● Prologue ●

I was kidnapped.

A cave of jagged, grotesque rocks — a cave entrance I could see but couldn’t pass through.

Isolation, sorrow, despair just beginning to take shape, surging forth from corners both light and dark.

I watched the butterflies dancing at the cave entrance and reached out my hand, only to be violently thrown back by the force sealing the opening.

That really hurt. I clutched my hand, tears swirling in my eyes.

Someone behind me reached out an arm, hooked it over my shoulder, and murmured in my ear: “Does it hurt?”

I turned my head. Black hair swayed gently against a purple robe, and Ao Chi’s face lingered before me — tender, yet with a hint of provocation.

Right. Wasn’t it this scoundrel who kidnapped me?

A single tear dropped without my permission.

“Ah, stop crying.” His rough fingers clumsily wiped away my tears, careful and tentative, afraid of hurting my face.

Looking at him, a bolt of lightning split through my heart. I launched a flying kick straight into his tenderly affectionate face, watched the figure arc through the cave like a thrown stone, and said coldly: “Enough, dream-peddler.”

Everything before me dissolved into a wisp of gauze, gathered up and flung into the distance — I opened my eyes. The tea on the table was still steaming, and the man sitting across from me — curly-haired, dressed in gaudy colors like a close relative of the Romani people — was smiling and clapping his hands. “A seasoned old monster is a seasoned old monster. You woke up that quickly.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Do you know where your flaw was?”

“Oh?” He listened attentively.

“That person, no matter the circumstance, would never wipe my tears away that tenderly.” I shrugged.

“That’s not the reason.” The man shook his finger. “A person who knows they’re dreaming must have a heart that has seen all manner of right and wrong, of vicissitudes — a heart as grounded in reality as they come.” He picked up the tea I had brewed for him, raised it toward me. “A toast to the most clear-eyed innkeeper.”

I raised my cup toward him in return. “A toast to the worst salesman!”

Three hours ago, this strangely dressed man — reeking of the wandering jianghu — had appeared at Bu Ting’s door draped in the afternoon sunlight, and I had genuinely taken him for a swindler peddling razors or herbal wound medicines.

Then he said the one sentence I hate most: I’d like to stay, but I have no money.

At that moment I was supervising Chi Pian’er and Young Master Zhao doing a thorough cleaning. My competent helpers had already gripped their brooms, waiting only for my word to sweep the man out the door.

But I didn’t give it. I noticed that this fellow’s long hair was dusted with quite a bit of sulfur powder, and half a talisman was still stuck to the back of his head.

“Being hunted down?” I laughed through my nose. Even after all these centuries, the habits of Daoist priests hadn’t changed — their traditional tools for subduing demons never lacked for sulfur powder and all manner of talismans.

“The innkeeper has sharp eyes!” He composed himself, patting the dust from his clothes, and darted in front of me. “Then don’t waste those beautiful eyes or the fate that’s brought us together — take a look at the fine things I’ve brought.” With that, he slipped the enormous square pack off his back and retrieved from it a stack of colorful porcelain bowls.

Ha. This demon was quite amusing — fleeing for his life yet not forgetting to do business.

“Selling bowls?” I raised an eyebrow. “My kitchen is hardly lacking in bowls and chopsticks.”

“No no, I sell dreams.” His fingers stroked each porcelain bowl one by one, then he looked me over and produced a green bowl. “Here — a free trial for the innkeeper.”

“Selling dreams or selling charm? These little tricks won’t con anyone out of a free room.” I settled onto the sofa and glanced at that translucent, delightful porcelain bowl.

“Try it and you’ll know. Would this gentleman please bring a cup of clean water?” Facing Young Master Zhao — who held a broom, wore a mask, and despite his best efforts to pass as human never quite managed it — the man showed not a flicker of fear, and smiled. “You can try it too.” Then he raised his head to look at Chi Pian’er hiding on the chandelier and whistled: “Little demon up there, come give it a try as well.”

He really did make himself right at home.

In this cold-but-not-cold, flat-and-unremarkable April, perhaps having a makeshift Romani drifter around would make things a little more interesting?

So I let him have his way here and watched as he poured clean water into the bowl, stirred it around with his finger, then lightly flicked his fingernail against the water’s surface. A few drops of clear water landed neatly on my chest, and on Chi Pian’er’s and Young Master Zhao’s as well.

And then — it was just as described at the beginning. I dreamed of the cave on the Sea of Hopelessness, the place where that damnable Ao Chi had imprisoned me in years past.

“You sell… dreams. Is it meaningful?” I set down my teacup. “Good dreams, bad dreams — there’s always a waking up.”

“It’s meaningful — where there’s demand, there’s supply.” He stared at the teacup in his hand, smacked his lips, then sniffed. “Good tea, very fragrant. Though it’s wasted on me.”

I smiled. “Don’t you find it a bit bitter?”

“Bitter?” He laughed heartily. Beneath his fire-red hair, his rather captivating amber eyes narrowed to half-mast. “I have no sense of taste.”

I blinked, slightly startled, then nodded. “Then it truly is a pity — I was speaking about my tea.”

“Tsk, tsk. The innkeeper really has no tact.” He shook his head. “Still, just now with that complimentary sample — can it earn me a brief refuge at Bu Ting?”

“Since you’re currently being hunted down, if I shelter you, I’d only be bringing trouble upon myself.” Bu Ting housed a whole collection of genuine demons and monsters; the last thing it welcomed were those Daoist priests who struck first and asked questions later.

“Well, now…” He bent over his pack and rummaged about for a long while, finally producing a nine-dragon-soaring-through-clouds bowl gleaming with golden light. “If I can stay at Bu Ting for a few days, this is yours.”

I slapped the sofa armrest. “Didn’t you say you had no money?”

“But I never said I had no gold.” He set the golden bowl in the very center of the tea table.

I cleared my throat and suppressed the urge to snatch the bowl. I gave him a sidelong glance. “I find myself in quite a difficult position.”

He chuckled. “Ah, this golden bowl is so large, so heavy, so dazzling!”

I stood up. “Come over here and check in!”

He walked toward the front desk, grinning. At that moment, the television happened to broadcast a piece of news — and it wasn’t good news. The previous night, a car accident: a Mercedes-Benz and a minivan had collided. The driver of the Mercedes was the sole heir of the city’s most prominent wealthy family, the Liang family. The two injured parties from the accident were being rushed into emergency treatment; all reporters had been denied entry to the hospital, and specific details were unknown.

His gaze remained fixed on the television screen, strange emotions flickering through his eyes, one after another, and only after the news segment ended did he return to his usual manner.

My eyes truly were sharp — every one of his changes was caught by my gaze.

“Someone you know?” I asked without looking up.

“If you want gossip, just say so.” He stood at the front desk, scrawling his name with quick strokes. “The quirks of a tree-demon innkeeper, I’ve heard about them — tea and gossip, as long as there’s life, the gossip never stops.”

“I accept your characterization.” I pulled back the registration form, glanced at his name, and curled my lip. Sure enough, strange people come with strange names.

He smiled lightly and pointed toward the front door. “That lantern — the phrase ‘one night, a fleeting dream of life’ — did you write that?”

“No. But I like the saying.”

“We can communicate.” He happily shook my hand.

I withdrew my hand. Fortunately, that fellow Ao Chi was outside studying his On the Origin of Species in cultivation — otherwise, the moment that vinegar jar overturned, Bu Ting would suffer the consequences yet again.

“They…” I glanced over at Young Master Zhao sitting against the wall, sound asleep and snoring away, with Chi Pian’er lying on his shoulder. These two had fallen asleep at the same time as me, and they still hadn’t woken.

“It’s fine — their dreams will end soon. Consider it a day off for them.” He chuckled.

“Then who will work for me?”

“Me! I love doing housework!” He leapt to his feet, snatched up a cleaning cloth, spun it around his finger at blazing speed, and winked at me with a brilliance that lit up the room. “And what I love most is chatting with people while doing housework.”

1

As the Qingming Festival approached, the rains grew more frequent.

Zhu Yingtai poked her head out of the horse carriage, gazing at the lush greenery blanketing the hills ahead — the woodland path winding through it all — and hesitantly extended her hand. Raindrops fell from the tips of bamboo leaves along the road, bouncing in her reddened palm with wild abandon.

“A’Fu, how much longer until we arrive!” She pulled back into the carriage and called out to the family servant driving up front.

“In reply to the Second Young Miss — I’m afraid it will still take another hour or so to reach Yujing Academy. With the rain, the mountain road is difficult to travel.” The servant called back to her.

Raindrops struck the curtain in an unceasing patter — like someone’s heartbeat growing faster and faster, stirring an inexplicable unease.

She rummaged through her meager luggage and retrieved a scroll of painting carefully wrapped in oilpaper, gently dusted it with her sleeve, and cradled it to her chest.

When she had left, she had taken nothing with her — only this, slipped away in secret.

Madam had said: the Zhu family upholds strict household principles, honoring frugality from top to bottom. Those in the position of master must lead by example, and all the more so when going to an academy to pursue learning — a place of such elevated character demands diligence and self-restraint. Possessions beyond one’s needs should be reduced wherever possible.

So reduced, in fact, that even her change of clothes amounted to only one set.

The academy operated on a three-year term; for three years, students could not return home, nor could family and friends visit — calling it a prison would not be an overstatement. Of all the Zhu household, the only one who truly couldn’t bear to part with her was probably Father. But he was so old now, his illness growing heavier by the day — all he had managed was to watch, with dimming eyes, as she walked out of his room.

She had boarded the carriage, and the Zhu family’s grand residence receded behind her, swallowed up in a sea of festive red.

She had nearly forgotten — the Zhu family was about to celebrate a joyous occasion. The son of Magistrate Ma from the city and the First Young Miss of the Zhu family were soon to be wed. The Ma family held great authority and influence; to marry into such a household and become their new daughter-in-law — one could probably smile even in one’s sleep.

The eldest daughter awaiting her wedding in splendor; the second daughter leaving home alone. The celebratory red lanterns cast light upon two utterly different paths.

Yet she wasn’t particularly sorrowful.

She had that mad, rambling Daoist to thank. He had run to Father and declared with great solemnity that she was born under the seven malevolent stars, and that if she was not sent away from home, the entire Zhu household would meet violent ends. Father, who could not bear to be frightened, and who was even less able to withstand Madam’s sharp words and righteous arguments, had agreed to send her to Yujing Academy — far from home. The idea, of course, had been Madam’s suggestion. If someone asked why the household had suddenly lost a daughter, one couldn’t very well say it was because a Daoist priest’s words had driven her out. In any case, a relative happened to be employed at Yujing Academy, so it was just as well to send her there. Dressing as a man wouldn’t be much trouble — on one hand, it would spare the Zhu family from calamity; on the other, she herself could receive an education and broaden her mind. What was there not to welcome? In a few years, once the ill fortune had passed, someone could be sent to bring her back.

Not a single soul in the household dared to oppose Madam Zhu. Over the years, her presence had far surpassed that of her own husband. Everyone forever praised her clear-headed reasoning and her wholehearted devotion to the Zhu family.

Was it truly a bodhisattva’s heart? Since everyone said so, then so be it.

The rain fell harder and harder, yet the carriage gradually picked up speed — far bumpier than before.

“A’Fu, slow down!” She was growing frightened.

A’Fu did not respond.

Suddenly, from outside came the horse’s sharp, piercing whinny. The tremendous momentum slammed her hard into the corner of the carriage compartment; luggage and belongings crashed into her from all directions — and without any warning, the carriage came to a dead stop.

She didn’t know how much time passed. Zhu Yingtai came to from her dizziness, struggled out from beneath the luggage, and jumped down from the carriage. Through the dense curtain of rain, her gaze fell on something not three feet from a cliff edge. The horse pulling the carriage was still heaving and panting in great labored breaths — but A’Fu was nowhere to be seen.

She steadied her wildly pounding heart and stepped forward to peer down over the cliff — it plunged into bottomless depths, and a chill ran down her spine. She hurriedly stepped back and surveyed the world beyond the cliff’s edge: a dense, impenetrable forest, carved into patches of ink-grey space. One gnarled tree after another twisted and coiled upward as it grew, like old monsters that hadn’t had their fill — glaring at her with ill intent. Before her was only a single narrow path, extending from her feet deep into the forest. This must be the road her carriage had come in on. Zhu Yingtai steadied herself, fetched a paper umbrella, shouldered her pack, clasped the painting against her chest, and set out carefully along the slick and muddy road, retracing the way she’d come.

The sky grew dimmer and dimmer. Deep in the dense forest, a pair of greenish eyes flickered in and out, peering at the lone figure walking through the rain.

2

Three days earlier. The Zhu household.

“A’Fu, I am entrusting this matter to you.” Madam Zhu dismissed all the maids and manservants, then sat at leisure before the pavilion in the center of the lake, fanning herself with a silk fan. “The usurious debt you owe — I have a way to settle it for you.”

A’Fu knelt before her. “Madam’s great generosity knows no bounds.”

“It must be clean and swift.” Madam Zhu admired the beautiful scenery before her and gave her instructions without a trace of urgency.

“In reply to Madam — this servant’s hometown is in Wuyin County, and having grown up as a hunter, I am very familiar with the terrain of the Wuyin Sheer Cliffs. That place is such that only experienced local hunters with knowledge of the terrain can find their way in and out. Ordinary people, even if they retrace the path they came in on, will lose their way. Furthermore, the elders say that not only is the terrain treacherous there, but ferocious birds and beasts abound, and mountain sprites and demons wreak havoc — ordinary people can enter but cannot leave. What’s more, the Second Young Miss is only a frail young woman.” A’Fu said in a low voice.

Madam Zhu shook her head. “I think it’s better if you simply drive the carriage straight over the cliff — to avoid any loose ends.”

Cold sweat seeped from A’Fu’s forehead. After a long pause, he said, “Yes, Madam.”

“Do it well, and there will be a generous reward.” Madam Zhu cast him a sidelong glance. “But if there is the slightest mishap, and your creditors come to hack off your hands and feet — I won’t be able to stop them.”

“This servant dares not disappoint Madam.” A’Fu kowtowed repeatedly.

“Very good. You are dismissed.” Madam Zhu rose with a smile. Several water birds that had been resting on the decorative rock garden took fright and flew off, beating their wings toward the grey and overcast sky. She watched the birds go, murmuring, “Yingtai — once you’ve gone, don’t come back.”

She strolled back at a leisurely pace. Every day, she would personally feed her husband his medicine.

By the bedside, Master Zhu swallowed the last mouthful of medicinal broth and, in a daze, asked, “Qingluan, do we really have to send Yingtai so far away? Couldn’t we find somewhere closer for her to settle?”

She gently wiped the medicinal residue from the corner of his mouth and said, “Master, the head priest said the farther the better. And you wouldn’t want anything to happen to the Zhu household. Yingtai is grown now — this child has no skill in needlework or embroidery, and is utterly ignorant of poetry and verse. If she continues this way, what family would take her? This is the perfect opportunity: let her go study the classics. I only hope that after three years, she will have become a learned and proper young lady of good standing, and can find a decent match. And in that way, both you and I — and Xiuqin, my sister who has long since passed — can see our greatest wish fulfilled.”

Her voice was the same as it had always been — gentle as a breeze, sweet as honey, the kind that could intoxicate a person.

“That makes sense… you are always so thorough.” Master Zhu murmured, took her hand in his, and drifted off to sleep.

“This is our home. Of course I must be thorough in all things — I cannot allow outsiders to meddle.” She tucked his aged hand beneath the covers. “Sleep, Master.”

These hands — they had once been slender and handsome, strong and capable, draping over her shoulder in moonlit gardens; they had once held an official seal, commanding the masses, with gold and silver flowing like water. But now, they could only tremble faintly, helplessly hiding beneath the cotton quilts, utterly useless.

She looked at his sleeping face, then at the portrait of Xiuqin — the Second Madam of the Zhu family — hanging at the head of his bed, and smiled coldly.

He had said he loved Xiuqin very, very much — that the moment he first laid eyes on her, he knew his gaze could never leave her for the rest of his life.

But she had already been promised to another. She had suppressed the pain in her heart and counseled her own husband.

He had only smiled and touched her nose gently, saying nothing.

Not long after, word came that Xiuqin’s merchant husband had died a stranger in a foreign land. In a roadside inn beyond the frontier, people had found him stabbed multiple times, his belongings vanished without a trace.

The local authorities had treated it as a common robbery and murder, pinning it on a few habitual criminals and settling the matter with an execution.

Naturally and smoothly — he had used his power and wealth to have Xiuqin’s in-laws dutifully send the newly widowed woman to the Zhu household.

From then on, the Zhu family had two madams. They were like sisters in their affection for one another, getting along splendidly — as harmonious as the legendary E Huang and Nü Ying, at least in Master Zhu’s eyes.

What a pity — this beloved sister Xiuqin proved to be of fragile fortune in the end. She had barely given birth to her daughter Yingtai before she passed away. Master Zhu was devastated with grief, pining for his beloved, his hair turning white overnight. He inadvertently caught a chill, and his once vigorous constitution slowly weakened. Before long, he resigned from his official post and returned to his hometown, withdrawing from all worldly affairs.

This portrait of Xiuqin had been painted by the finest artist she could find, and it was she herself who had hung it at the head of her husband’s bed. She had told him: the person is gone, but the soul remains — let sister Xiuqin’s image in the painting keep Master company.

He had wept bitterly, taken her hands, and called her his virtuous wife.

She had held him contentedly, staring straight at the portrait at the head of the bed, while a cold smile settled in her heart: Wretched concubine — I hang you here so that you will open your eyes every single night and day and see clearly: this home, in the end, is still mine!

What a pity that the medicine had still not been perfect enough — though it had taken the mother’s life, it had failed to take the child along with her. And so she would have one more thorn in her side for the future.

At this thought, she let out a breath, and smiled at the portrait that had already begun to yellow. “Xiuqin, your daughter will soon be coming to join you.”

A cold gust swept in through the window. The portrait stirred gently, emitting a faint, helpless rustling sound.

She laughed aloud and stepped out of the room.

With graceful, unhurried steps, she made her way into the inner courtyard, walking directly toward the place she cared about most.

She gently pushed open the door, walked to the bed behind the screen, and sat down, her face full of tenderness, gazing at the bed with an almost lovesick fixation.

A white-haired old woman came in from outside. Upon seeing her, she startled. “Ah, Young Miss — you’ve come!”

“Wet nurse, why are you being so loud!” She reproached her mildly. “Did Young Master take his medicine on time?”

“He did, he did — I watched him take it myself, and only let him sleep after I was sure.” The old woman came over to support her, and said quietly, “Let’s not disturb the Young Master — come, let’s go outside.”

“Mm. The weather has been unusual of late — you must be especially watchful.” She followed the wet nurse out, sat down, and sighed. “Wet nurse, how many years have you served by my side?”

“Forty years in full. From the day Young Miss was born, I’ve never left your side for a moment.” The old woman poured a cup of water for her.

“Forty years.” She turned her head to look at herself in the bronze mirror. Though her countenance was unchanged, frost had begun to touch both temples. She turned back and took the old woman’s hand. “Wet nurse, you are the only one I can lean on.”

The old woman patted her hand. The creases between her brows deepened. She struggled to find words, and finally said, “You must also look after yourself. Your wet nurse is already more than half in the grave — just listen to me for once…”

“All right, all right.” She interrupted her, set down her ginseng tea, took the old woman’s hand, and walked her toward the door. “I know what I’m doing. You go on and tend to your own affairs.”

“Very well.” The wet nurse nodded and walked out of the room.

“Wet nurse.” She called after her again, smiling with gratitude. “Without you, I truly don’t know who else I could trust. And the Young Master, too — after all this time, it’s all thanks to you for watching over him.”

The wet nurse said nothing. She patted her hand, leaned on her walking staff, and departed.

All the way back inside the room in the inner courtyard, the old woman’s hands trembled as she turned to face the screen. She looked at that bed, pressed her palms together, and prayed devoutly: “All the heavens and Buddhas — I beg you, please let my Young Miss wake soon!”

As she finished, two streams of tears rolled down her face.

On the bed — it was empty. There was no Young Master there at all.

3

A piece of meat, roasted until it gleamed with fat, was thrust beneath Zhu Yingtai’s nose.

“No.” She lurched sharply backward, waving her hands repeatedly.

“Honestly — what kind of man are you, being as prim and proper as a woman!” The figure crouching by the campfire pulled the meat back and held it under another person’s nose. “Liang Shanbo — are you eating or not?”

Zhu Yingtai stole a glance at him. White robes, light and unassuming; a face as fair as polished jade; hair black as ink that had been neatly bound at the crown of his head with a white satin ribbon, though by now it had long since come loose, cascading down his straight and upright back.

“Thank you for the trouble, but I’m not hungry.” He declined politely.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid there’s something wrong with this mountain sprite meat?” The figure seated between them — dressed in a riot of colors like a clown from a traveling troupe — jumped up holding the roasted meat, jeering at Zhu Yingtai. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing wrong with this meat — in fact, eat it and it’ll keep you full for seven whole days! You should know that all over these Wuyin Sheer Cliffs there are nothing but poisonous flowers and toxic plants; there’s practically nothing else to eat. This rain shows no sign of stopping — if you don’t want to starve to death, stop putting on airs!”

The roasted meat was thrust in front of Zhu Yingtai once more. She hesitated for a long moment, then finally took it.

Good heavens, how had things come to this?

Not long ago, this fragrant, sizzling meat had been a living creature — pitch-black fur, a long tail, and glowing green eyes. It had howled and pounced at her as she wandered lost; she had screamed and dodged, but its claws were faster than lightning and sharper than any blade. In moments, her shoulder and back bore several gaping wounds. She stumbled backward in a panic, unable to tell direction from direction through the pouring rain and the hanging branches, and then her foot found nothing beneath it — she tumbled into a large pit. The pit was lined with rows of white bones, both human and beast alike.

She had barely had time to feel afraid before the creature had already come to the edge of the pit, and it was clear it was about to tear her to pieces.

In that desperate moment, two figures burst in from different directions. One threw itself in front of her, took her in its arms, and spun aside — using its own body to shield her from the creature’s onslaught. The other, wielding an iron-red trident, plunged it straight through the beast’s back and into its heart in a single strike, cleanly and decisively ending the wretched thing’s life.

The young scholar who had shielded her glanced at the wound on her shoulder, released her, and asked a single “are you all right?” — then said nothing more, stepping politely and somewhat stiffly to one side.

The strangely dressed figure with the trident and a head of blazing red hair didn’t spare a moment to speak to her; he was too busy shouting excitedly at the scholar. “Liang Shanbo, we’re in for a real treat today!”

With that, the fellow scooped up his spoils and vanished into the trees like a monkey.

By the time Liang Shanbo helped her make her way to the wide cave, the other one had already started a campfire and was roasting his meat with unbridled delight.

In the warm firelight, Zhu Yingtai — still shaken to the core — imitated the manner of a young man and bowed deeply to the two of them, offering her thanks for saving her life.

“What’s your name? Look at you — a pale little scholar. How did you end up out here with no good reason?” The colorfully dressed figure rummaged in his clothes and produced a small bottle, which he passed to her. “Here, use this on your wounds. This beast was fearsome, but it carries no poison — surface wounds won’t hinder you.”

“Thank you.” She took the medicine bottle, but dared not remove her clothing to apply it, and endured the pain. “I… this humble student’s surname is Zhu, given name Yingtai. I was on my way to Yujing Academy to study, but it seems my family’s servant took the wrong road.”

“Yujing Academy?” The colorfully dressed figure stared wide-eyed. “Your family’s servant didn’t just take the wrong road — he went in the complete opposite direction! Yujing Academy is in Hangzhou — that’s eight or ten thousand li from here!”

The moment she heard that, Zhu Yingtai grew anxious. “Then what am I to do? And where is this place?”

“This is Wuyin County. The spot we’re crouching in right now is the mountainside of an unnamed, desolate mountain on the outskirts of Wuyin County. This stretch of mountain terrain has a name — the Wuyin Sheer Cliffs — because ahead on that mountain path sits a cliff that plunges down to bottomless depths.” The colorfully dressed figure rattled on without stopping. “To get from here to Hangzhou without a carriage or horse — you’d walk for a year and a half and still not arrive.”

“Is that right?” Zhu Yingtai felt a little despondent, though a faint flicker of secret relief crept in as well. She’d ended up in a godforsaken place like this and had nearly been eaten by a monster, yet — not having to go sit in prison wasn’t so bad.

Thick ribbons of rich, savory smoke curled up from the fire. The three of them fell momentarily silent; the cave was filled with nothing but crackling sounds. The colorfully dressed figure’s entire focus was on his roasting meat; Liang Shanbo sat quietly at the farthest point from the fire, watching the rain cascading down beyond the cave entrance.

“Liang Gongzi, please use this first.” Zhu Yingtai noticed that Liang Shanbo’s arm had also been raked by the creature, and she hurried over to set the medicine bottle down beside him.

“Thank you — no need. It’s a minor wound, nothing serious.” He looked at her shoulder, then looked away. “It’s Zhu Gongzi who was more seriously injured.”

“I’m fine — I’ll apply the medicine in a little while.” Zhu Yingtai deflected hastily and quickly changed the subject, turning to the colorfully dressed figure. “We’ve been talking all this time, and I still don’t know your distinguished name, benefactor.”

“Bowl Qiansui.” The colorfully dressed figure grinned at her, showing his teeth.

“There are people with the surname Bowl…” Zhu Yingtai murmured oddly.

“The world is vast and full of wonders!” Bowl Qiansui cheerfully turned over his roasted meat.

The rain outside showed no sign of stopping; the sky had grown so dark that the real time was impossible to tell.

Zhu Yingtai took small bites of the roasted meat — and just as Bowl Qiansui had said, the creature’s flesh was sweet and rich and savory, and very good.

She chewed slowly, thinking quietly to herself. In such a short span of time, her life had been completely turned upside down by the heavens — yesterday she was still the Second Young Miss of the Zhu family; in the blink of an eye, she had become a bedraggled young man stranded in a strange land in the name of seeking education. Just like this unlucky creature — a few hours ago, it probably hadn’t dreamed for a single moment that it would become Bowl Qiansui’s meal in the span of an instant. Come to think of it, this unpredictable thing called real life is the true monster — harboring countless sharp turns in the dark, catching you completely off guard. Either you escape by some stroke of luck, or you are shattered to pieces. How terrifying.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Bowl Qiansui, chewing enthusiastically, suddenly remembered something and slapped his thigh. “Little Zhu, if you want to study, why go all the way to somewhere as far as Yujing Academy? Why not come to our Kongshan Academy instead!” He then turned to Liang Shanbo. “What do you say? Our academy isn’t bad either! Set against mountains, beside a river, and the teachers are excellent! Right? Right?”

Liang Shanbo made no committal answer, but said to Zhu Yingtai, “Bowl Qiansui tends toward exaggeration, but if Zhu Gongzi doesn’t mind that Wuyin County is remote and sparsely populated, you’re welcome to come take a look at Kongshan Academy before making a decision.”

“Kongshan Academy?” Zhu Yingtai was immediately curious. “You’re both students at the academy?”

Saying that Liang Shanbo was an academy student — that she absolutely believed. But this Bowl Qiansui…

“Ah, he is, but I certainly am not.” Bowl Qiansui saw the heavy skepticism in her eyes and rushed to explain. “I’m just a general laborer at Kongshan Academy.”

“Oh.” Zhu Yingtai laughed apologetically, then immediately let a look of puzzlement show between her brows. “Your academy is nearby? In a place as dangerous as this…”

“Kongshan Academy is at the foot of the mountain — how could it possibly be in a terrible place like this.” Bowl Qiansui blurted out. “If it weren’t for—”

“If it weren’t for helping a teacher go up the mountain to gather medicinal herbs, we would never have come here.” Liang Shanbo cut across him and said slowly. “So to encounter Zhu Gongzi is truly a matter of fate.”

Zhu Yingtai looked at that serious, unsmiling face of his — solid as stone — and thought for a moment before saying, “I’ll go.”

Where else could she go, if not there?

Though they were strangers who had only just met, the people who had saved her life — they should be trustworthy, shouldn’t they?

Liang Shanbo looked out at the rain beyond the cave entrance and said, “I’m afraid we’ll have to spend the night in this cave. There are quite a few ferocious beasts in this area — everyone should stay alert.”

“You two sleep — I’ll keep watch.” Bowl Qiansui waved his trident.

“I’m not sleepy.” Zhu Yingtai couldn’t think of a reason not to share sleeping quarters with two grown men, so she simply found the most out-of-the-way corner she could, cradled her painting in her arms, leaned sideways against the stone wall, and willed herself to be completely wide awake.

Bowl Qiansui noticed this and couldn’t help but ask, “Is that painting worth a lot of money? I saw you refuse to let it go even when the monster had you backed into a corner.”

“Not a single coin.” Zhu Yingtai looked at the scroll in her arms. “But to me, it is priceless.”

“The way scholars talk is always so saccharine.” Bowl Qiansui wrinkled his nose, yet the moment Zhu Yingtai wasn’t looking, he snatched the painting from her, unrolled it, and looked — it was the most ordinary of paintings: a mountain forest, a small river, a man’s back turned toward the viewer, walking along the riverbank; all around him, wisps of cloud and haze drifted past, and several peach trees were in full, brilliant bloom. In the lower corner of the painting were inscribed the four characters “Spring Haze Thawing Ice.” The brushwork was mediocre, the calligraphy mediocre — there was absolutely nothing impressive about it.

“That’s it? I thought it was some kind of treasure. Even that old Zhang fellow at the market who paints fan surfaces paints far better than this!” Bowl Qiansui was tremendously disappointed.

“Give it back!” Zhu Yingtai leapt up in irritation, yet didn’t dare snatch it back for fear of tearing it.

“Here, here.” Bowl Qiansui tossed the painting back to her. “Oh, on the verge of tears already?”

“Ruffian!” Zhu Yingtai shot him a fierce glare, hugged the painting, and moved as far away from him as possible, ignoring him entirely.

Bowl Qiansui scratched his head. “Didn’t you just call me a benefactor.”

“Serves you right — who told you to be so rude, like a wild monkey.” Liang Shanbo shook his head and laughed softly.

“Hey!” Bowl Qiansui lowered his voice and murmured in his ear, “Liang Shanbo, don’t forget you still owe me a massive favor! If you’re so capable, deal with those mountain sprites yourself! I only helped out of the goodness of my heart, and now somehow it’s become my burden? Hey! Hey!”

Liang Shanbo showed absolutely no reaction and simply used snoring sounds to respond to the clamor.

“Right then! Good for you!” Bowl Qiansui’s eyes darted about. He quietly rose, went to the cave entrance and collected some rainwater in his palm, returned to Liang Shanbo’s side, and murmured a few incantations over the water in his hand. Then he flicked his fingernail — and several drops of rainwater fell on the back of Liang Shanbo’s head.

Done. Bowl Qiansui pressed his palms together, smirking wickedly. “A most virtuous deed. If someone wets himself tomorrow, let’s please not bawl our eyes out about it!”

At dawn, Zhu Yingtai woke enveloped in complete comfort. Bowl Qiansui’s medicine had truly worked wonders — her wounds had healed entirely overnight. She sat up, blinking sleepily, and saw that rain was still falling beyond the cave entrance, while Liang Shanbo stood at the cave opening completely soaked through, glaring daggers at Bowl Qiansui.

“Heh heh — clever thinking, getting your whole body wet so nobody could tell you’d wet yourself.” Bowl Qiansui clapped and burst out laughing. “Well? How did it feel to use the outhouse in your dream? Very realistic, wasn’t it?”

Liang Shanbo saw that Zhu Yingtai was already awake. He drew a breath, pressed down his fury, and stopped acknowledging Bowl Qiansui. He stepped forward and said to her, “The rain has lightened considerably. We’ll descend the mountain.”

“Oh.” Zhu Yingtai hurriedly scrambled to her feet.

Bowl Qiansui stomped out the last sparks in the campfire, shouldered his trident, and followed along behind them with a grin. The three of them set off at a quick pace down the mountain.

4

In the Zhu family’s account room, Madam Zhu’s slender, elegant fingers worked the abacus with practiced ease.

A servant stood stiffly before her, choosing his words with great care. “In reply to Madam — there is truly no news of A’Fu.”

“Send more men to Wuyin County to look for him — his hometown is there. And spend a bit of extra silver to hire an experienced local, and have them go take a look at the Wuyin Sheer Cliffs.” She did not look up.

“Yes!” The servant received his orders and withdrew.

A short while later, someone gently pushed open the door, and the wet nurse walked in carrying a cup of ginseng tea.

She rose to welcome her, and reproached her affectionately. “You should have let a maidservant do this — why trouble yourself?”

“You are always working so hard. My heart aches for you.” The wet nurse set down the tea. “Drink it while it’s hot.”

“All right.” She lifted the lid and took a small sip.

“Young Miss, let it rest a while.” The wet nurse looked at her with the same gaze she had always had — forever like a mother looking at a beloved child.

“It’s all right — I can manage.” She smiled and surveyed the room around her. “You know what state Master is in these days. Our daughter will leave home sooner or later, and the Young Master’s health is not good. Who else is there to hold the Zhu family together, if not me?”

The wet nurse’s brows knotted tight. She looked at the weariness in her eyes, found words difficult, and finally said only, “But you must look after yourself as well. Your wet nurse has one foot already in the grave — just listen to me for once…”

“All right, all right.” She interrupted, set down the ginseng tea, took the old woman’s hands, and walked her toward the door. “I know what I’m doing. You go on and tend to your own affairs.”

“Very well.” The wet nurse nodded and walked out of the room.

“Wet nurse.” She called after her again, smiling with gratitude. “Without you, I truly don’t know who else I could trust. And the Young Master, too — after all this time, it’s all thanks to you for watching over him.”

The wet nurse said nothing. She patted her hand, leaned on her walking staff, and departed.

All the way back inside the room in the inner courtyard, the old woman’s hands trembled as she turned to face the screen. She looked at that bed, pressed her palms together, and prayed devoutly: “All the heavens and Buddhas — I beg you, please let my Young Miss wake soon!”

As she finished, two streams of tears rolled down her face.

On the bed — it was empty. There was no Young Master there at all.

5

“Pure white the young steed, grazing in that empty valley; a bundle of fresh-cut grass — one fair as jade.”

The bright sound of recitation carried out from the classroom. The students of Kongshan Academy — tall and short, stout and slim — filled the room in great number. All wore identical white robes, holding their books and swaying their heads to and fro as they chanted along with the teacher’s lead. Beyond the windows, sunlight shone brightly, birds sang, flowers carried their spring fragrance — and the smell of spring seeped in through the doors and windows, luring out the idlers dozing in the back rows, who were then seized by the ear and sent to stand in the corner as punishment.

Zhu Yingtai held her book, propped up her chin, and murmured along half-heartedly, while her eyes drifted forward every now and then — Liang Shanbo sat directly in front of her. He was always this way: back perpetually straight, diligent and earnest in reading and writing, nothing like the figures around him — distracted, hunched over, every last one of them like a dried-up shrimp in the sun.

She had been studying at Kongshan Academy for seven days now, and she often fell into a daze staring at his back. The same white clothing — plain and unremarkable — yet worn on him versus on anyone else, the difference was extraordinary. Just that one white figure, looked at long enough, was like a graceful cloud, and she couldn’t help but want to reach out and touch it.

She owed it all to him and Bowl Qiansui’s recommendation and their personal assurances. Combined with handing over every possession she had on her, that cold and haughty and peculiarly temperamental Madam Er had agreed to let her stay at Kongshan Academy — though she hadn’t allowed her to room with the other students, instead placing her alone in the music room on the west side of the academy.

That day, she had stood before Madam Er and let herself be scrutinized from head to toe for a long while, before Madam Er said coldly: “You’ll sleep in the music room. As for bathing — I have an old wooden tub; you can move it to the side room of the music room later.”

She had clearly solved Zhu Yingtai’s greatest inconvenience.

“Madam Er, is this… all right?” she had asked, uneasy.

“If you’d prefer to sleep and bathe alongside that pack of smelly young men, I have no objection whatsoever.” Madam Er continued reading her book without looking up.

“No, no — thank you for your arrangement.” She had nearly jumped for joy, but then a thought struck, and her heart gave a nervous lurch. “Madam Er — does this mean you already know…?”

She swept aside a lock of black hair that had fallen across her face. The corner of her lips lifted. “Kongshan Academy is mine. Every single student here — I know them like the back of my hand.” She raised a pair of almond-shaped eyes and gave Zhu Yingtai a meaningful look.

This woman had seen through her female identity long ago.

Zhu Yingtai’s face went red. She didn’t know where to put her hands or feet.

“There’s no need to be so flustered. My academy is unlike others — I don’t stand on ceremony. As long as you don’t bring trouble down on me, everything can be discussed.” Madam Er continued reading. “Also — I happen to be short of a maidservant to handle miscellaneous tasks. If you have no objection, take on that work as well.”

“Very well.” She nodded. “Yingtai understands. Thank you, Madam Er, for taking me in.”

“Don’t call me Madam — same as what Qiansui and the others call me: Er Sanniang.” Her fingers, smooth and delicate as spring onion shoots, slid slowly between the characters in the text, then she held the book a little farther away, shaking her head. “Alas, old age is old age — I can’t even read the characters clearly anymore.”

She was old? She looked nowhere near thirty — fine brows and beautiful features, hair cascading like a waterfall, a simple unadorned silk skirt worn on her with breathtaking elegance and allure. If one absolutely had to find a flaw, it was only that her eyes were far too shrewd, too worldly — even carrying a trace of the weariness that only a person who had lived a hundred years could possess.

But then the very next day, once she understood that her so-called maidservant duties meant pouring foot-washing water for this woman every night — every shred of unease and awe she’d had toward Er Sanniang dissolved. What remained was only an unspeakable twinge of quiet grievance, though gratitude was still present. A young woman cast out of her home — no power, no influence, no money. Someone was willing to take her in and not make things too difficult for her. What was there to complain about?

These past days, only Bowl Qiansui would come find her every day for idle chat, help her with various chores, and swat the odd mouse or cockroach. But Liang Shanbo — not even his shadow was to be seen. Except during class hours, the moment class ended he vanished from everyone’s sight. Bowl Qiansui said this fellow was a one-track-minded bookworm; the place he liked best in the entire academy was the Ten-Thousand-Volume Vault — where the academy stored its books. The place was dry, cold, and thick with dust, and virtually nobody ever went there — yet he was inordinately fond of it, often so absorbed in reading that he forgot to sleep.

The less she could see him, the more Zhu Yingtai’s gaze naturally fell into the habit of searching for him. The more time she spent looking at him, the clearer the questions forming in her heart. Yet her feelings — she did not dare speak them. Because she herself found them absurd.

“Student Zhu!”

The teacher’s slightly exasperated call jolted her back from wherever her spirit had been drifting. She stood up hastily. “Yes!”

“Please recite the passage I just read!” The teacher stroked his beard. “If there is a single word in error, there will be severe punishment!”

“Oh.” Zhu Yingtai rolled her eyes, then mimicked his intonation, reciting word by word: “Stu… dent… Zhu.”

“Why are you reciting your own name?”

“Wasn’t that what the teacher just recited?” she answered earnestly.

The entire class erupted in laughter.

The teacher was so livid his beard quivered. “Worthless! Utterly worthless!”

She stuck out her tongue, and her gaze drifted forward by accident — Liang Shanbo had, at some point, written a few lines in his notebook and moved it to a position where she could see it.

“As the moon waxes, as the sun rises. As Mount Nan endures, unwavering and undimmed. As pine and cypress flourish, may none be without your blessing.” She recited those few lines out loud, and before the teacher’s ruler could come down on her head, she quickly added a smile: “Teacher, I misunderstood! I see now — it wasn’t the passage you just read that you were asking me to repeat, but the one before the last one!”

The teacher let out a long, heavy huff, swept his sleeves, and walked back to the lecture platform to continue the lesson.

At mealtime, the dining hall was lively with noise, but Liang Shanbo didn’t sit with any of his fellow students. As he always did, he took his bowl and dishes and sat on the stone steps behind the dining hall, eating while reading — supremely dedicated.

“Thank you.” A big, piping-hot piece of red-braised pork landed in his bowl. Zhu Yingtai carried her own bowl and sat down beside him.

“I don’t eat meat.” He moved the red-braised pork back into her bowl, then looked away and continued eating his vegetables while reading.

Zhu Yingtai had heard from the gossip-loving students that Liang Shanbo came from a humble background, and had paid the lowest tier of meal fees — meaning he had only vegetables available to eat every day.

Having observed him for several days, she confirmed it: every single meal, he ate nothing but plain vegetables and rice. A person this size, eating only vegetables — how could that be all right? This person had saved her life, and had just helped her again. Now, seeing once more his solitary, lean figure, looking at the meager food in his bowl, she felt something strange stir within her that went beyond what she’d felt before — something like… heartache.

Yet she had offered her goodwill, and he had refused it so cleanly.

“You’re not a monk, so why won’t you eat meat!” Her face flushed red with a flash of small indignation. She thought to herself that this bookworm must be clinging to the pride of a gentleman who does not accept charity — so she threw the meat back into his bowl. “My stomach has been unsettled lately. It would be a waste to throw it away.”

“Give it to the big fellows.” He moved it back into her bowl again.

“If you don’t eat properly, one day the wind will blow you away!” Feeling she couldn’t win by reasoning with him, she simply snatched his bowl of vegetables and dumped the whole thing into her mouth, cheeks bulging, brow creased as she forced it down.

He stared at her — sitting there like a frog. “Why did you eat my vegetables?”

She set her own bowl of food in front of him, still somewhat inelegantly spraying vegetable juice as she spoke. “Now you have nothing to go with your rice except my food.”

“You…” He looked at her as though she were some strange creature, shook his head, scooped up his white rice, and finished it in two or three mouthfuls. He gathered his books, stood, and prepared to leave. The bowl of food she had put before him sat untouched.

“Liang Shanbo!” She truly could not fathom it — how could anyone in the world be this stubborn? It was just a bowl of food! Would eating it destroy his integrity and noble spirit?

He turned back and gave her a slight smile. “Zhu Tongxue, there are indeed people in this world who cannot eat rice without something to go with it. But I am not one of them. Eating, for me, simply means getting full — plain white rice goes down just the same. Your logic is quite amusing, frankly. Still — my thanks for your good intentions, though there is truly no need for any of this.”

With that, he walked up the steps and disappeared, leaving her standing there with nothing left to say.

“Where’s the red-braised pork?!”

A garishly dressed figure shot out, flung away the broom he’d been holding, grabbed that heaped bowl of food, and tipped the whole thing into his gaping mouth.

Zhu Yingtai startled, and upon seeing it was Bowl Qiansui, let out a sigh. “If only he were as sensible as you.”

“Would you two stop being so exhausting? I was over there sweeping the floor, watching you two pass a piece of meat back and forth endlessly.” Bowl Qiansui wiped his mouth, sat down, and said with a mischievous grin, “The two of you carrying on like that — if other students saw, they’d definitely think you had some sort of peculiar obsession between you.”

“What a filthy mouth!” Zhu Yingtai’s face went red. She quickly sat up straight and said, affecting a rough, masculine voice, “I’m only thinking of how he saved my life, and then helped me get into the academy by speaking up for me before Er Sanniang. It’s no more than wanting to offer a small gesture of repayment.”

Bowl Qiansui scoffed. “Tsk, tsk — the one who saved your life wasn’t only him, you know. And for that matter, the one who risked his life to kill the mountain sprite was me! And I was the one who helped you move your bathtub! Yet I don’t see you bringing red-braised pork to reward me.”

“We’re brothers — brothers don’t keep score like that!” She gave him a punch. Speaking of Bowl Qiansui — aside from his mouth, everything about him was actually quite good. Whether talking or doing things together, he always made people feel especially at ease, as though the whole mood brightened somehow. She hadn’t known him long, but this person, for no clear reason, inspired trust. She had also seen what Bowl Qiansui was capable of — this fellow, though only a laborer at the academy, could scale walls and fly over rooftops, and wielded a blade with easy mastery. The day he had killed the mountain sprite in a single strike, she had suspected he was one of those so-called masters of the jianghu. She had said that with skills like those, if he were to leave Wuyin County and venture into the wider world, he’d accomplish far greater things — so why remain here, whiling away his life at this sleepy, remote little academy? He hadn’t evaded the question: he admitted he was indeed different from ordinary people, and could handle himself in a fight, but he preferred being a laborer at the academy. Sweeping floors and wiping tables was more interesting than scheming and jostling for position. The world outside was nothing more than one great dream — the difference being that some people were willing to open their eyes, and some were not. It was better here, he’d said: life was cheerful and steady.

Having heard so much talk of men needing to distinguish themselves, make names for themselves, and rise above the crowd — Bowl Qiansui’s attitude was genuinely refreshing to her, and she liked being his sworn brother all the more for it.

“Bias! Such unfair bias!” Bowl Qiansui kicked his legs in aggrieved protest. “Not as good-looking as someone else — can’t even get a piece of red-braised pork!”

“Hey! Are we done with the red-braised pork?!” Zhu Yingtai laughed despite herself and shook her head. “All right, all right — from now on all my red-braised pork goes to you. And while I have you here, there’s something I need to ask a favor about. I was just going to go find you after lunch.”

“I heard your elder sister is getting married soon.” She hadn’t noticed the shift in Bowl Qiansui’s expression, and smiled. “To the Magistrate’s son, no less.”

“Envious?” Bowl Qiansui tapped her on the head. “I’ve heard that all young girls dream of marrying a good husband.”

At the word husband, Liang Shanbo’s stiff, unyielding, expressionless face flashed before her eyes — and her heart gave a sudden lurch. She rapidly chanted several invocations of Amitabha, condemning herself: what a transgression, how could she think of him!

Bowl Qiansui saw her drifting off and grabbed her by the shoulder, giving her a shake. “Who did you just think of? Why is your face going red? Like a little girl.”

“Stop talking nonsense!” Zhu Yingtai shot him a look. “Go send the letter!”

“Heh heh — if Yingtai were truly a girl, would Liang Xiong be willing to share a bed canopy?” Bowl Qiansui mimicked the tone of a young maiden, making Zhu Yingtai go red all the way down to her neck. She grabbed him, ready to start throwing punches.

“I was wrong! Spare me, hero!” Bowl Qiansui burst out laughing and dodged away. He stood on a higher step, turned back, and smiled. “It’s not only young women who dream of marrying a dashing young man — in every young man’s heart, there are dreams of his own, too.”

The light fell over Bowl Qiansui, as if he himself were about to radiate a glow. If not for the broom over his shoulder ruining the effect, in that moment he truly looked as beautiful as an unreal figure from a dream.

“Go send the letter!” Zhu Yingtai reached down, grabbed a pebble, and threw it at him.

Bowl Qiansui laughed and ran off, then came back after a few steps. He reached into his robes and produced a butterfly woven from wild grass, pressed it into her hand. “Almost forgot — go home and remember to hang this on your door before dark — it must be hung up before nightfall. And then, don’t come out at night.”

“What’s this? It’s not even the Dragon Boat Festival yet — a bit early for hanging fragrant pouches!” she asked, puzzled.

“Less talking. I’m telling you to hang it, so hang it. Don’t forget!”

It was just a grass butterfly — not even a well-made one. She tucked the butterfly into her sleeve, dusted off her seat and stood up. A gust of cold, eerie wind swept past, making her shiver involuntarily. She rubbed her arms and went back inside.

6

Cold! So terribly cold!

Zhu Yingtai was jolted awake by the chill. With April weather, how could it feel like the dead of winter? She poked her head out from the covers, and outside the window, the moonlight was hazy; all around her, a thin mist had formed, drifting like flowing water. She could see the steam of her own breath rising in white puffs.

She shivered out of bed, lit the oil lamp, bundled on every piece of clothing she could find — and still felt cold. She ended up throwing her bedcovers over her shoulders as well.

Behind her came a soft thwack. She turned — the edge of the quilt had swept the grass butterfly off the writing table and onto the floor.

Of course she had forgotten about that!

She picked up the butterfly and walked to the door, thinking that hanging it now probably wouldn’t make much difference either way.

Before she could open the door, there came several strange thuds from just outside, followed by the sound of shattering flower pots and the like, mixed with one muffled, strange cry.

She flung the door open. A powerful gust of frigid wind hit her full in the face, nearly shearing it sideways, and she could barely keep her eyes open. Then she noticed the pale, misty figure standing before the doorway, rubbed her eyes, and cried out in shock: “Liang Shanbo?!”

The wind gradually subsided, then vanished entirely — and with it, the temperature around her rapidly returned to normal.

Liang Shanbo had one hand behind his back and one hand gripping a book scroll. He turned his face to the side and asked, “Did I disturb you?”

She truly could no longer make sense of this man. He proceeded to tell her, in a completely composed manner, that the moon this evening was particularly fine, and while reading and walking, he had somehow found himself at the door of the music room without realizing it.

“Does reading ever cause someone to cry out strangely?” Zhu Yingtai walked up to him and surveyed him from head to toe with the sharpest gaze she could muster.

“The moon is bright and the wind is clear — what crying out?” He asked back, puzzled.

She blinked. Then she said, “And that bone-piercing cold wind — the air you could almost exhale as frost…”

He countered with two straight ‘wheres’ — what sort of wheres? — leaving her completely bewildered. At this moment, all around was truly peaceful and still; the moonlight flowed like water; the breeze was gentle and pleasant.

“But just now, it was clearly…”

“It seems Zhu Tongxue needs medicine. Come with me.” He cut her off, snapped his book shut, took hold of her wrist, and set off at a quick pace toward the Ten-Thousand-Volume Vault.

“I’m not sick — what would I need medicine for?!” His grip wasn’t heavy, yet somehow she couldn’t shake free of it no matter how she tried.

“If your memory is this bad, how can you possibly get by without medicine!”

“Liang Shanbo — you’re completely unreasonable!”

Behind them, from among the tree shadows, Er Sanniang stepped slowly out. She held a slender sword in her hand, watching their retreating figures, then looked up at the sky and let out a long sigh. At her feet lay a creature cut clean in two: beast-headed and bird-bodied, its appearance grotesque — already dead — its body slowly dissolving while letting off wisps of pale green smoke.

“Get out here!” Her hand shot back and she twisted Bowl Qiansui out by the ear, scolding him. “You’ve been gone for half the day, nowhere to be found. You know perfectly well that the great occasion draws near, and all manner of demons are gathering — instead of getting to work on the ‘cleansing,’ you slack off. If that fellow hadn’t arrived just in time, Zhu Yingtai would have been eaten as an appetizer! I clearly told you to make sure she hung up that concealment talisman! You were slacking off again!”

“This grand occasion comes every ten years, and you’ve been through it battle-hardened countless times — it’s not your first time dealing with these outside interlopers. Whether I’m here or not doesn’t make much difference.” Bowl Qiansui cheekily removed her hand. “Besides, even without the concealment talisman, when those demons come after the living students in the academy, the result would be you snipping them in two regardless. Er Sanniang is hardly a pushover.”

“You’re always this disgracefully careless!” Er Sanniang said bitterly. Her gaze settled on Bowl Qiansui’s somewhat weary face. “You went to the Zhu family?”

“Mm.” Bowl Qiansui didn’t deny it, and yawned. “Zhu Yingtai asked me to send a letter home.”

“You went to see Madam Zhu!” Er Sanniang said it directly.

“I know you know everything I do — we may be blood siblings, but can you show the slightest respect for my right to privacy?” Bowl Qiansui picked at his ear, wrinkling his face in suffering. “I just wanted to see for myself how she’s doing now.”

“How could she possibly be? She must be the same as she’s always been. If you hadn’t recklessly shown off back then, she wouldn’t have ended up the way she is now.” Er Sanniang jabbed him hard on the forehead. “I’m telling you — what’s done is done. Don’t make any more attempts to intervene. You and I are only demons of shallow cultivation; we ought to live quietly in this academy and do what is ours to do. Perhaps heaven will take pity on us, and one day we may manage to cultivate ourselves toward true fruition. I agreed to take in Zhu Yingtai temporarily — partly out of compassion, and partly because what befell her is partly our responsibility. Once this great matter is settled and the situation is safe, we can discuss where she goes from there.”

“Fine, I have no objection.” Bowl Qiansui shrugged, turned to leave, then looked back. “Sister — all these years you’ve stayed at the academy — is it truly only to capture the Rou Zhi and accumulate merit?”

Er Sanniang froze.

“Sleeping for three thousand years; in the dream, one doesn’t know one is dreaming.” Bowl Qiansui smiled softly, hummed a little tune, and left.

7

In the Ten-Thousand-Volume Vault, bookshelves stood in rows. An oil lamp flickered gently on the table by the window.

Zhu Yingtai sat on a sleeping mat beneath the table, reading by lamplight. The books on the table were all ones he had been reading, and one book stood out as particularly unusual: a pure white cover bearing the title A Compendium of Demon and Spirit Forms.

She flipped to the first page. Painted on it was a mountain forest with a small path; a tiny three-inch-tall figure, naked, with horns growing from its head, riding a carriage at full gallop. She ran over to where Liang Shanbo was heating water on a small charcoal stove and asked, “The books you read are all so strange. What is this?”

He glanced at it and said mildly, “That is called Rou Zhi.”

Zhu Yingtai had never heard such a peculiar name. “Is that the little figure’s name?”

“Rou Zhi is half-demon, half-food.” Liang Shanbo said. “They sustain themselves by absorbing the essence of the sun and the moon, and prefer to hide in places of great elevation and deep waters. Every ten years they emerge in form, and they are extremely rare in number. Moreover, they only appear in physical form on the day they materialize — after which they dissolve into formlessness, their whereabouts unknown. If one can capture and consume a Rou Zhi on the day it takes form: an ordinary person who consumes it will ascend to immortality; a demon who consumes it will gain a body of flesh and blood, and be able to enter the mortal cycle of reincarnation, living out their days forever as a human.”

Zhu Yingtai blinked several times, closed the book and tossed it aside, and let out a yawn. “How dull.”

“Dull?” Liang Shanbo startled. “I thought you’d say something like ‘how frightening’ or ‘how wondrous.'”

“What’s there to envy about being human? It’s not as free as being a demon, flying through the sky and diving into the earth.” She wrapped her arms around her knees and sat by the stove. “Demons want to become human; humans want to become immortals; and what do immortals want to become? Higher divine beings? I simply don’t understand — why must you turn yourself into something else before you’re happy?”

Liang Shanbo looked at the clean lines of her profile and smiled, then changed the subject. “Looks like you don’t mind the Ten-Thousand-Volume Vault at all now — wasn’t it someone who was struggling furiously not long ago?”

Zhu Yingtai turned her head and stared at him with great seriousness. “Liang Tongxue, I maintain everything I said before! I truly did hear a strange cry and felt the temperature of winter!”

The kettle began to let off white steam. Liang Shanbo found a porcelain bowl, poured in a little over half a bowl of hot water, and set it before Zhu Yingtai. “The best medicine is precisely this. I added mint leaves to the water — it can calm the spirit and sharpen the mind. I have never encountered a new student quite like you: in a new environment, finding it difficult to adjust, and experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations is not unusual at all. Drink this, sleep soundly tonight, and you’ll be back to normal.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” Zhu Yingtai looked at that bowl of water with its faint, drifting fragrance, then turned her head pointedly away. “I’m not drinking it!”

“Suit yourself.” Liang Shanbo stopped paying attention to her, took up the oil lamp, moved to one side, leaned against a bookshelf, and picked up a book to read.

Zhu Yingtai, out of spite, also picked up a book and started reading it aloud on purpose.

Not a single bit of it affected him. His gaze moved steadily and with focus across the pages of his book.

After reading for a stretch, she grew bored as well. She dropped the book and stared off into nothing.

Between the two of them: a bookshelf, a lamp, and silence.

“I know you.” She suddenly poked her head around the bookshelf. “From when I was a child!”

The hand turning Liang Shanbo’s pages paused for the briefest of instants, then continued turning. “Your hometown and mine are worlds apart.”

“I feel as though I recognize your back.” She murmured to herself.

He shook his head with a soft laugh — not even dignifying it with a reply.

“I know no one would believe me.” She was a little downcast, and rested her chin on her knee. “In truth, even I don’t quite believe myself.”

“Tell me then.” His voice drifted through the dancing lamplight. “You’ll never feel satisfied if you can’t get it out.”

No better place or time than this moment could have existed — no matter how absurd the notion, in this kind of lamplight, accompanied by his quiet, steady turning of pages, it would be understood, and forgiven.

Her heart settled all at once. Her eyes dropped to the lamp burning between them, and she slowly began to tell him the story she had never told anyone before.

That year, she had still been a young child with hair in two tufts. Father was devoted to her, but he was never home in those days. Madam wasn’t too bad to her either — no hitting, no scolding — only that sometimes the way Madam looked at her was so cold it frightened her. And there was her elder sister, a few years older than her: she disliked her, didn’t play with her, and would often snatch away things she loved.

She remembered it was New Year’s Eve. Madam had ordered the servants to drag a large heap of old, unwanted things into the back courtyard to burn. She had slipped away from where she was playing alone in the back courtyard to go watch the excitement when she saw the roaring flames. Every New Year’s Eve, Madam had quite a few old things burned off — she called it shedding the old to welcome the new. Standing before that pile of miscellaneous items, she happened to notice a painting scroll wrapped up among them. In the firelight, that black lacquered scroll seemed to emit a faint blue glow, like eyes blinking frantically at her.

Something stirred in her heart. Taking advantage of a moment when the servants were distracted, she stealthily pulled the scroll from the pile. She unrolled it — it was a painting titled “Spring Haze Thawing Ice.” She couldn’t read all the characters on it yet, but looking at that painting, looking at the lone figure facing away from the viewer, she felt an inexplicable fondness for it that she couldn’t put into words. It was a perfectly good painting — it would have been a shame to burn it.

She tucked the painting quietly away in the farthest corner of her clothes chest.

The following autumn, Madam’s sickly son died. That’s right — she had once had a half-brother, though he’d been a frail thing from birth, and Madam had kept him confined to the inner courtyard, hardly ever leaving his room.

During that period, Madam rarely came out to see anyone, remaining in the inner courtyard day after day — she didn’t even emerge for the burial. Later on, the Zhu family suddenly established a strict rule: no one was permitted to mention the loss of Madam’s child in front of her. Everyone would simply go on as though the young master were still alive.

She remembered that Father had begun to age noticeably that same year.

Life after that was relatively calm and uneventful. The Zhu household went about its business quietly, everyone keeping to their own affairs. Only she kept feeling that she encountered strange things more often than seemed normal.

Once, her elder sister played a trick on her and locked her in an abandoned room swarming with rats. She called for help and no one came; cold and hungry, she collapsed in a corner and dozed off. In a half-conscious haze, she heard someone calling her name softly by her ear. She opened her eyes — through her blurry, half-awake vision, she dimly made out a figure, facing away from her, leaving through the now-open door. She rubbed her eyes: the abandoned room’s door was open, though she didn’t know when, and there was no one else around.

She had assumed that was a dream, or that perhaps her sister’s conscience had gotten the better of her, and she’d crept back to unlock the door.

Similar incidents — there were more than just that one. Her sister had devised all sorts of schemes against her: digging mud pits in paths as traps, slipping laxatives into her water cup. But every single time, she came through unscathed. She would inexplicably stop short and walk around a path before reaching the trap; a cup already raised to her lips would somehow slip from her grasp and shatter on the ground.

So everyone thought she had remarkably good luck. Only she knew it was more than luck alone — every time disaster loomed, some force seemed to ward it off and turn danger into safety, though she had no proof whatsoever.

Time flowed on like water, and she grew up safe and sound after all. Father said she looked exactly like her mother. Her elder sister stopped playing tricks on her; she had her own world now and spent her days thinking about the dashing young men on their fine horses. Madam hadn’t changed either — she was still beautiful, only the way she looked at her had grown colder than before.

A year ago, Father had become too ill to leave his bed, drifting between clarity and confusion.

That day she was about to go brew lotus seed soup for Father herself when Madam called her and told her to go to the Blue Lotus Temple on the outskirts of town to pray for a protective talisman for Father — and she must walk there on foot alone, to show her sincerity.

With Madam, she would never say a word of refusal.

She went to the Blue Lotus Temple, but on a stretch of open wasteland she came upon two big men with knives. They weren’t after her money — they were after her life.

She ran. They chased. The blade was just behind her head.

A misstep, and she tumbled into a drainage ditch. Her head struck a large stone, and she lost consciousness.

In a daze, once again, she heard someone calling her name.

She opened her eyes. In her blurred, half-conscious vision, there was that white figure again — sitting on the stone just ahead of her, facing away.

“Who are you?” She got up.

“I came to say goodbye.” The figure spoke slowly, but still would not turn around. “Ten years of fate — I fear it has come to its end.”

“Do we know each other well?” She wanted to walk over, but her body wouldn’t move.

“Zhu Yingtai — if you ever have the chance to leave the Zhu household, do not hesitate. Be especially wary of Madam Zhu — she is past merely disliking you.” With that, the figure stood and walked toward the bamboo grove ahead.

“Wait! Who are you exactly?!”

The figure didn’t stop — only left her with a white, slight, solitary back, like a cloud with no fixed home, elusive and beyond grasp.

Then dizziness overcame her, and when she came to again she was still on that stretch of open wasteland, but the knife-wielding men had vanished without a trace. She was utterly bewildered — had everything that just happened been only a dream? She was in turmoil.

“This year, I was driven out. Cast on a mountainside for no apparent reason — where I met you.” Zhu Yingtai smiled with a trace of shyness. “I don’t know why, but when I saw your back, I felt I recognized it. It made me think of… that dream.”

The book in his hands had already been turned to the last page. He stretched his neck and turned to look at her faintly reddened face. “Something this absurd — say it tonight and let it go. Others will laugh at you for it.”

Then he suddenly asked, “Why do you always carry that painting?”

She thought for a moment and said, “Because of the figure in the painting — his back. Every time I look at the painting, I think of those strange ‘dreams,’ and holding it makes me feel safe in a way I can’t explain.” She blinked and shot Liang Shanbo a look. “Go ahead — laugh at me, even say I have a peculiar obsession.”

“Sleep, Zhu Tongxue.” He set down the book, stood, and pulled a bedding mat over to spread out on the floor.

“What?!” Zhu Yingtai shot to her feet. “You and I are both sleeping here? No, no — I’ll go back to the music room. I’m not used to sleeping with other people around.”

“The lamp oil is nearly spent — how would you find your way back to the music room in pitch darkness?” He said, pulling the bowl of water over to set it in the center of the bedding. “I’m not used to sharing a bed either, but the situation tonight is exceptional. The bowl marks the boundary — we each keep to our own side and have nothing to do with one another.”

With that, he moved to the far side of the bedding, used a book as a pillow, lay down fully clothed, and was soon snoring.

Gazing at that clean porcelain bowl, and that more-than-half bowl of clear water, still as a mirror — Zhu Yingtai couldn’t help herself and picked it up for a sip. The refreshing fragrance of mint filled her lips and tongue — it was lovely.

She set the bowl back down, then carefully and quietly lay down on the soft bedding. Just knowing he was at her back, her heart filled at once with perfect calm.

“Liang Tongxue.” She called him softly.

“Mm.” After a long pause, he responded.

“I knew you weren’t asleep.” She pressed her lips together in a smile. “Tell me — that figure with his back turned. Was it truly only a dream of mine?”

“Whatever you like.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For dragging a proper young man like you into my absurd and unfounded dreams.”

“Oh — don’t do it again in the future.”

“I keep thinking — how wonderful it would be if that person really existed. I don’t mean anything more by it; I only want to tell him thank you in person.”

“Sleep.”

The night was deep, the moon languid, the world quiet. That white porcelain bowl rested between the two of them — light playing upon its surface, flowing and turning, as tender and shifting as a dream.

8

“How can you have the nerve to hide there eavesdropping the whole night!” Liang Shanbo leaned against the bookshelf. Morning light filtered through the window, falling on his slightly weary face. “Come out already — Zhu Yingtai left long ago!”

The porcelain bowl on the bedding rolled about and spun — a puff of white smoke rose, and Bowl Qiansui stretched with great satisfaction, then threw it right back at him. “How can you have the nerve not to admit that you’re that very figure?”

“You know perfectly well that doing this only creates more trouble.” Liang Shanbo frowned. “I’ll be leaving soon. Since she believes it was a dream — let her go on believing that forever.”

“Suit yourself.” Bowl Qiansui shrugged, fixed his gaze on his eyes, and smiled. “Look at you — the very image of someone who sees clearly while the whole world is drunk and sleeping. And yet — aren’t you still dreaming yourself?” With that, he turned to leave.

“What do you mean by that?” Liang Shanbo called after him.

“In ten more days, you’ll have Rou Zhi to eat.” Bowl Qiansui patted him on the shoulder, gave no direct answer, and only said, “Once you’ve become human, I’m afraid you’ll have even more dreams to dream.”

With that, he walked toward the door, went a few steps, then stopped and said, “Since that girl said she wants to thank you — these ten days, why not grant her that wish?”

Grant her wish?

Liang Shanbo stood there. He had known her for ten years. Ten years ago, if she hadn’t pulled the painting scroll from the fire and kept it safe, where would he be today?

And yet — he was only an insignificant painting demon, his spiritual power small, unable even to fully manifest a human form. He didn’t not want to turn around — the truth was that he had no front. What he could manifest was something approaching human form: just a back, facing away.

A life like that — what was the point?

Was he to simply remain this way forever, staying in the Zhu household, protecting this small girl from harm, and praying that no one would ever again throw him into a furnace and reduce him to ashes?

No. Absolutely not. He would become human — existing with flesh and blood, not afraid of being burned, not fearing capture by those who practiced the Dao, and even if he died, his soul could be reborn through reincarnation. Becoming human — wasn’t that what every demon sought?

Ten more days, and his wish would be fulfilled. What was there to dwell on? Simply receive this hard-won change with joy!

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

But — why was it that every time he closed his eyes, he saw a small, curled-up figure huddled in a derelict room?

And in his ears, her incessant, chattering voice —

“Thank you.”

“Why won’t you eat meat — you’re not a monk!”

“I only want to tell him thank you in person.”

After a long silence, he opened his eyes and walked out of the Ten-Thousand-Volume Vault.

9

Over the following days, everyone in the academy noticed that Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai had grown considerably closer. This naturally solitary Liang Shanbo was actually tutoring Zhu Yingtai in her schoolwork with great patience. The strange thing was: passages the teacher taught, Zhu Yingtai could never commit to memory — but the moment Liang Shanbo taught them to her, she could retain them after a single reading. And Liang Shanbo no longer refused her good intentions. At mealtimes, she heaped everything good in her bowl into his, and he accepted it all without question, eating every last bit.

In the Go lessons, while everyone else was locked in fierce competition on the board — the losers punished by the teacher with having to copy texts — Liang Shanbo’s skill at Go had long been unmatched by any opponent. Yet when his opponent became Zhu Yingtai, he lost round after round, copying texts until his hand went numb. And Zhu Yingtai was famously dreadful at Go — everyone knew it. Shanbo’s deliberate losses became one more piece of gossip at Kongshan Academy.

Er Sanniang watched all of this and pulled Bowl Qiansui in for questioning, yet couldn’t get anything coherent out of him. She could only marvel inwardly: the world of young people, at her age, was beyond her comprehension now.

“Liang Shanbo!” One day — beautiful weather, the evening sky ablaze — Zhu Yingtai stood at the window of the Ten-Thousand-Volume Vault and called his name loudly.

He looked up from his book.

“Thank you!”

“What have I done?” He bowed his head and continued reading.

“You tutored me in my lessons, you accepted my goodwill without refusing, and in our Go games, you let me win every single time. If I’d been at the mercy of any other opponent, the teacher would probably have made me copy every book in the Ten-Thousand-Volume Vault!” She laughed merrily.

“Is that so.” He smiled to himself. “Very well — I accept your thanks.”

She laughed, brilliant as sunset clouds. Such a smile had never, in any moment of her previous life, shown itself on her face.

Ten days — two remained.

The next morning, a horse carriage arrived in haste and stopped outside Kongshan Academy. The Zhu family’s chief steward, old Qi, jumped down from the carriage and hurried inside.

The news he brought was grim: Master Zhu had fallen gravely ill and hoped Zhu Yingtai would return as soon as possible.

She had no choice but to go.

She said her goodbyes to Er Sanniang and walked the path out of the academy, cradling her painting, looking back as she went.

Class was in session at this hour; the academy was empty save for a few fallen leaves drifting down from the sky now and then.

He would never come to see her off — he loved his books far too much.

On the winding stone path, a figure came hurrying toward her. The hem of his robe lifted by the wind beat like butterfly wings.

She stared, astonished, at Liang Shanbo, who had rushed to catch up.

“A farewell gift.” He held out a notebook — the very one in which he had secretly written down the answers that day and moved it where she could see it.

Her astonishment turned to delight. She clutched the notebook and said, “Thank you.”

His face showed neither joy nor sorrow. “Get on the carriage.”

She climbed in, then poked her head back out and looked at him. She suddenly asked, “What if I can’t come back to study? Would you come to the Zhu family to tutor me?”

He had meant to say that this was impossible, but what came out of his mouth was: “All right.”

Sometimes, the look in a person’s eyes is enough to overcome any refusal.

She was overjoyed.

“Liang Tongxue — take care.”

“Zhu Tongxue — take care.”

The carriage moved forward, raising clouds of dust. She couldn’t bear it and poked her head back out one more time. Through the hazy curtain of dust, she watched his figure, like a drifting cloud, fade into the academy.

“As the moon waxes, as the sun rises, as Mount Nan endures, unwavering and undimmed…” She lowered the curtain and opened the notebook he had given her, reading the characters one by one. These were clearly his blessings for her — yet without warning, the tip of her nose went sour.

10

“Brother, that’s eighteen li.” Bowl Qiansui stopped at a roadside pavilion, looking down from the hillside at the carriage racing along the road below. “Still seeing her off?”

“Far enough.” Liang Shanbo shook his head. The carriage had shot out of his line of sight in an instant. “You should be on your way too — whether or not she manages to avoid an early death, that’s up to you now.”

Bowl Qiansui stood with hands on hips, turned his head. “Have you truly made up your mind?” He paused, then added, “I thought — maybe you’d change your mind and stay behind for her.”

“I wavered.” He said candidly. “You often laugh at me for being of no physical strength. You’re right. A demon like me can only push open a locked door for her, help frighten away knife-wielding assailants — these small tricks are all I have. Yes, I’ve always worried about her; even when I left the Zhu household, I still used my far-sight technique to check whether she was all right. But what is the use of just watching? What could it change to know that woman intended to have her killed? Without your help, I couldn’t have dealt with the mountain sprites on the Wuyin Sheer Cliffs — I couldn’t even stop that A’Fu.”

Bowl Qiansui was silent.

“You said I, too, am still dreaming.” He smiled, and his tone became firm and cold. “If holding fast to becoming human is my dream — then let me dream on.” He looked straight into Bowl Qiansui’s eyes. “But I know better than anyone what I want most. I cannot fulfill her dream.”

“All right then — I wish you a happy human life.” Bowl Qiansui took his hand and shook it dramatically.

“One more thing to ask of you.” He pointed at himself. “After I’m gone, please put this body back where it came from. I’ve borrowed Liang Shanbo’s corpse for long enough — do me the favor of burning some paper offerings at his graveside to thank him.”

“Fine.” Bowl Qiansui turned and walked away.

“Bowl Qiansui!” He called after him. “Don’t let her dream of Liang Shanbo anymore.”

Bowl Qiansui didn’t look back — gone like the wind.

11

Eight days after Zhu Yingtai returned home, Master Zhu breathed his last.

Because of Master Zhu’s passing, the marriage between the Ma and Zhu families was postponed by one year.

But several months later, the eldest daughter of the Zhu family vanished. Disappearing along with her was the household’s young and handsome guard.

Madam Zhu remained her usual self — no rage, no reprimand, carrying on with her affairs as before. One daughter gone — no matter. There was still another one, wasn’t there? At least she hadn’t been sent over the cliff by A’Fu.

She said to Zhu Yingtai, “Your sister has disappeared, but the marriage arrangement with the Ma family cannot be allowed to fall through. You’ll go in your sister’s place and do this service for the Zhu family. The Ma family has never met you two sisters — they won’t see through it. From now on, stay home quietly and wait to be wed next year.”

After that day, her bedroom was locked shut. Even the windows were boarded up with heavy planks, and family servants stood guard at the door in shifts around the clock.

So she truly couldn’t go back to the academy.

But it didn’t matter — Liang Shanbo had promised he would come to the Zhu family. She would wait for him.

She didn’t resist. She ate heartily, drank heartily; when bored, she played Go against herself. When tired, she stacked books as a pillow.

He is never coming back, you foolish girl. He is only a painting demon — the ‘soul’ of your painting. And now he is no longer a demon. He ate the Rou Zhi and has already been reborn as a human. In this world of boundless red dust, even I don’t know where he is. Wake up — Bowl Qiansui stood before her, looking at her peaceful sleeping face, saying these words silently in his heart.

Zhu Yingtai dreamed. In the dream, Liang Shanbo came as promised — they stood together in the Zhu family’s lakeside pavilion, composing verse under the moon, brewing wine and playing Go against one another.

“Liang Tongxue — if Yingtai were truly a girl, would you be willing to…” In a pleasant haze, her face flushed.

“I would marry you.” He smiled.

“Truly?” She covered her mouth, her heart pounding wildly.

“Truly.”

But why was his smiling face growing farther and farther away — he kept retreating, retreating, until he vanished into the moonlight.

“Liang Shanbo!” She cried out and woke — and found Bowl Qiansui’s face looking back at her.

“Dreaming?” He wasn’t his usual irreverent self; there was an unexpected shadow between his brows.

“How did you get in?” She looked at the intact door and windows, startled — and immediately added, “Where is Liang Shanbo? Did he send you to find me?!”

Bowl Qiansui clenched his fist, and said, “Zhu Yingtai — Liang Shanbo is dead.”

“What?” She stared at him blankly.

12

On the solitary hill, there was only this single grave, overgrown with wild grass.

She stood before the grave, her fingers sliding slowly across the headstone.

She hadn’t cried. She simply turned her head and asked, “Is he really in there?”

Bowl Qiansui nodded. “Two months after you left — a severe illness. Medical treatment came too late.”

She sighed, and punched Bowl Qiansui — but it was soft and without force. “So much for being brothers. How could you not have kept watch over him? You knew perfectly well that once he starts reading, he forgets everything else.”

Bowl Qiansui said nothing.

She crouched down, reached out her hand, and with her fingernails began to carve into the wooden headstone, stroke by stroke —

As the moon waxes, as the sun rises. As Mount Nan endures, unwavering and undimmed.

Amid the scraping sound, blood seeped from her fingertips, slowly reddening the headstone — like that dusk, when the whole sky had blazed with crimson.

“Zhu Yingtai!” Bowl Qiansui said sharply.

“Let me finish.” Her expression didn’t change.

Bowl Qiansui’s brow was deeply furrowed.

A cold wind swept through; yellow leaves scattered. She finished the final stroke, her blood-soaked fingertips trembling faintly.

“Come back to the academy with me.” He helped her to her feet.

“I’m not staying in the music room — I want to live in the Ten-Thousand-Volume Vault.” She managed a smile.

“Agreed!” He nodded, hard and firm.

13

Snow fell.

She leaned against Er Sanniang’s embrace. Her body was light, as though it had no weight at all.

Huge snowflakes drifted past the window of the Ten-Thousand-Volume Vault. Outside, even in the dead of night, the world was so beautifully white.

“I still think he’ll come to see me.” She pressed a burning forehead to Er Sanniang’s and smiled. “You have to get better soon — otherwise there’ll be no one to pour my foot-washing water.”

She suddenly pushed herself upright with great effort and looked out the window, eyes bright with excitement. “Look — isn’t that him? It’s so cold out, why is he dressed so lightly?”

Bowl Qiansui looked out the window as she’d said: snow and ice stretched in every direction, not a bird or beast in sight — certainly no human figure.

“Your eyes are sharp — it’s him.” He pulled his head back in and praised her.

“As the moon waxes, as the sun rises. As Mount Nan endures, unwavering and undimmed. As pine and cypress flourish, may none be without your blessing.” Her breath grew fainter and fainter. “See — I still remember. It’s a blessing. A beautiful one.”

“Zhu Yingtai’s memory truly is remarkable.” Er Sanniang turned her face away, not letting anyone see her reddening eyes.

“I’ll sleep a little while — call me when he arrives.” She slowly lay back down, still using books as a pillow, and looked as though she were sleeping contentedly.

But no one would ever be able to call her awake again.

Neither Er Sanniang nor Bowl Qiansui knew when dawn came. The first rays of morning light pierced through the window lattice and fell with gentle tenderness on Zhu Yingtai’s cold, pale face.

“You see now — we are only insignificant demons. We cannot save a human life, nor can we bring their dreams to fruition.” Er Sanniang looked at Zhu Yingtai lying there as though peacefully asleep. “Qiansui — from now on, stop giving people beautiful dreams so carelessly. Stay here, cultivate with sincerity, and live your days honestly.”

Bowl Qiansui looked closely at Zhu Yingtai’s face, and made a startling discovery: a tear — like ice melting in sunlight — slid from the corner of her eye.

He let that tear fall onto his fingertip, and gently touched it to his tongue.

They say tears are salty. Some are even sweet. Hers was bitter — so bitter.

After that day, his sense of taste disappeared.

14

When winter passed, a great piece of news spread through Zhu Yingtai’s hometown: Madam Zhu had gone mad. She ran wild through the streets all day, grabbing small boys and insisting they were her son. The Zhu household’s servants had packed up the family’s valuables and scattered, each going their own way — only one white-haired old woman remained, finding a broken-down house to shelter in and staying to look after Madam Zhu.

This was Bowl Qiansui’s last visit to Madam Zhu.

He stood outside her door, watching the old woman spoon-feed her soup — the broth dribbling from her mouth, which she no longer knew to close.

The first time he had seen her was roughly nine years ago.

That day, her heart-rending wails had caught the attention of him as he happened to be passing by overhead.

He dropped down from the sky and found, in this grand mansion, a beautiful woman clutching the body of a small boy, weeping until her bowels seemed to tear.

Her face streaked with tears, she cried out: Let him live! Let him live!

He shook his head. Help her then — what a pitiable human being.

He was a bowl demon. His greatest skill was the crafting of dreams. Those he cast his spell upon would mistake the dream for reality.

That night, she dreamed her son still lay in his bed, calling out “Mother” to her, speaking to her.

When she awoke, it was as though she had become blind to the reality before her — she seemed to have utterly forgotten that her son had died, and went on as before: cooing and fretting over that empty bed as though her son were still there. If anyone told her that her son was dead, she would fly into a frenzy and bite, even grabbing a knife to kill whoever had said it.

And so Master Zhu had established that household rule. After that, Madam Zhu went on living as before — “normally.”

Until now, when some among those fleeing servants had finally spoken: the Second Madam, so many years ago, had died an unnatural death — poisoned by the First Madam. The First Madam, by nature deeply jealous and calculating, could never have tolerated another woman sharing her husband. As for the Second Madam’s daughter, Yingtai — the more she grew up to look like her mother, the more intolerable she became to this woman. And there was another thought lurking in her heart: Master Zhu was partial to Yingtai, and in time she would certainly inherit a considerable share of the family estate. How could the Zhu family’s wealth fall into the hands of that despised woman’s daughter? Only her own son — he was the Zhu family’s sole heir. While Master Zhu was still healthy, she had still exercised some restraint; but once Master Zhu fell ill, with the entire Zhu household entirely under her management, she had finally been free to fulfill her wish. Perhaps it was heaven’s justice: no matter what ruthless schemes she devised, Yingtai always managed to escape disaster. Now the Zhu family was scattered; and when those servants she had oppressed screamed at her — “Your son died long ago! You mad woman!” — her dream finally shattered and she woke.

Bowl Qiansui left a bundle of silver outside her door and said to Madam Zhu: “I’m sorry.”

He had thought that a beautiful dream could offer comfort, but he had forgotten: dreams must always end in waking. And the most pitiable of all are those who have clearly already awakened, yet refuse to open their eyes — or dare not.

He left the academy and began to wander.

Er Sanniang didn’t try to keep him. She said nothing, and slowly closed the academy gates.

He looked back, and in his heart said: Sister — staying here as you do — aren’t you dreaming as well?

He smiled, stepped out into the moonlight, and left.

15

I rarely sigh. Today was an exception.

“Isn’t this story a bit long?” He wiped the windows at an unhurried pace and drank three cups of tea.

“So it turns out there are truly such things as painting demons born from the spirit of an artwork.” I poured him another cup — he was the first person to ever drink four cups of my Fu Sheng tea in one sitting. “As for why your sister decided to open this academy…”

“She didn’t open it. It was opened by the man she loved.” He picked up the thread. “A man who loved to read and teach, and loved practicing the Dao even more. Sister was utterly devoted to him, and worked enormously hard to cultivate the ability to capture Rou Zhi. But after that man ate the Rou Zhi, he declared that he had attained immortality, left without a word, and was never heard from again. Sister keeps this academy, ostensibly to help destined demons find Rou Zhi, helping them become human and accumulate good merit — but in truth, she is only waiting for him to come back.” He smiled softly. “Though she knows better than anyone that man is never coming back. Yet she refuses to open her eyes, choosing instead to dream.”

I didn’t laugh — because there are far too many people in this world who refuse to open their eyes. Once upon a time, I was one of them. Not that I didn’t dare to open them — but that I could not bear the shattering that would come.

“Helping destined demons find Rou Zhi?” I shifted the topic. “How did your sister determine who was fated and who was not? Rou Zhi is extremely precious — any number of demons must covet it.”

“That’s why every ten years, Kongshan Academy becomes quite lively — other demons come to try their luck as well, and if my sister slipped up, they might snatch the prize.” He said carelessly. “As for fate — ha, that was just something she said for fun. My sister — whoever caught her eye, she’d give the Rou Zhi to them. Back then, that fellow had a good face, loved books, had something of the manner of her man in his best days — so she gave that year’s Rou Zhi to him.”

“Your sister is quite a singular character.” This time I did laugh. “But — why did the painting demon choose to inhabit Liang Shanbo’s body? And how did you two come to know each other?”

“He detached himself from his true form and wandered about searching for a way to become human, drifting here and there every day. One day he happened to drift into a temple. As luck would have it, I’d been trapped inside a Universe Sack by some wretched Daoist priest; I called out to him for help, and he waited until the Daoist was drunk and unconscious before stealing me out of there — sack and all. That counted as saving my life. I found out he wanted to become human, so I brought him to the academy. But you know — this fellow is only a back, and meeting people like that is very inconvenient, so I also found a fresh grave for him and attached him to the body of someone who’d just died.” He scratched his head. “As for all the other tales surrounding Liang and Zhu, I truly don’t know how they got made up. Probably those bored souls at the academy.”

He had barely finished speaking when a tall figure burst into Bu Ting like a gust of wind.

I looked at the man who had planted himself before me and, completely unlike myself, stood up with my mouth hanging open. “Ao… Ao Chi?!”

The person before me — those brows, that nose, that supreme, undefeatable aura — who else could it be but that insufferable Ao Chi!

My heart was beating irregularly. He had gone out the door this morning still in the form of that little fat dragon I could do whatever I liked with! I stared in a daze at the copy of The Origin of Species in his hand — had Darwin truly worked a miracle?!

But something wasn’t right either. On this fellow’s head — there were two somethings extra. Purple. Gleaming. Looking like mutated deer antlers.

“From the expression of shock on your face, I can already feel the thrill of success!” Ao Chi threw his head back and laughed, brandishing his book like a trophy. “The Theory of Evolution truly conceals within it the ultimate truth of all growth in creation!”

“But… those antlers on your head…” I pointed at his head.

“Those aren’t antlers!” he said, without a shred of mercy, pinching my cheeks. “Those are my dragon horns! I probably need to study a little more before I can fully restore my human form.”

I pushed away Ao Chi’s claws and pointed at Bowl Qiansui. “Tell me — did you make him dream again?! Tell me right now that the man in front of me is my nightmare!”

“This one truly is not a dream. I didn’t do a thing.” Bowl Qiansui grinned and watched us — husband and wife — then extended his hand toward Ao Chi. “You must be the legendary innkeeper’s wayward dragon husband — I’ve long admired you!”

Ao Chi glared at him and didn’t extend his hand in return. He rolled his eyes and suddenly said, “It’s you?! What are you doing at my house!”

“You know him?” I was even more surprised.

“I took a cloud out to the mountains this morning for cultivation, and passed over a hospital in the city — where I saw this gaudy fellow leap from the hospital rooftop with some Daoist-technique practitioner right on his tail, battling it out quite spectacularly.” Ao Chi dropped onto the sofa and grabbed my teacup, drinking a long draught. “Dying of thirst, dying of hunger — isn’t dinner ready yet? Where is Young Master Zhao?! Dead?!”

I heard this and suddenly thought of something.

“Did you go to the hospital to pull some trick you shouldn’t have?” I pulled Bowl Qiansui aside. “The news earlier said someone by the surname of Liang was in that car accident.”

“Heh heh.” He smiled mysteriously. “That’s right — I orchestrated that car accident. I’ve been looking for these two people across a thousand years of lifetimes. This time they’ve finally reincarnated as one man and one woman.”

“And then?”

“I gave them the same dream.” He said slyly. “Think about it — two people sharing the same dream, and then in real life they encounter one another: doesn’t the probability of something happening between them go up considerably?”

“The sense of destiny and connection between them would probably be quite strong,” I said earnestly, then thought again and felt something was off, and snapped, “There you go with this trick again! You know perfectly well that your demon art makes them unable to tell dream from reality! This will throw everything into chaos!”

“Relax — ever since that time, I haven’t let anyone dream that kind of dream again. What I sell now are true dreams — the kind you fully wake from.” He winked at me.

Only then did I feel at ease.

This fellow was clever enough to know not to make the same mistake twice. He was like me — long since awake.

On the other side, Ao Chi was already out of patience. He took revenge by shaking the still-dreaming Young Master Zhao roughly, bellowing, “Get up and cook! Stop playing dead! I’m not afraid of you anymore!”

My head aching, I moved as far away as possible and asked Bowl Qiansui, “What do you plan to do next? That Daoist priest could come after you at any time.”

He heard this and nodded gravely — then suddenly grabbed my legs, tears streaming, wailing piteously, “Innkeeper! Have mercy on me and let me work at Bu Ting! I’m terrified that the moment I step outside I’ll end up dead in the street! I can do anything — wipe tables, wash bowls, scrub floors, polish them to a shine! My massage technique is first rate too — if you should ever need—”

Before he finished, his entire body went flying out the door.

Ao Chi withdrew his long leg and spat. “Massages — when has that ever been any of your business!”

Alas — they say the guest is king, and my inn has only been open four months, and already we’ve had the tragic incident of a guest being kicked out the door. If word spreads, how am I supposed to run a business?

Ao Chi — he is truly my curse.

I floated away from Ao Chi’s side, sighing mournfully, scooped up the golden bowl Bowl Qiansui had submitted, and retreated sadly to the back room.

● Epilogue ●

One week later. The hospital.

In different wards, two patients who had been in a long coma following the car accident opened their eyes at the same moment.

At the man’s bedside, a middle-aged man called out in elated surprise, “He’s awake! He’s awake! Go tell his mother quickly! My boy — you’ve finally come back!”

In the woman’s ward, a middle-aged couple wept with emotion, clutching her hands and calling, “Xiaoying — can you hear us? It’s Father and Mother!”

From the corners of both patients’ eyes, a tear slid down simultaneously.

“As the moon waxes, as the sun rises. As Mount Nan endures, unwavering and undimmed.” — The first words each of them spoke after waking, not one character different.

And then what?

How would I know?

I only know that this time, perhaps those tears are no longer bitter.

There’s nothing wrong with dreaming — what matters is knowing when to wake.

Perhaps opening your eyes will bring you pain. But if you keep them shut forever, how will you ever see the road ahead?

What? Bowl Qiansui?

He has been living at Bu Ting for seven full days now. No matter how Ao Chi beats and scolds him, he refuses to leave, still begging me to take him in.

And I am still considering it. Having a dream-crafting helper isn’t the worst thing — having someone craft me beautiful dreams of gathering all the gold in the world into my hands would be quite pleasant. Though now that I think about it, a bowl demon — a bowl — shouldn’t something called a bowl be better suited to cooking than to crafting dreams? What a strange creature. He’s made me look at every bowl in my kitchen with suspicion now.

As for Ao Chi — he has become the tyrant of Bu Ting, hollering at Young Master Zhao and Chi Pian’er every day. And when he’s not doing that, he goes right back to playing his little tricks — forever and always, that furious little bird.

One more thing: to this day, I still don’t know what dreams Young Master Zhao and Chi Pian’er had. I only remember that after the two of them woke up, one began singing a love song in boundless, bashful rapture, while the other wailed loudly and cried out for their master — at least a full minute passed before either of them returned to normal.

Thinking about that, I feel that keeping Bowl Qiansui around could be quite dangerous after all.

Alas, headache. We’ll see — if he brings me another golden bowl, perhaps I’d keep him? Heh heh.