, only bowed. “The money I give you is honestly earned, shopkeeper, rest assured.”

Ye Fengjun laughed and took the gold flakes, tucking them away. “Sit, then. Watch closely how I fold it—I’ll only show you once.”

Zhu Xiaobao’s face lit up with joy, and he thanked him again and again.

Outside, a light drizzle mixed with snow fell; the early-spring chill was sharper than any that had come before. Ye Fengjun lit the stove, and the two sat side by side as Zhu Xiaobao watched every step of the folding process intently, marveling in his heart that anyone in this world could be so nimble-fingered, turning a plain sheet of white paper into a wondrous little world without the aid of any magic at all.

Zhu Xiaobao wasn’t especially clever, but he wasn’t dull either. After watching Ye Fengjun demonstrate just once, he clumsily folded another butterfly from memory. Only one wing could move, but that was enough to make him happy.

“My mother will be pleased now,” he said, springing to his feet and heading off with his creation clutched to his chest, bidding Ye Fengjun farewell.

Ye Fengjun walked him to the door and said with a smile, “Tell your mother I can also fold a little dog that wags its tail, a cat that opens its mouth, a peony that blooms. If she’s willing, come find me again!”

Zhu Xiaobao was overjoyed, thanking him again and again, and finally bowed to him with great solemnity. “Shopkeeper Ye, you’re a good man.”

“Just keep that to yourself—saying it out loud is embarrassing.” Ye Fengjun clutched the two gold flakes tightly. “Come again anytime.”

The rain grew heavier, and Zhu Xiaobao, huddled under his umbrella, quickly disappeared into the deepening cold.

Just as Ye Fengjun had hoped, over the following year Zhu Xiaobao became a regular at Yuanbao Hall—sometimes visiting every few days, sometimes once a month—always bringing payment, and true to his word, teaching him to fold cats, dogs, pumpkins. This easy, profitable arrangement genuinely delighted him.

Through their many casual conversations, his understanding of Zhu Xiaobao gradually deepened. The young man said he was twenty-three now, that his father had died young, leaving him with no siblings, raised single-handedly by his mother. Home was a village called Shiniu, just outside Luoyang; his mother farmed and raised chickens while he did odd jobs in the city. Life wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t hard either—until, at seventeen, he was conscripted into the army almost without warning, and marched with the troops to Taiyuan. The emperor wanted to launch a northern campaign, to root out the thorn in his side that shared a common enemy with the Khitan. But the fighting broke out during a brutal heat wave, and disease spread through the ranks; then the Khitan sent reinforcements, and in the end the emperor was forced to withdraw, his campaign a failure.

That day, Zhu Xiaobao had rolled up his sleeve to show him a scar on his right arm, saying it was fortunate they’d retreated when they did, or he might never have made it home—war was a terrifying thing.

“Why move to Shu, then? Weren’t things fine in Luoyang?” Ye Fengjun asked him.

“My mother heard Shu was beautiful, full of fine scenery and good food, and kept talking about wanting to see it for herself. I couldn’t stand her going on about it forever, so two years ago we finally packed up what we could carry and came here together. She loves it here more than I can say—says she wants to spend her final years here. I know her health has only gotten worse these past years, and since this makes her happy, I’ll stay here with her.” So Zhu Xiaobao explained.

Ye Fengjun nodded. “And how do the two of you make a living, then?”

“She still raises chickens,” Zhu Xiaobao answered honestly. “I help out in a restaurant kitchen sometimes, run errands for people other times.”

“Sounds like a tight life,” Ye Fengjun remarked idly.

Zhu Xiaobao fiddled with the paper in his hands, nodding. “It isn’t easy, no, but at least the three meals a day are never a worry.”

“Then where does your bihan gold come from?” Ye Fengjun’s tone suddenly turned cold and sharp, as though he’d become an entirely different person.

Zhu Xiaobao froze, not daring to look up for a long moment.

All the gold flakes he’d handed over these past months clattered down onto the ground before him, and behind them was Ye Fengjun’s expressionless face—paired with his white robe and pale skin, he genuinely looked like a ghost.

“I… I should go now,” Zhu Xiaobao said, not daring to meet his eyes, edging quickly toward the door with his head down.

Ye Fengjun didn’t bother being polite. He snatched up a length of hemp rope, caught up with him, tripped him to the ground with one kick, and with speed and skill beyond question, trussed him up like a hog. He dragged him to the backyard, tossed the rope over the branch of the thick old locust tree, and with one sharp yank hauled Zhu Xiaobao shrieking up into the air. The whole thing was done in one fluid motion, no hesitation at all.

“Shopkeeper Ye… I’m afraid of heights…” Zhu Xiaobao begged, holding back tears.

Ye Fengjun fetched a stool and sat down, unhurried, a slingshot and several balls of scrap paper now in his hands.

“Zhu Xiaobao, I only teach folding once. The same goes for asking you questions—only once.” He loaded a ball of paper into the slingshot, pulled the elastic taut, and squinted one eye, taking aim. “Anyone who comes to me only ever gets one chance.”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, what do you mean by bihan gold?” Zhu Xiaobao struggled.

Thwack. The paper ball hit him squarely on the neck—no real harm, but painful enough to make him wince.

“Then tell me where all this gold is coming from,” Ye Fengjun said, loading a second ball, taking aim.

“It’s been passed down in my family for generations!” Zhu Xiaobao wailed, tears and snot flying.

Thwack. The ball hit his face, and he cried out in pain.

“You can’t even lie properly. Tell me, should I be hitting you or not?” Ye Fengjun set down the slingshot and picked up a third ball.

“Stop, stop! Please, Shopkeeper Ye!” Zhu Xiaobao cried out. “I really can’t say. But this gold is not ill-gotten, I swear—please let me down!”

Ye Fengjun smiled. “Not letting you down. I rather enjoy watching you strung up like this.”

“I really can’t tell you!” Cold sweat and tears mingled into a small, mournful river down Zhu Xiaobao’s face. “I promised to keep it secret—telling you would put it in danger!”

“‘It’?” Ye Fengjun raised the slingshot again. “Once I run out of paper balls, I’ll switch to pebbles. Then it won’t just hurt. And this yard of mine is plenty spacious—if I happen to kill someone by accident, there’s certainly room to bury one or two.”

The instant the third ball struck his forehead, Zhu Xiaobao finally broke. “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you!”

Satisfied, Ye Fengjun rose and walked a few steps forward, looking up at him swaying in midair. “Go on, then.”

“It’s… it’s a shujin bird!” Zhu Xiaobao’s face flushed deep red.

Ye Fengjun raised an eyebrow. “How did you come to have it?”

“When I was fifteen, it flew to me on its own—landed right in our chicken coop. Bright yellow feathers, about the size of a chick,” Zhu Xiaobao said hurriedly. “It spits up gold dust, and by the next day, that dust always forms into gold flakes of various sizes. It’s been like this for years now.”

“How do you know it’s a shujin bird?” Ye Fengjun sneered. “That’s not exactly common knowledge, like a chicken you’d recognize on sight.”

Zhu Xiaobao hastened to explain. “I once had an old book at home, no cover, filled with tales of gods and monsters. It said that back in the Cao Wei dynasty, the Kingdom of Kunming presented a shujin bird as tribute—a bird the size of a sparrow, with bright yellow feathers, that spat gold dust. After Wei fell, the bird vanished without a trace. That book has since been lost, but I never forgot it. What else could a gold-spitting bird be, if not a shujin?”

With a soft whoosh, a pebble flew from Ye Fengjun’s hand, and the hemp rope snapped in two. Zhu Xiaobao let out a howl as he tumbled to the ground.

“All these years, and no one’s ever come after you for it?” Ye Fengjun crouched down in front of him. “That bird is something plenty of people would kill for.”

Zhu Xiaobao tore the rope from his body and sat up, aggrieved. “I’ve kept a very low profile—I don’t flaunt the gold at all. Everything it’s spat up over the years, I’ve hidden away. Even my mother doesn’t know. I still work odd jobs for money, and only in truly desperate times do I quietly trade a piece or half a piece for something I need.”

Ye Fengjun eyed him suspiciously. “If that’s so, why go through all this trouble, trading so much gold for something as trivial as paper-folding lessons from me?”

“My mother only cares about her paper-folding,” Zhu Xiaobao said, ignoring the ache in his bruised knees, kneeling down and begging pitifully. “I’ve kept this secret for eight years, Shopkeeper Ye. I beg you, for the sake of the fact that I’ve never used it to do anything wicked, and I’ve never shortchanged you—please don’t tell anyone about the shujin bird.”

Ye Fengjun stood. “I’ll think about it.”

“Shopkeeper Ye!” Zhu Xiaobao wiped the mud from his face and struggled to his feet. “And how did you even know about the term bihan gold?”

Ye Fengjun grinned slyly. “The Wei emperor kept a shujin bird and built it a Crystal Bihan Terrace to live in—hence the gold it spat was called bihan gold. Did you think you were the only one who’s ever read a book?”

“Oh…” Zhu Xiaobao scratched his head, hurrying to catch up behind him. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“I told you, I’ll think about it. Depends on my mood.”

“Please, really, you mustn’t tell anyone!”

“Then explain to me why the shujin bird didn’t land on my roof, but on the roof of your chicken coop, you fool!”

“Maybe it thought your roof wasn’t as good as my chicken coop?”

“That wasn’t a real question!”

“Oh…”

Ye Fengjun never breathed a word of Zhu Xiaobao’s secret to anyone.

After the incident with the beating, Zhu Xiaobao didn’t disappear or flee far away—he kept visiting Yuanbao Hall on and off, if anything even more eager to please than before, not only bringing gold but sometimes a basket of eggs for Ye Fengjun as well, always for the same purpose: asking Ye Fengjun to teach him more paper-folding.

Ye Fengjun figured a man like this had only survived the battlefield because heaven must have been looking the other way.

Even so, neither of them ever brought up the shujin bird again.

This year at the Mid-Autumn Festival, Ye Fengjun closed the shop early. It was already dusk, the summer heat lingering, and the streets and alleys were filled with the sweet scent of osmanthus.

He sat in the courtyard, sipping a bowl of mung bean soup meant to cool the blood and dispel heat.

By his reckoning, it had been quite some time since Zhu Xiaobao had last come by Yuanbao Hall.

When he finished, he casually set the empty bowl down on the small wooden table beside him, but his attention slipped and the porcelain bowl fell and shattered on the ground.

An inexplicable unease settled over him.

A sudden thought seized him, and Ye Fengjun hurried out the door.

The evening glow burned like fire, the streets bustling. He slipped through clusters of laughing, playing children and headed straight for Chenghuang Alley in the middle of the city.

He knew this city inside and out; he could walk its paths with his eyes closed.

Chenghuang Alley was a lively area, home to a nearby entertainment district, decked out with lanterns and full of song and dance every festival. The rich smell of wine overpowered even the osmanthus fragrance. Ye Fengjun paid it no mind and plunged straight into an alley lined with white walls and gray tiles. Without warning, he collided head-on with a wiry middle-aged man. Both had been walking fast, and each staggered back several steps.

The man wore a black robe cinched with a gray belt, a wisp of a beard hanging down to his chest. One hand rested on the sword at his waist; the other carried something covered in cloth, shaped like a birdcage.

“Watch where you’re going!” the man snapped, glaring fiercely, then hurried off.

Ye Fengjun said nothing and kept walking. A few steps later, he encountered a woman leading a child by the hand and hurried to ask where the Zhu family lived. She pointed ahead, saying the house at the end of the alley was the one.

He thanked her and quickened his pace toward the end of the alley.

A ladder stood propped against the Zhu family’s front door. Zhu Xiaobao was hanging an elegant lotus-shaped lantern beneath the eaves; another lantern already hung there—one reading “Peace,” the other “Joy.”

“Did you make the lanterns yourself?” Ye Fengjun asked, looking up at him from beside the ladder.

Zhu Xiaobao startled badly, nearly toppling off the ladder, swaying for a moment before he steadied himself.

“Shop… Shopkeeper Ye?” He looked down at Ye Fengjun, astonished. “What are you doing here?”

“I was passing by. Thought I’d wish you a happy Mid-Autumn,” Ye Fengjun said.

Relieved, Zhu Xiaobao finished hanging the lantern and clumsily climbed down the ladder, taking the words at face value. “I couldn’t possibly deserve that—I should have been the one to visit you.”

Ye Fengjun studied his face. “Been in a fight?”

Zhu Xiaobao’s left cheek was swollen and red, faint traces of unwiped blood visible beneath his nose.

“Just an accident… bumped into something,” Zhu Xiaobao said, laughing awkwardly. “It’s nothing, just a scratch.”

“Where’s the shujin bird?” Ye Fengjun asked again.

Zhu Xiaobao froze. “It’s… it’s at home.”

“Take me to see it.” Ye Fengjun grabbed his arm. “Don’t worry, I have no ill intentions toward it. Just curious, that’s all.”

Zhu Xiaobao refused to budge, only stammering, “It’s… it’s sleeping!”

“Sleeping in someone else’s cage, more like,” Ye Fengjun said bluntly.

“This…” Seeing there was no use hiding it, Zhu Xiaobao finally admitted, “Someone came just now, and I couldn’t fight them off, and I was afraid they’d disturb my mother, so I had no choice but to…”

“Useless!”

Without waiting to hear the rest, Ye Fengjun spat the word through gritted teeth and turned to leave.

“Shopkeeper Ye!” Zhu Xiaobao called anxiously after him. “Don’t go! Come back!”

But there was no chance Ye Fengjun would turn back.

When Ye Fengjun returned to the Zhu household, it was already the next morning.

Zhu Xiaobao, sweeping fallen leaves in front of the door, was startled badly by his sudden appearance, one hand clutching the broom, the other pointing at him. “Shop-shop-shopkeeper Ye… what happened to…”

Ye Fengjun’s clothes were filthy, his hair disheveled, several scratches visible on his neck.

“That fellow had some skill,” he said calmly to Zhu Xiaobao. “Though when he couldn’t beat me, he started clawing at me like some shrew—truly beneath contempt. A man like that only deserves to walk off with a chicken.”

Zhu Xiaobao held back a laugh, but then, thinking it over, something struck him as odd, and he asked, surprised, “You know already?”

Ye Fengjun glared at him. “Anyone who looked in that cage would’ve known it was just a yellow-feathered chick! Only that fool actually believed it was the shujin bird!” With that, he grabbed Zhu Xiaobao’s shoulder. “Tell me, what exactly did you do?”

“The chick had one of the shujin bird’s feathers on it,” Zhu Xiaobao said quietly. “Anyone obsessed with finding the shujin bird wouldn’t see a chick when they looked at it.”

Understanding dawned on Ye Fengjun, and he looked the young man over anew. “You’re not quite as much of a fool as I thought.”

Zhu Xiaobao smiled. “I’m hardly the only one who wants the shujin bird for himself. I’m no good at fighting, so I had to think of something.”

“And yet you’ve also claimed the shujin bird as your own,” Ye Fengjun said coldly. “If you truly harbor no ill intent toward it, why not simply let it fly free?”

Zhu Xiaobao was quiet for a moment. “It’s the one who doesn’t want to leave.”

Before he could say more, an elderly voice called out from behind him. “Xiaobao, who’s at the door?”

“Ah, it’s Shopkeeper Ye!” Zhu Xiaobao turned quickly and hurried toward the gray-haired woman leaning on a cane. “The one who taught me paper-folding!”

Hearing this, the old woman said happily to invite him in at once.

Ye Fengjun smoothed his hair and walked up to her, bowing with cupped hands. “Greetings, Madam Zhu.”

“No need to stand on ceremony, come in and sit.” The old woman, delighted, ushered him inside.

Once seated, Madam Zhu poured him tea with her own hands and brought out freshly fried sweet cakes, warm and welcoming.

He looked around the room. Every surface that could hold something was covered in paper-folded creations of every kind; several paper butterflies hung by the window, so lifelike they seemed ready to take flight.

“My legs aren’t what they used to be, and my health has only worsened. I’ve been meaning to visit Shopkeeper Ye myself to thank him properly, but never managed it.” Madam Zhu sat down across from him, picking up a half-finished paper cat and continuing to fold as she spoke. “I don’t have many hobbies in this life—just this folding and creasing. Plenty of people laugh at me, call me the crazy old woman obsessed with paper.”

“To each their own—as long as it makes you happy,” Ye Fengjun said, taking a bite of the sweet cake. “This is good.”

“Xiaobao made it,” Madam Zhu said, her face blooming into a smile the moment she mentioned her son. “He takes care of everything, big and small, around this house. He likes folding paper too—the two of us often work on things together. See that little table and chairs set over there? He and I spent an entire day working that out together.” She pointed to a small set of red paper furniture displayed on the cabinet across the room, beaming with pride.

“Very exquisite,” Ye Fengjun said, admiring it.

“Not nearly as fine as Shopkeeper Ye’s work,” Zhu Xiaobao cut in.

Ye Fengjun smiled, then turned to Madam Zhu. “Are you settling in well here in Shu?”

“Very well, very well.” Madam Zhu nodded repeatedly. “I don’t mind telling you, Shopkeeper Ye—my late husband was actually born here in Shu, and only moved to Luoyang with his family when he was young. After we married, I often heard him reminisce about the quiet beauty of Qingcheng, the grandeur of Emei. He always said that no matter what, he wanted to come back and see it again before he died. Sadly, he never got the chance.”

“I came back in his place, then. That’s not so bad,” Zhu Xiaobao said with a smile, then went into the kitchen and brought out a bowl of medicine. “Time for your medicine.”

“Getting old makes a person useless.” Madam Zhu sighed, taking the bowl, then suddenly remembered something and asked Zhu Xiaobao, “Hasn’t Old Madam Zheng come by in quite a while?”

“Seems that way,” Zhu Xiaobao calculated. “Last time she visited must have been about a month ago.”

“My memory really is going, these days I forget everything.” Madam Zhu looked worried. “Find some time to check on her. Her health is even worse than mine. I wonder if her son finally took her back to live with him.”

“Mm, I’ll go by later. Drink your medicine first.” Zhu Xiaobao pulled out a piece of candy and pressed it into her hand. “Have a piece of candy after—that medicine’s too bitter.”

“All right. Hm, why is there a piece missing? Did you sneak one again?”

“Heh heh…”

From beginning to end, the exchange between mother and son was warm and unhurried. Their household was far from wealthy—everything they owned was plain and simple—yet somehow it seemed they lacked for nothing at all.

Zhu Xiaobao invited Ye Fengjun to stay for lunch, and he did not refuse.

After the meal, Madam Zhu returned to her seat by the window to continue folding her paper creatures, while Zhu Xiaobao led Ye Fengjun to the back courtyard to watch him feed the chickens.

A dozen or so chickens wandered about within a fenced-off enclosure, in all shapes and sizes, full of vigor.

“Let me guess where you’ve hidden the shujin bird.” Ye Fengjun eyed the coop. “In there?”

“Somewhere no one else could ever find it, anyway,” Zhu Xiaobao said, looking rather pleased with himself. “I’ll tell you eventually.”

Ye Fengjun cuffed him on the back of the head. “Playing games with me!”

Zhu Xiaobao laughed sheepishly and scattered a handful of grain husks.

“With the shujin bird in your possession, you could be living a much better life,” Ye Fengjun said, looking around at the plain little house, barely enough to keep out the wind and rain.

“This is plenty good already,” Zhu Xiaobao said, watching his chickens with contentment. “A roof over our heads, eggs and chicken to eat.” He paused. “But most important of all, my mother and I get to talk and laugh together, safe and at peace.”

Ye Fengjun was quiet for a moment, then said, “Never thought of pursuing rank and fame, marrying, having children of your own?”

“Rank and fame? I’ve barely read a handful of books… we’ll see, I suppose. As for marrying, some girl would actually have to take a liking to me first, ha ha,” Zhu Xiaobao said, embarrassed.

Ye Fengjun couldn’t decide whether to call him unambitious or simply content, and asked idly, “Who is Old Madam Zheng?”

“A friend of my mother’s, I suppose. They used to go shopping and walking together, chatting away—my mother even taught her paper-folding. Her son runs a tailor shop on the south side of the city, though for some reason she doesn’t live with them—she lives alone in a small house on the next street over. She always used to praise how capable her son was, how filial her daughter-in-law, how adorable her grandchild—but I’ve never once seen them come visit her. They just send someone with clothes and food from time to time. I remember one New Year’s Eve, I went to help her clean her house, and she happily told me her son’s family was coming to see her. She’d laid out a whole table of dishes, which went cold, then were reheated, then went cold again, and by nightfall she was still sitting there alone. I told her to come home with me, but she wouldn’t, said she’d wait a little longer.” Zhu Xiaobao sighed. “Just a New Year’s dinner together—is that really so much to ask?”

“Whether something is hard or easy all depends on whether the heart is in it,” Ye Fengjun said wryly. “Foolish as you are, you’ve managed to learn two or three parts of my skill—clearly your heart’s in the right place.”

Zhu Xiaobao turned around, pleased. “Was that a compliment?”

“I suppose.”

“Amitabha, I don’t ask for praise—just that you stop beating me from now on.”

“We’ll see.”

“…”

Autumn gave way to winter, and on the day of the year’s first winter rain, Zhu Xiaobao walked into Yuanbao Hall, his whole body weary.

This time he hadn’t come to learn paper-folding, but to buy incense and joss paper.

Madam Zhu had passed away of illness.

Ye Fengjun picked out the finest paper offerings and candles, and refused to accept payment.

On the day of Madam Zhu’s burial, Ye Fengjun went as well.

Before the cold, quiet grave, Zhu Xiaobao knelt in mourning clothes before the fire basin, feeding folded paper offerings into the flames one by one, his expression calm—now and then, as if remembering something, he’d even smile faintly.

Ye Fengjun stood across from him, and before he could say anything, Zhu Xiaobao suddenly spoke. “This is the most satisfying farewell I’ve ever had.”

An odd, out-of-nowhere thing to say.

Ye Fengjun said nothing.

“The last time I bid someone farewell, it was in the imperial palace.” Firelight danced in Zhu Xiaobao’s clear eyes. “It was the night before the empire collapsed. The women there were busy fighting over jewelry made from bihan gold, as if whoever grabbed the most would somehow live on. I watched them from a distance, and I couldn’t even find it in myself to feel like saying goodbye.”

Ye Fengjun startled slightly, then, after a long pause, said, “Your last farewell must have been a very, very long time ago.”

Zhu Xiaobao smiled. “By human reckoning, yes. A long time.”

The cold wind blew, scattering ash in every direction, and Zhu Xiaobao stayed kneeling there, unhurriedly burning paper.

The pile of folded offerings beside him dwindled, until only one piece remained.

“My mother folded this right before she died. She never finished it—it’s missing a wing.” He lifted a paper bird with only half of one wing formed. “I don’t know why she chose to fold this in her final moments. Maybe it was just chance.”

His gaze settled on the paper bird, sinking into a past unimaginably distant.

Fly, just fly, it doesn’t matter where—it’s all much the same anywhere, and nowhere is worth staying too long.

But maybe it’s just old age. There’s a certain tiredness now.

It looked down at the city below, feeling a strange familiarity—after hundreds of years away, it seemed it had circled back once more.

By the light of the moon, it chose a household, for a simple reason: this family kept many chickens—roosters, hens, and a whole brood of chicks.

It slipped silently into the chicken coop, nestling among a group of chicks of similar color and size. It disliked the cold—otherwise, why would the emperor of old have built it an entire Bihan Terrace?

Still, this place was clearly more comfortable than the terrace ever was. The chicks were soft and warm, downy and pleasant. Best of all, being among them was safe—no one would ever notice one extra “chick” in a crowd, especially since, in truth, they did look rather alike, though it privately thought itself a bit prettier.

This household had only two people, a mother and her son.

From several days of watching from inside the coop, it learned the family’s surname was Zhu, and that the mother called her son Xiaobao.

Xiaobao was already fifteen or sixteen, a restless boy who could never sit still at home, always out early and back late—part of the time spent doing odd jobs, most of it spent idling about.

His mother, by contrast, was diligent in every way—inside and outside the house, her hand was steady and capable, even the chickens she raised were sturdier than anyone else’s.

Her cooking, too, must have been excellent, because every mealtime the courtyard filled with rich, savory aromas.

And yet Xiaobao rarely ate with her. Even when he was home, if his mother called him to eat, he’d answer with obvious impatience, wolf down a few mouthfuls, and be out the door again.

She loved folding paper, made all sorts of flowers, grasses, and animals. Her favorite—a little pig—she placed in her son’s room, since Xiaobao was born in the Year of the Pig, but one day he came home with mud on his shoes and, without thinking, grabbed the paper pig off the table to wipe them clean.

She saw it and said nothing. After he left, she picked up the crumpled, filthy thing, and carefully unfolded it—behind the wrinkled, dirty paper were six crooked characters: Xiaobao, peace and joy.

She folded the paper back up and tucked it away in a corner of the cabinet.

She’d recently been learning to write, taught by Teacher Liu next door—this had been the first time she’d managed to write all six characters entirely by herself.

How did it know all this? It laughed—she’d said it herself, crouched in front of the chicken coop, scattering husks as she spoke.

She’d learned to fold plum blossoms. She’d run into an old childhood friend on the street she hadn’t seen in ages. She’d accidentally broken two eggs while selling them at market… every trivial thing, and some not so trivial, she recounted endlessly before the coop.

The truth was, she spoke more words to her chickens in a single day than she did to her own son.

Xiaobao always seemed busy. When she told him to dress warmer in the cold, he’d say I know, I know; when she told him to be careful out there, the same I know, I know. When she wanted to sit and talk with him a while, he was either off chasing after his friends or hiding in his room playing with crickets.

Sometimes she would sigh at his retreating back, but the feeling always passed quickly, and she’d mutter to herself that young people had their own things to be busy with.

It chose to stay on in the coop, and even after the chicks shed their down for feathers, it remained just as it was.

No matter how careless she was, eventually she noticed the odd one out in the coop.

It flapped its wings, ready to fly off.

“You’re not a chicken, are you…” She crouched by the coop, her surprised gaze holding no malice at all. “I’ve never seen a bird quite like you. Are you hurt, is that how you ended up at my house? Or did you lose your way?”

It chirped twice.

“Looking this small, I bet you got separated from your parents and don’t have the strength to fly back yet,” she said, imagining its journey, reaching out a finger to stroke the top of its head. “If you don’t mind our chicken coop, why don’t you stay a while? You can fly off to find them once you’re grown. If something happened to you, think how sad your parents would be.”

It thought this over, folded its wings back down, and for the time being, folded away its intention to leave as well. No real reason—it simply felt it could stay.

From then on, mixed in with the husks scattered for the chickens came the occasional handful of millet—her own private favor for it.

And the best thing it could offer in return was to quietly listen to everything she said, the things her son never had the patience to hear.

Truthfully, what she talked about wasn’t so boring after all—astronomy and geography, the small doings of the household, some of it was actually quite interesting.

Unfortunately, Xiaobao wasn’t willing to give her much of his time; he had bigger things on his mind.

That early summer, Xiaobao left home with sudden resolve, saying he was going to join the army, that he’d win glory for his country and his emperor, reclaim lost lands, that he was headed for a wider world.

She knew there was no stopping him.

Xiaobao left with the most beautiful visions of war filling his head; before his mother’s figure had even faded from view behind him, he could already see himself, clad in armor, charging into battle, returning in triumph.

He never knew that the battlefield had nothing to do with anything beautiful.

Nor did he know that, after he left, his mother seemed to age ten years almost overnight, and that she began, day and night without pause, folding paper turtles—because she’d heard somewhere that if she folded nine hundred and ninety-nine of them, the family member far from home would return safely.

But when the nine hundred and ninety-ninth turtle was finished, still there was no word from Xiaobao. She sent people to inquire after news from the front, and all anyone could tell her was that things weren’t going well for their side.

Many nights, it watched her window stay lit clear through until dawn.

On the hottest night of that summer, it flew away.

Finding someone was never hard for it, even amid a battlefield awash in blood—the hard part was finding someone who was already dead.

It found Xiaobao among a heap of unclaimed corpses. His eyes were still open, his expression frozen somewhere between terror and disbelief.

It settled gently on top of him. Above, a thin sliver of moon slowly emerged from behind the clouds…

The fire in the basin had long since burned out, and yet, to the very end, Zhu Xiaobao never fed that paper bird into the flames.

“What you’re doing is essentially seeking your own death,” Ye Fengjun said, his expression blank, looking at him. “Bringing a dead person back to ‘life’—that’s beyond what a demon as old as you can bear.”

Zhu Xiaobao laughed. “You’ve noticed I’m old, then?”

“You’ve been spitting up less and less gold, haven’t you,” Ye Fengjun said. “And these past few years, what you’ve spat up has come with a red tinge—a sign your vital energy is running out.”

Zhu Xiaobao shrugged. “I used to think demons and spirits were the one thing that could escape the passage of time. Turns out that’s not true either.”

“Madam Zhu did no towering, world-shaking kindness for you—I don’t understand what you’re doing,” Ye Fengjun said bluntly.

“‘Without bihan gold, how could one win a king’s heart. Without bihan hairpins, how could one win a king’s favor.‘” He looked at the paper bird in his hands. “Have you ever heard a saying like that?”

Ye Fengjun said nothing.

“I used to believe that as long as I kept giving people gold, they’d be happy. Those women in the palace, fighting over jewelry made from bihan gold—it even led to killings. And in the end, they still died in despair, just like that fallen empire. I gave gold to others too, and the result was always the same. They were too busy fighting and scrambling over it to ever find the time to be happy.” Zhu Xiaobao stood, sighing softly. “So many old texts describe me as an auspicious creature that brings joy to mankind, but I’ve come to feel more and more that I’m nothing but a demon that brings conflict wherever I go.” He paused, turning to look at Madam Zhu’s headstone. “Not until I moved into the Zhu household, not until I met her, did I realize that giving or not giving gold never mattered at all. All she ever wanted was for Zhu Xiaobao to sit down and talk with her a while, fold some paper together, and while she could still eat and move about, take her to see the places she wanted to see.”

Dusk deepened, and a few stray snowflakes began to spiral down.

After another long silence, Ye Fengjun suddenly spoke. “Who says gold doesn’t matter. It works plenty well on me.”

Zhu Xiaobao smiled. “It’s just that Shopkeeper Ye’s prices really are too steep.”

“You get what you pay for,” Ye Fengjun said, entirely unashamed. “Besides, only a fool like you would use gold to pay for paper-folding lessons.”

“I’m no fool,” Zhu Xiaobao corrected. “What I bought was worth far more than what I paid you. You didn’t see the look on my mother’s face when she finally learned to fold that butterfly of yours. When a person is truly happy, their smile shines with light.”

He hadn’t seen it, no, but before his eyes now rose the image of mother and son bent together over their paper-folding, in sunlight or by lamplight—so ordinary a scene, not a single remarkable thing about it. But perhaps, he thought, that was exactly why they had never felt they lacked for anything at all.

To live happily while alive—nothing mattered more than that.

Ye Fengjun looked up. The snow was falling more heavily now.

“Snow is rare in Shu—I suppose I’m in luck.” Zhu Xiaobao held out a hand, catching a snowflake that melted the instant it touched his palm. “Shopkeeper Ye, the very first time I saw you, I knew you weren’t an ordinary person. Sadly, my own cultivation isn’t deep enough to see through to what you really are. Would you tell me just who exactly you are?”

Ye Fengjun considered this, then said, “I’m just someone starting his life over again. Nothing else about me matters.”

“That’s a fine answer.” Zhu Xiaobao smiled. “Even though I could never see through your true identity, and even though you’ve strung me up and beaten me, I never once disliked you. Thank you.”

“No one dislikes me,” he said, perfectly serious.

Zhu Xiaobao shook his head with a laugh. “One last thing I need to ask of you.” He pointed to himself. “Please see to Zhu Xiaobao’s burial, in my stead.”

He was startled for a moment, then nodded.

“Burn him plenty of paper money.”

“Mm.”

“And ingots too.”

“Mm.”

“He never married—should I burn a pretty girl for him too?”

“Don’t think I won’t string you back up just because you’re not afraid of it anymore.”

Tao Yao looked at the box Ye Fengjun held out to her—inside, on a soft cushion, lay a small bird with bright yellow feathers, about the size of a chick, its eyes half-closed, breathing slow and even.

“‘In Ranzhou, on Mount Huanming, there is a bird the size of a sparrow, with bright yellow feathers and a melodious voice, able to spit gold dust—hence called shujin, and considered by all an auspicious omen,'” Tao Yao recited, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “What a pity.”

Ye Fengjun frowned. “Don’t you dare tell me you have no way to help it, either.”

“What way could there possibly be?” Tao Yao scratched the shujin bird’s head. “It’s not sick—it’s simply too old. By rights, given the fortune it stumbled into becoming a demon, it should have lived several thousand years without issue. But no, it had to go and possess a corpse on a whim—lasting seven years after that is already remarkable luck. You’d best prepare its incense and paper money now.” She looked up, patting Ye Fengjun’s shoulder. “There, you haven’t lost out either way. That fellow gave you the last of the gold left in his life.”

With that, she turned to Mo Ya, huddled off to the side clutching his stomach. “Let’s go!”

Mo Ya’s face was miserable, his lips pale, and Gungun in his arms had its mouth open, panting, tongue lolling halfway out. Pitiful, truly—in the space of one cup of tea, the two of them had made some five or six trips to the outhouse.

“An… antidote…” Mo Ya reached a trembling hand toward Ye Fengjun, and Gungun mimicked him, extending a paw.

The pitiful state of the little monk and the fox left Ye Fengjun entirely unmoved. He ignored them completely, only blocking Tao Yao’s path. “As Ghost Doctor of Peach Capital, surely you’re not without options.”

“Every living thing grows old, and every living thing dies,” Tao Yao said, twirling the end of her braid dismissively. “Medicine was never meant to be powerful enough to stop any death.”

“Fine, then,” Ye Fengjun sighed. “Surely you can stop the deaths of a little monk and a fox.”

Alarmed, Mo Ya, pale as a sheet, staggered up to him. “Benefactor Ye! My life is a life too…”

“You met him only today,” Tao Yao said with a giggle. “A man who profits off the dead and treats poison-brewing as a hobby—no fun to be had there at all. You’ve only yourselves to blame for your greedy stomachs and thin fortune.”

“He’s your friend…” Mo Ya’s tears threatened to become a river again.

“We are absolutely not friends,” Tao Yao and Ye Fengjun said in perfect unison.

“You two…” Mo Ya, torn between fury and desperation, cried, “Tao Yao, if I really do get poisoned to death, someone’s bound to come looking for you!”

Tao Yao’s eyes darted about, but before she could reply, a gust of wind sliced through the air like a blade, and a flash of green shot past everyone’s vision—in the blink of an eye, the sturdy white jade carved Eight Immortals table in the center of the room shattered without warning into a pile of rubble.

Mo Ya jumped in fright and sat down hard on the ground; Gungun scrambled to burrow into his robes, ending up hanging half out from the collar, peering around nervously. The two creatures, of entirely different species, wore an identical expression.

A man’s voice fell from midair: “The little monk’s time hasn’t come yet. If he dies before I permit it, you both know what the consequences will be.”

Hearing this, Ye Fengjun frowned. “So he’s here too… talk about a ghost that won’t leave in peace.”

Tao Yao rolled her eyes and shouted at the empty air, “If you’re so capable, why don’t you write the prescription yourself!”

“That’s your job.” With that, the voice vanished.

“As if you’re the only one allowed to lose your temper, pfft.” Tao Yao snorted, pouting. “Fine, fine, I’ll give you the prescription.”

Ye Fengjun’s eyes lit up.

Tao Yao poked him in the chest, word by word. “But I don’t guarantee it’ll work. If it dies of old age anyway, don’t blame me.”

“I won’t,” Ye Fengjun promised.

“You know my rule.” Tao Yao tilted her chin at the shujin bird. “It has to agree to this itself before I’ll act.”

Ye Fengjun lifted the shujin bird out of the box; the little creature flapped its wings lazily in his palm, its eyes opening a fraction wider.

“I don’t know if you can still understand human speech.” Tao Yao leaned in close. “If you want to keep living, put your hand—no, your wing—into my left hand. That means you agree, of your own will, to become my medicine. From now on, whenever I need it, you give up whatever part of you I require. Do you agree?”

She held out her left hand toward it. “Think carefully. This bargain cannot be undone.”

The shujin bird blinked, turning its head to look first at Ye Fengjun, then at Tao Yao, and finally extended its wing, brushing lightly against her outstretched left hand.

Tao Yao pursed her lips. “It really does understand human speech.”

Everyone let out a breath of relief.

“Saved…” Mo Ya wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, then did the same for Gungun, though the fox, of course, had none.

Being dead meant having nothing at all—one simply had to keep living!

“Let me see you off,” Ye Fengjun said, standing at the door of Yuanbao Hall, grinning at Tao Yao.

“No need.” Tao Yao jumped back a step, looking disgusted. Mo Ya and Gungun stood even farther away, Mo Ya muttering to Gungun that they must never eat anything so carelessly again, Gungun nodding along like a pestle pounding rice—neither of them so much as glanced at Ye Fengjun again.

“Suit yourself.” Ye Fengjun shrugged. “Where to next?”

“Not sure. Bianjing, maybe,” Tao Yao said, looking at Mo Ya. “The little monk wants to travel around anyway, so it doesn’t matter where.”

“Tao Yao,” Ye Fengjun said suddenly, looking straight into her eyes, “something’s happened in Peach Capital, hasn’t it?”

Tao Yao blinked, then grinned. “Nothing at all. Peach Capital’s as prosperous and peaceful as ever.”

“You’re not the type to patiently tag along on a little monk’s travels,” Ye Fengjun said, the corner of his mouth curling up. “But that’s your business, I won’t pry. In any case, it’s a long road to Bianjing, and you’re still green in the ways of the world. Take care of yourself out there.”

“It’s a long road to Yingzhou too, take care of yourself as well.” Tao Yao stuck her tongue out at him. “If that really is the shujin bird the Cao family kept at their Bihan Terrace, then it’s very possibly the last shujin left in this world. From now on, you’ll be the only person on earth who has one. If it survives, that is.”

Ye Fengjun leaned in, lowering his voice. “So can it still spit gold?”

“You went to all this trouble to save this bird just for its gold?” Tao Yao shot back.

“What else would it be for?” Ye Fengjun scratched his nose.

Tao Yao laughed. “I suppose some people are just too embarrassed to admit their admiration for a bird.”

“Oh? Who’s that, I wonder?” Ye Fengjun looked left and right, feigning ignorance.

Tao Yao clicked her tongue, turned, and walked away, waving a hand over her shoulder. “Farewell!”

In the pale rosy light of dawn, Ye Fengjun watched her figure grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Tucked close against him was a folded prescription, on which was written: “At Gailuo Lake in Yingzhou, there are turtles like stones, their brains clear and translucent as glass. If a shujin bird consumes one, its life may be extended by a hundred years.”

He smiled at Tao Yao’s retreating back, murmuring to himself, “Let’s set out too, then.”

The shujin bird poked its head out of the box in his hand, chirping twice.

Coda

Withered wails of grief mixed with paper money falling from the sky like rain.

A procession of mourners in hemp mourning clothes escorted a coffin toward the outskirts of the city. Leading the way, none other than the couple who’d suffered such a hard time at Yuanbao Hall. Now the two of them wailed louder than anyone, crying out “Mother, oh Mother” at the top of their lungs. The funeral procession was long, the crowd large—likely the grandest scene of the old woman’s entire life.

Tao Yao and Mo Ya stood at the roadside, watching them pass, Mo Ya fingering his prayer beads, chanting sutras out of habit for a stranger’s departed soul.

Nearby, a few passersby murmured to each other. “Isn’t that Boss Zheng from the tailor shop? Heard his old mother passed. Tsk tsk, what a grand affair. What a filial son!”

“But didn’t I hear he made her move out on her own ages ago?”

“Is that so?”

“Seems that way. Well, whatever—the man has money, giving his mother a grand send-off like this. Still counts as filial devotion, doesn’t it?”

Tao Yao glanced at them, watching the procession recede into the distance, the ground strewn with paper money, a faint look of scorn on her face.

However grand, however filial the display, none of it had anything to do with the person who was actually gone.

Some truths, a bird understood, yet people, somehow, missed entirely.

No wonder Ye Fengjun had been so unkind to them, she thought, recalling the scene she’d witnessed the day before, shaking her head with a small smile.

“Stop chanting, let’s go.” She patted Mo Ya’s bald head.

“Where to?” Mo Ya asked.

“You’re the one who wanted to travel, so it’s up to you.”

“Oh… then let’s head toward Bianjing? I hear it’s very lively there, and surely plenty of kind-hearted patrons to beg alms from.”

“Fine, let’s head that way for now.”

“Tao Yao, I’m a little hungry…”

“I have no money.”

“You do, your purse is full.”

“You said you’d beg for your own food!”

Under the rare winter sunlight, two people and a fox bickered their way off into the bustling street, gradually disappearing from sight.