Prologue

“With my body shattered and bones ground to dust, I shall protect you from harm for all eternity.”

1

“Alright, who’s paying for this?”

I sat amidst the rubble-strewn great hall, Chi Pian’er standing on my shoulder weeping tears of joy, while the autumn sunlight poured through an enormous hole in the wall with what felt like deliberate mockery, casting itself directly over me. Everywhere my eyes landed, not a single thing remained intact — even my beloved glazed glass vase had been pathetically held together with transparent tape.

I’d returned home after a long and dusty journey, only to be greeted by a house ravaged beyond recognition, dragged into ruin by some senseless brawl. The culprits were now seated on the sofa across from me — soaked in soy sauce — the two scoundrels with restraining talismans slapped on their backs, courtesy of Jia and Yi, leaving them completely immobilized and able to do nothing but glare at each other.

“He pays!” they both declared.

“If you hadn’t thrown me out, I wouldn’t have beaten you.” The man with the bruised eye fixed a furious glare on Young Master Zhao. His pink suit had been slashed to ribbons by some sharp implement, stained not only with soy sauce but with old tomato paste as well. Set aside the sorry state of him, and this should have been an extraordinarily handsome man — so handsome, in fact, with his slicked-back hair and powdered face, that one couldn’t help but think of the leading male performers at the dance halls of the twenties and thirties.

“Who told you to speak such nonsense!” Young Master Zhao didn’t look much better himself; several places on his body had been dented from impacts, and he still clutched a kitchen cleaver in his hand. This armored man, whom I had always regarded as my finest helper — worked hard, asked for little pay, and cooked an excellent meal — had apparently found some inexplicable burst of ferocity and actually come to blows with someone inside the house. In the two years since he’d come to Bu Ting, I had never once seen him fight or brawl; he was clumsy even swatting flies and mosquitoes. Coming to blows with someone was, for him, an event without precedent since the dawn of time.

Ao Chi brushed the dust from his clothes and cast a ferocious glare at the two troublemakers. “How old are you two? If you’re going to fight, fight properly. Throwing condiments at each other — what kind of fighting is that?” Then he quickly patted my head. “Whatever you do, don’t get angry! If you disturb the baby, I swear I’ll kill someone!”

How could I not be angry? Jiu Jue and Jia-Yi had returned ten or so days before us, and according to Chi Pian’er’s account of events, when the two idiots came back, Young Master Zhao and the pink suit were still mid-brawl — and those two actually stood to the side watching with the attitude of, well, the fight’s already started and things are already broken, might as well enjoy the show. Jiu Jue even bet Jia-Yi ten coins that the pink suit would lose within a certain number of rounds, since Young Master Zhao had already begun fighting dirty by hurling tomato paste — a sight rarely seen! But Jia-Yi bet him twenty that once Bu Ting’s mistress returned, neither of these two clowns would make it out alive. And while he was at it, he’d introduced himself to Chi Pian’er — who was entirely incapable of stopping the fight — and to Young Master Zhao, who was too busy fighting to notice, announcing that he was the highly-ranked assistant I had specially hired from outside, and that until he officially took over management of Bu Ting, he bore no responsibility for any damages. In short, that was precisely when my walls and vase were destroyed. As for Jiu Jue — after the two combatants finally called a ceasefire and surveyed the wreckage of Bu Ting, he immediately pretended to receive a phone call, came back saying his fiancée urgently needed him, and promptly vanished.

His fiancée… What a pathetically transparent lie — only this old fool, who perpetually talked about finding a wife but never actually managed to find one, could produce such a story.

“As I’ve said, I take no responsibility for any of this.” Jia-Yi let out a yawn, stepped out from the corner, adjusted his dark glasses, and surveyed the surroundings. “Besides, you have plenty of private savings. Spending a little is no great matter.”

Hmm? How did he know I had plenty of private savings? No — that wasn’t the point right now. I fumed: “Even if you couldn’t stop the fighting in time, you could at least have grabbed a broom and cleaned up!”

“Clearing debris is a lower-ranked helper’s task. Ensuring the scene and the perpetrators remain untouched — that falls within my area of responsibility.” He tilted his head to dodge a chicken bone, stood up, walked over to the two men, and with a flick of his fingers, dissolved both talismans into smoke. “I leave them to you. I’m going for a sleep.” The words had barely left his mouth before he was gone, not even giving me a chance to curse at him.

The man in the pink suit worked his stiff limbs and sniffed at the sour smell clinging to himself. “Might you allow me to bathe first? I’ve been trapped for over ten days!”

“Wait right there!” I turned to Young Master Zhao. “You sent me a message just to get me to hurry back and clean up this mess?”

“The message was sent using Young Master Zhao’s phone — by me!” Chi Pian’er hopped over to my ear, pointing at the pink-suited man. “He was too busy fighting to notify you, wasn’t he? This man came in and immediately announced he intended to purchase Bu Ting — employees included! Young Master Zhao tried to drive him away; he refused, and that’s how the fighting started.”

Young Master Zhao didn’t look at me, only said: “You entrusted Bu Ting to my care. Whatever it takes, I will keep it safe.”

I considered this briefly, then smiled at the man in pink. “You’re the first person who’s ever dared to try buying Bu Ting.”

He smoothed his slightly disheveled hair and gave me a sly smile. “Even without your helper using talismans to stop me, I would have stayed and waited for you to return. Business must always be negotiated, after all.”

“This establishment has no price.” I smiled back, just as slyly. “Everything here — including the dish-cloth in the kitchen — is not for sale.”

“You haven’t even heard what price I’m offering.” The man in pink’s tone took on an air of peculiar mystery.

“All the gold on earth?” I shrugged. “Gold prices have been dropping lately.”

He let out a light laugh, rolled up his left sleeve, and revealed a shield-shaped red stone, roughly the size of a watch face, embedded against his wrist. Strange patterns moved within that vivid red stone as though alive, and if you held your breath and looked carefully, you could swear that beneath the stone’s surface something like a heart was beating — you could almost hear that vibrant, rhythmic thudding.

“The Celestial Crimson Shield. This, I believe, is what you want — the eleventh stone.” The man in pink raised his arm with the confidence of someone who had already won.

I started, quickly retrieved the brocade pouch I kept close to my body, and poured out that eye-shaped Crown of the Underworld King. It had been growing hotter and hotter, and now upon it, a phrase had appeared:

“Having worn out iron shoes in searching far and wide.”

Found without effort at last?!

I was almost beginning to wonder — were these stones truly stones at all, or were they each a living, inexplicable ghost? They seemed to offer me clues in a patterned way, drawing me into one accident and coincidence after another, guiding me along the whole journey. Was it truly the stones guiding me, or was it something else entirely?

“Exchange your Bu Ting for my Celestial Crimson Shield — you won’t be losing out.” The man in pink gestured meaningfully upward. “Word is, others are looking for it too.”

“And so?” I kept my expression composed, though inside, my heart lurched.

The man in pink dropped his smile. “Hand over everything here to me, and I’ll hand you this stone. Otherwise —” he paused, raising an eyebrow — “think about the consequences that might follow. You’re a clever person. It’s just one shop. Just a few demons of shallow cultivation. Exchange them for your husband’s family’s safety — why not?”

Ao Chi immediately frowned, stepped forward, and seized him by the collar. “What exactly do you know?”

He didn’t struggle, just smiled. “I know quite a lot that you don’t. Now it simply depends on whether the mistress is willing to part with what she loves.”

I thought for a long moment before speaking. “It does sound tempting, I’ll admit. Chi Pian’er, aside from her love of gossip, isn’t particularly useful. Anything Young Master Zhao can do, you could hire a few hourly workers to manage just as well.”

A strange smile crept onto the pink-suited man’s lips.

“Mistress…” Young Master Zhao and Chi Pian’er stared at me, both deeply anxious.

“But only goods can be traded.” I made a helpless expression. “Home and family are not for sale.”

Chi Pian’er nearly launched herself at me to kiss me. Young Master Zhao stared in stunned silence.

“Family?” The man in pink let out that heh-heh laugh I despised most and looked toward Young Master Zhao. “Are you truly certain that these creatures of uncertain origin can become family?”

“It sounds as though you have a rather long story you’d like to share?” I leaned back in my chair. “That suits me well. It’s been a long time since I last sat in my own home and listened to someone tell a story. Please, go ahead.”

“If you’d brew me a cup of Fu Sheng, I might tell it with considerably more enjoyment.” He narrowed his eyes in a smile and said slowly, “If you could choose — would you rather be an immortal, or a demon?”

I fell into a brief, startled silence…

2

“I’m going to the Celestial Realm to become an immortal! Won’t you even see me off?!”

Within a broad, well-lit underground cavern, a man in flowing white robes stood before a pool of softly gurgling spring water. His perfect face, touched by flecks of reflected light from the water’s surface, seemed almost translucent. His long dark-brown hair fell all the way to his waist, gathered into a loose bundle by a slender, supple green vine, from the end of which a single heart-shaped jade-green leaf swayed playfully in the breeze. Moonlight and falling petals drifted in through the opening at the top of the cavern on a gentle wind, and as he stood there — though he was no immortal — he might as well have been.

Across from him, a man who looked exactly like him sat stone-faced beside the spring, tossing pebbles into the water one by one. “What is an immortal?”

“A being that dwells in the heavens, possesses greater and stronger power, and can make this world a better place.” The robed man pointed toward the distant star-filled sky visible through the cavern’s opening. “The Celestial Emperor has sent an immortal official to find me. He says the Celestial Realm lacks a Jie Wang — a King of Resolution — and that based on their observation and assessment, I am the ideal candidate. If I consent, my name will be entered into the Celestial Realm’s Roll of Eternal Life, and I will no longer be a demon, but a deity.”

“Are immortals nobler than demons?” He threw another pebble.

“It simply means being able to do more.” The man looked at him. “Do you know what god the Jie Wang is — what office he holds?”

“I have never had any interest in that Celestial Realm. It’s nothing but a group of self-important creatures who crawled out from who-knows-where.” The figure gave no reaction.

“The suffering and hardships of the mortal world — they are like endless knots, one after another. To untie those knots, that is my responsibility.” The man paid no heed to whether he was interested and continued speaking. “I leave tomorrow. If you apply yourself to your cultivation, when the time is right, I will speak to the Celestial Emperor on your behalf, so that you too may be able to —”

“No need.” The final pebble was thrown into the water. The resulting splash doused every word he’d spoken with cold. “Relieving the world’s suffering and hardship — hasn’t our kind been doing precisely that all along? And what was the result?”

The robed man said nothing. His brow furrowed deeper than before.

The seated figure stood, turned around. His pale green eyes cast a light like cold steel: “Only you and I remain.” He paused, then walked forward, and as he brushed past, left behind one final remark: “And you intend to continue.”

“Listen to me.”

A hand gripped his shoulder — only to be thrown off with absolute finality. “From this moment onward, you and I have nothing to do with each other. Great immortal.”

A solitary light shot upward into a sky washed pale as rice by moonlight.

Within the vast cavern, only one remained. This place had never known the four seasons — only a perpetually temperate warmth, ample sunlight and moonlight, fresh spring water and living flora. This was their home. Outsiders called it a “lair,” for in those people’s eyes, demons were not entitled to have a “home.”

In the crystal-clear spring, submerged at the bottom, sat a square container of luminous white — a box carved from ice, filled with countless dried and blackened leaves, each one shaped like a heart.

Outside the cavern, the landscape was entirely different.

This was the summit of a snow mountain, equally without seasons — nothing existed here but the snow that never melted, year after year.

The one who had left in fury now stood not far from the peak, perched in a strangely-shaped tree, watching the scene before him with cold, still eyes.

Nearby, several people clad in animal skins were laboring painfully through the snow, stopping every so often to pull out oddly-shaped stone hammers and stone chisels, knocking and prodding here and there.

Suddenly, a burst of excited commotion arose.

“There’s one!” someone shouted.

“It’s pinned! It’s pinned!” came an even more fervent cry.

They scrambled frantically in the snow, and finally, from beneath it, pulled out a ginseng root roughly a foot long — bound head to toe with red thread like a wrapped dumpling. This creature, hidden away in the deep mountains, trembled in terror, its long wispy roots quivering, its single round eye blinking wildly on its light-brown body.

The one who had caught the ginseng was barely short of rolling around in the snow with joy: “Heaven be praised — we’ve finally caught one!”

The captured ginseng squealed and shrieked, struggling desperately amidst their cheering.

Yet their cheering came to an abrupt halt in a sudden gust of cold wind.

“Put the ginseng down.” He appeared before them, regarding everyone with undisguised contempt.

One of the shorter men, upon hearing this, immediately made what he thought was a clever remark: “So you’re another one who came to dig ginseng! In this frozen wasteland, we each rely on our own abilities — snatching it by force would be conduct unbecoming!”

“Conduct unbecoming?” A faint curl came to his lip, though his eyes radiated a solid, unmistakable killing intent. With a twitch of his fingers, a stone axe lying on the ground flew into the air and hurtled straight at the short man. The man had no time to dodge; his shoulder was cleaved open with a gaping, bloody wound, and he screamed in agony.

Everyone froze in shock.

One of the older men in the group caught sight of his hair and suddenly let out a cry of recognition: “He’s not human — look at the vine and green leaves growing from behind his head! He is — a Ginseng Person! One in ten thousand years! A Ginseng Person!”

The moment these words were spoken, every person grew agitated. Even the wounded short man forgot his injury and howled: “Ten thousand years of a Ginseng Person — ten thousand lives! Catch him and we’re saved!”

Several of them threw themselves at him without regard for their lives.

Crimson seeped upward from the whites of his eyes, and those exquisite eyes became an abyss churning with red tide. The vines behind him shot outward, stretching endlessly in the black-and-white landscape, bending, winding, coiling, pulling taut — in the blink of an eye, three humans were seized by the neck and hoisted simultaneously into the air.

They had not been wrong. He was a Ginseng Person — and also a demon dwelling in this icebound land.

He watched without feeling as the three people struggled in mid-air, the vines tightening.

“Stop!”

A bolt of white light struck the airborne vines.

He felt a sudden numbness through his body, and the long vines retracted with a rushing snap. The three men crashed heavily to the ground.

“Kui Yan! You —!” He whirled around in fury, the fire in his eyes barely stopping short of leaping directly onto that man who looked exactly like him.

Kui Yan paid him no attention and walked straight to the three men. “Why do you seek ginseng?”

The short man, utterly broken, dropped to his knees. “Great Immortal, spare our lives! My wife and children have fallen ill with a strange sickness — they’re nearly gone. That is the only reason I and my clansmen dared to come up the mountain, at the risk of our lives, to search for ginseng to save them!”

After hearing this, Kui Yan drew two thin white ginseng rootlets from his sleeve and placed them before the short man. “If it is illness, these rootlets are sufficient. Take them quickly and return home to save your wife and children.”

The three men looked at one another. After a moment’s hesitation, the short man carefully tucked the rootlets away as though they were priceless treasure, kowtowed once to Kui Yan in frantic gratitude, and the three of them stumbled off down the mountain.

He gave Kui Yan a cold sidelong glance, then stepped forward to pick up the ginseng that had been bound so tightly in red thread. He carefully untied it, then poked its forehead with a scolding finger: “Fool! Knowing that so many people have their eye on you and want to throw you in a pot, why didn’t you hide properly? What were you doing running around?”

“Blabbity-jibbity-squeak!” The one-eyed ginseng, not yet able to speak in human tongue, blinked its aggrieved eye and made a racket of protests.

“If anyone catches you again, don’t expect me to come to your rescue.” He set the ginseng back on the ground. “Get lost!”

The one-eyed ginseng gave a shudder, dove headfirst beneath the snow, and was gone in an instant.

“They were only trying to save lives.” Kui Yan came to stand behind him.

He laughed coldly and turned back: “And so? A life for a life — that’s all.”

“Do you still remember — beneath the Dreamlike Spring, at the bottom of the ice chest, there is a message left by our ancestor. Eight characters.” Kui Yan spoke calmly.

He said immediately: “Haven’t read it. Don’t know it.”

“Whether you read it or not, those eight characters are the meaning of our existence.” Kui Yan smiled slightly. “I must leave now. I don’t know when we will meet again. Take care of yourself.”

He walked off into the depths of the snow mountain without so much as turning his head, not willing to offer Kui Yan even a single parting word.

Under all the heavens, only in this eternally snow-covered mountain could one find spirit ginseng capable of raising the dead back to life. This was no legend, and “raising the dead” carried no exaggeration — so long as the person still drew a last breath, even if they already had one foot in the underworld, the spirit ginseng of the snow mountain could restore them to full health in an instant, granting them long life. But spirit ginseng was not merely a plant buried deep in the earth; the most basic kind was, called “root ginseng,” and through the grace of time and the spiritual energy of heaven, earth, sun, and moon, the finest of root ginsengs evolved into small, wriggling creatures with eyes and mouths, capable of moving about — “half-ginseng,” exactly like the one that had just escaped. Among the half-ginseng, there existed exceedingly rare and fortunate ones who, having received still greater fortune and nourishment, grew ever more richly spiritual, and through long years of growth and cultivation, transformed into the most powerful form of spirit ginseng — the “Ginseng Person.” Not only did Ginseng People possess extraordinary abilities, they could also exist fully in human form. Both he and Kui Yan were such “once-in-ten-thousand-years” Ginseng People.

The saying “ten thousand years of a Ginseng Person — ten thousand lives” did not mean that a Ginseng Person had ten thousand lives, but that a Ginseng Person possessed the divine power to save ten thousand lives. Whether this was an exaggeration could not be confirmed, but that the snow mountain’s spirit ginseng could heal the sick was common knowledge — no wonder, since many years prior, humans had been secretly entering the mountain for various purposes to dig for ginseng. Over time, they’d compiled methods of dealing with root ginseng and half-ginseng, ultimately turning them into sacrificial ingredients in human medicine jars. But very few had ever encountered an actual Ginseng Person, and as for what a Ginseng Person could actually be used for, no one could say with much certainty — nothing beyond saving lives more powerfully, or so everyone guessed.

Whatever humans thought about it, their kind within the snow mountain grew fewer with each passing year — not just the lower-ranked root ginseng and half-ginseng, but even the Ginseng People themselves were gradually disappearing. He remembered that when he first took human form, the family still numbered over twenty. But now there were only two left. All the others had returned home in another form — those dried and blackened leaves were the last remains they had left behind in this world.

Every Ginseng Person who first took human form grew two jade leaves upon their head. One would fall immediately; the other would remain indefinitely. The fallen leaf would be placed inside the ice chest beneath the Dreamlike Spring, and once a Ginseng Person died, the surviving leaf they had kept would instantly wither and die. Today, within the ice chest, only two leaves still lived. Sometimes he would think — when would his own leaf wither? And Kui Yan’s? No, wait — Kui Yan was going to become a deity. Deities don’t die, do they? They stand so high above everything, looking down on all living things.

The moon above the snow mountain climbed higher and higher, settling precisely between the two Ginseng People walking in opposite directions, like a dividing line.

When they had walked far enough that they could no longer see each other, both stopped at the same moment. On the vast white expanse of snow, two demons of exceptional bearing were bathed in moonlight — one gazing up at the faint silver night sky, the other looking down at the rolling red dust of the mortal world below.

The ice chest beneath the Dreamlike Spring had been left by their ancestor. How old that ancestor was, he did not know — only that it had been the very first Ginseng Person in the world. Before dying, the ancestor had carved this box from ice, sinking it to the bottom of the always-clear, always-pure Dreamlike Spring, where it had remained unmelted for ten thousand years, visible to all who came after.

He had lied to Kui Yan. The message at the bottom of the ice chest — he had read it. Just eight characters:

But perform good deeds; ask not of what is to come.

Yet he could not understand it, and could not live by it — not in the past, not now, and perhaps not ever.

3

“How quickly time passes — spring has come again.” Ban Mei sat in the back courtyard of Closed Flower Studio, brush in hand, gazing at the half-finished painting of a beautiful woman among peach blossoms and sighing.

He looked up. A petal, carried on warm sunlight, landed on his reddened nose. He squinted contentedly, savoring the pleasant season.

“You worthless wretch!” A jujube pit came flying like a throwing dart and struck him on the head. The slender-waisted woman behind him, dressed in bold red and green with heavily applied cosmetics, leaned against the door frame, eating dates and berating him in a shrill voice: “I asked you to casually paint a beauty — two days and you still haven’t finished! I’d be better off finding Liu Three-Strokes on the next street! All you do is laze about and waste my grain! What a moocher!”

He turned around unhurriedly, spread his gap-toothed grin — a tooth was missing from the front — and replied without a trace of annoyance: “Liu Three-Strokes paints funeral portraits, you know. Don’t worry — it will absolutely be done before sunset. Madam Hu, please don’t fret.”

“Pfft!” The woman put her hands on her hips and spat. “It’s bad enough keeping one old freeloader, and I have to keep the two of you as well!”

“I do work!” He smiled fawningly and quickly buried himself in the painting, picking up the pace.

The woman gave a hmph, turned on her heel, and swayed her hips back into the inner room.

Madam Hu was the proprietress of Closed Flower Studio. Throughout the entire Zhending County, roughly half the women and older ladies who wore face powder sourced their cosmetics from Closed Flower Studio. Affordable and effective — these were Madam Hu’s ultimate tools for attracting returning customers; she always said there was no need to gouge people, because once your reputation spread and buyers multiplied, thin profit margins and high volume still amounted to considerable “money potential.” It was precisely this kind of business sense and shrewdness that allowed Madam Hu, as an outsider, to bring her simple-minded elderly mother and establish herself firmly in this place — more than ten years on, building Closed Flower Studio into a flourishing, respected enterprise.

Ban Mei’s work at Closed Flower Studio, beyond sweeping and cooking, also included moonlighting as a painter. One of Madam Hu’s methods of attracting customers was to render the latest styles of makeup and accessories onto the figures in her paintings — once the young women and married ladies saw those graceful, beautiful figures on the silk paintings, they were sure to be captivated, and would invariably leave with large bags and small bundles of purchases.

That said, even though Madam Hu’s business thrived, her personal reputation around town was not particularly good. When locals mentioned Madam Hu of Closed Flower Studio, they all invariably referred to her as that ferocious Old Hu Woman — anyone who said or did something in her shop that she disliked would genuinely be chased out with a kitchen cleaver. No wonder she was past forty and still unmarried — who would dare. Some gossips even joked that not even a man as old and ugly as Ban Mei would take her.

Whenever such talk reached his ears, Ban Mei only smiled and let it go without a word.

And Ban Mei was indeed quite ugly. He appeared not yet forty, but already had very little hair, and was missing a front tooth; both eyebrows were half missing, sitting awkwardly above his eyes. He wore an oil-stained black padded jacket for an entire year on end — unless Madam Hu yelled at him to change. Fortunately his eyes were not unpleasant: double-lidded, dark and bright, and when he looked at people, there was a steadiness and composure in his gaze, without even a glimmer of cunning. Even Madam Hu remarked that such fine eyes were being wasted on him.

Five years ago on a clear morning, Madam Hu had found Ban Mei resting against the wall outside her door, with a young man beside him. At first she assumed this was yet another father and son pair displaced by the war — for since that scoundrel Dong had marched into the capital, the world had known no peace.

But these two were not refugees. The moment the bald man laid eyes on her, his first words were: “There is a demon in your home. If you provide us each with lodging, I will rid you of this source of trouble.”

Madam Hu naturally didn’t believe a word of it, gave them some food to send them on their way. But the bald man then said: “Madam, have you recently had grain and rations disappearing without explanation?”

It was precisely this one sentence that became the reason Madam Hu took them in.

When the bald man reached into a tree hole in the back courtyard of Closed Flower Studio and dragged out a crow spirit — one that spoke human speech and begged for mercy — Madam Hu’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

The crow spirit said: fires of war raged everywhere, food was impossible to find, so it had been forced to steal, and it begged them not to take its life — it would repay the great kindness someday.

The bald man said: whether its life would be spared was up to Madam Hu.

So Madam Hu jabbed the creature’s forehead and berated it soundly about “theft being shameful and contemptible,” then turned and went to the kitchen, retrieved several freshly steamed buns, threw them to the crow spirit, and told it to get out.

The bald man smiled and asked why she hadn’t killed the little thief. She said — a bird that cultivated itself to the level of a spirit had not had it easy; just let it go.

“You’re not afraid?” the bald man reminded her. “That is a demon, after all.”

“I’m not afraid of people, so why would I be afraid of demons?” Madam Hu rolled her eyes, then looked them both over again. “From now on, the two of you handle all the household chores, including cooking three meals a day. The moment you break my rules, you pack your things and get out.”

“Alright!” the bald man agreed with great enthusiasm.

Madam Hu took a couple of steps, then turned back: “So what exactly do you two do?”

“I am Ban Mei — a wanderer who calls the whole world home. There’s nothing I can’t do; I’m very capable!” He then pointed to the young man standing beside him — who was half a head taller than him and appeared to be sixteen or seventeen: “This is my apprentice, whom I picked up. Si Xi.”

“Did you pick him up while you were making meatballs?” Madam Hu cast a glance at the young man, who was silent as stone, then exaggeratedly swayed her hips and walked off. “Go clean up the woodshed yourselves — that’s where you’ll be staying from now on.”

Ban Mei watched her retreating figure, a different kind of smile passing through his eyes. He said to Si Xi: “This is a good place for us.”

“Were it me, I would not have let that demon spirit go.” Si Xi’s eyes held a maturity and resolve at odds with his age. “Master, do you believe that demon spirit will repay the kindness?”

Ban Mei patted Si Xi’s head, thought for a moment, and smiled. “Let’s go — go clean out the woodshed.”

At that time, it was also spring. The flowers and trees in the courtyard were at their most beautiful moment of the year. Looking outward through the wooden gate, the entirety of Zhending County was still bathed in bright spring light — pedestrians going about their lives in peace, carts and horses moving in orderly fashion. In short, wherever the fires of war had not yet reached was beautiful.

And so they stayed — for five years. In those five years, Ban Mei and Si Xi took on every conceivable role in Closed Flower Studio: miscellaneous workers, chefs, nursemaids, gardeners, painters. After five years of sharpening his skills, Si Xi’s culinary abilities surpassed even those of Wang Da-Niu, the restaurant owner two streets over, and his speed at tidying rooms outmatched women who had been keeping house for ten years. Over the years, master and apprentice divided the labor between them and found their rhythm — Madam Hu could find no real fault with either of them, and on good business days would even buy them fine wine and meat, and throw in a red envelope or two.

Five years was neither long nor short, but in any case it had brought no change to Ban Mei — except that his hair seemed to have grown even thinner. He lived quietly and obediently at Closed Flower Studio, occasionally indulging himself at wine houses or teahouses. Word had it he had taken a particular shine to a young woman who sang folk songs at Spring Pavilion. Madam Hu had scolded him no small number of times for this, saying that desire was a blade to the head, and if he truly had such inclinations, he’d be better off finding a proper match. He always laughed it off and continued going to listen to the songs without fail.

Si Xi had changed even less. Beyond the fact that the detachment in his eyes had perhaps accumulated further, the taciturn and precocious young man hadn’t even seemed to grow much — but he was already tall and slender, and his features were striking; if he could truly preserve that face unchanged for years to come, that would be no small blessing. On more than one occasion, Madam Hu had tried to persuade Si Xi to dress as a girl and serve as a living promotional display for the shop, saying he could absolutely be its living signboard. Si Xi refused outright, saying that if she dared to make such demands again, he would refuse to cook. Madam Hu had no choice but to let the boy continue in his rustic clothes, his face perpetually dusty, going busily in and out of the kitchen — because Si Xi’s cooking was simply too good!

And so life at Closed Flower Studio, each getting something out of it, remained peaceful and harmonious.

As the sun set and birds returned to their nests, Ban Mei finally completed his beauty painting. He stood, stretched, walked to the courtyard gate, and looked around — Si Xi was nowhere to be seen.

He frowned slightly, leaned against the gate, and gazed out at the gradually brightening lantern lights. Then he glanced back at the room inside the courtyard with the best aspect — every evening at this hour, Madam Hu could be found in that room, carefully ladling the soup medicine she had brewed herself and feeding it to the elderly mother resting in bed. The old woman had been largely bedridden these past two years; though her mind drifted — sometimes calling Madam Hu dear daughter, sometimes dear son-in-law — her spirits remained fairly good. It was only when she was with her elderly mother that the lines of Madam Hu’s face softened to their most gentle and contented.

Turning his head, Ban Mei smiled. If one day Madam Hu truly were to catch a man’s eye — would that be a great joy, or a great disaster?

He sat down on the stone steps at the gate and waited until the sky had gone completely dark. Si Xi still had not returned.

He shook his head and let out a rare sigh.

He had taken Si Xi as an apprentice — not for his cleverness, not for his good looks, but because on Si Xi’s body, there was something fierce and dark.

4

A snake spirit met its end in two clean pieces in Si Xi’s hands.

In dealing with demons, he was always like this — thorough, clean, ruthless to the point of being heartless. Black cloth covered his face, hiding any expression. The eyes that showed above it watched the man and woman kneeling before him with steady, dispassionate calm.

“Please, Living Immortal, save our child!” The tear-streaked mother threw herself to the bedside, clutching the faintly breathing young child in her arms. The boy’s right arm had had a chunk of flesh bitten away by the snake spirit, and the wound had already festered and turned black.

The father, who had only one leg, flailed frantically around the room, finally placing before Si Xi a small half-bag of grain and a few coins, then kowtowed with reddened eyes. “Our family is destitute — this is all we have. We offer everything to the Living Immortal. Since you can slay such evil spirits, you must also be capable of raising my son from the brink of death. I beg you, great compassion!”

Si Xi surveyed this most ordinary of three-person households. Everything was broken; not a single whole, undamaged object could be found.

“The three of you — do you struggle just to feed yourselves?” He walked to the bedside, looked at the skeletal child, then at the even more skeletal parents.

“I was once a soldier under Lord Gongsun Zan’s command,” the man said, wiping his eyes. “Two years ago, in one battle, I had the misfortune of losing my left leg, and before long I was sent home. I had thought that joining the army was a clear path forward — not only would the pay sustain my wife and children, but there would also be the chance to earn a name for myself. But now…” Bitter, regretful tears slid down his face, scarred and ravaged by old wounds.

Si Xi listened quietly, then sat down, drew the child into his lap, gently stroked the boy’s burning cheek, and fished out a small porcelain bottle from his person. He tipped out one vermillion-red medicinal pill, pried open the boy’s lips — purplish from illness — and placed it inside, then settled the child down to sleep.

At the sight of this, the child’s parents broke into frantic kowtowing. On the way out, the boy’s mother seized his hand and choked out: “Such immense kindness — we have no way to repay you.”

Si Xi pulled her hand away. “There is no need to repay. Farewell.”

The mountain path in the dark of night was not easy to walk, and a thin mist had risen. Si Xi carried an old paper lantern and moved through the terrain as though it were flat ground. The village where the family of three lived was soon swallowed up in the deep grays and blacks behind him.

He walked so fast that when the heartbroken wailing erupted from that small house, he was already too far away to hear it.

The serpent’s fierce venom had already seeped into the child’s bloodstream. There was no saving him — perhaps he might have lingered another ten or fifteen days. But why draw it out?

The red pill was no life-saving elixir. It was only a poison that allowed a person to die without pain.

This was Si Xi’s secret. From the medical texts Ban Mei had made him read, he had learned to save lives — and also to take them.

In all the years of following Ban Mei, they had done many things. Ban Mei liked to cook, to chat, to treat illness, to help people open locks, to find lost cats and dogs and missing persons. Once, he had spent several hours persuading a young woman not to drown herself in the river. He’d spent a month escorting an old beggar back to his original home, and had his head split open as a result of stepping in to mediate between two brothers who were beating each other senseless. And of course, beyond these seemingly utterly pointless activities, he also expelled demons for people — though “expelled” was the operative word; “eliminated” was rare. He typically consulted the clients’ wishes, and if they said kill, he would make a show of it in front of them, though afterward he usually released the creature anyway. Over the years, the number of large and small demons who had recovered their lives from Ban Mei’s hands was beyond counting. But Si Xi did not operate this way. He did not agree with Ban Mei’s behavior, and had no desire to become like him.

He could not understand what Ban Mei so frequently said: Have compassion; put yourself in the other’s position. Compassion? Misplaced sympathy brought nothing but a scarred forehead, exhausting labors no one would remember, and even the risk to one’s own life. People who cared nothing for their own lives — those who wished to hang themselves, drown themselves, kill each other — let them go ahead; those already infected with fatal illness, with only days left, what was the point of wasting so much effort and medicine on them? People destined to die — why prolong it? Better to help them leave their suffering sooner; perhaps in the next life they’d be born into a good family.

This belief was deeply rooted in Si Xi’s heart, year after year. It could not have been otherwise — else why would there be these painless-death pills?

The night was bone-cold, the mist gradually thickening. Spring, in this bleak and desolate mountain terrain, was nothing but a dream. The mountain path underfoot reached its end; a little further on, one could see the growing lights of habitation and the warm glow of a wine house.

He stopped, took out the porcelain bottle, and poured the remaining pills into his palm. There was one left. In the beginning, he had made ten in all. This one — he wondered to whom it would ultimately belong.

Si Xi drew a long, deep breath, raised his eyes to the night sky. He had a habit: when he looked to the sky, he instinctively looked north, and if he looked long enough, the empty sky would transform like a vision into a scroll painting of stars and moonlight — and beneath the silver glow, faintly visible, a snow-capped mountain.

Lately, visions like this were appearing more and more frequently.

He slapped his own head hard. If he hadn’t had that accursed illness, he probably never would have met this old fellow Ban Mei; and without that illness, why would he have stayed by the old fellow’s side as an apprentice? More than once he had sworn: the moment he found a way to cure this illness completely, he would cut all ties with Ban Mei immediately. His life could not be wasted on pointless matters and pointless people the way Ban Mei’s had been.

He tucked the bottle away, picked up the nearly burnt-out paper lantern, and stepped briskly toward the noise and warmth ahead.

5

Si Xi couldn’t remember when he’d first learned to drink. Every time he used one of the pills, he always found somewhere with alcohol and had a few cups — but never to the point of drunkenness. What he enjoyed was only the warmth that a measured dose of strong spirits brought to his organs. He didn’t understand why his body always ran cold at these moments — so cold he couldn’t stand it himself.

Tonight was no exception.

He sat at a window-side table on the second floor of Spring Pavilion and ordered a jug of wine, drinking it one cup at a time.

Spring Pavilion did its best business deep into the night. Those who had no desire to go home, those who had nowhere to go — they all gathered here, a jug of wine and a few dishes stretching out the whole night.

“The waters run swift and deep; the rushes are dark and still. Brave soldiers die in battle; weary horses pace and whinny.”

A woman behind the gauze curtain sang in soft, lilting tones, and that faint melody, sifted through the cold night air before entering the ear, was enough to twist the heart far more than on ordinary days, filling the air with a pervasive, wistful melancholy.

Hearing the voice, Si Xi paused almost imperceptibly. He poured himself a final cup and, with studied nonchalance, glanced toward the figure half-concealed behind the crimson gauze.

Just then, a smiling proprietor walked over and bowed to the two young men at the neighboring table. “Master Yuan, Young Master Zhao — how are the wine and dishes to your liking this evening?”

The jade-complexioned young man in cyan robes smiled and nodded. “Excellent as always! The proprietor has certainly mastered our tastes by now — it’s only right that we remain your most loyal regulars here at Spring Pavilion.” He tossed a few more coins to the proprietor, then pointed toward the curtained alcove. “I wonder — might Miss Jin Xiu be willing to grace us with the sight of her face today and meet us in person?”

“Master Yuan flatters her too much!” The proprietor accepted the tip with delight, then put on a look of regret. “But Miss Jin Xiu has said she only sings — she does not receive visitors. Propriety must be upheld. In that case, Master Yuan, if you would…”

“Then let us not make things difficult for her.” The white-robed young man beside him set down his wine cup. “Please convey to Miss Jin Xiu on our behalf: tonight’s song was very much to my liking. I wonder, on our next visit, whether we might have the fortune of hearing it again?”

“Yes, yes — Young Master Zhao, rest assured, I shall certainly relay the message.” The proprietor bobbed his head like a woodpecker and retreated.

Yuan Qingyun smiled and asked: “Zi Long, is it the song that pleases you — or the singer?”

“Brother Yuan speaks in jest.” The white-robed young man flushed. “The song happens to be my dear mother’s favorite. She used to hum it often while she lived; hearing it today brought a rush of warmth, and I simply wished to thank Miss Jin Xiu for it.”

“Alright, alright — no need to explain. A fair maiden — she is the desire of a noble man.” Yuan Qingyun gave a hearty laugh.

The white-robed young man simply smiled and returned to his wine.

“In all seriousness.” Yuan Qingyun set aside his smile, his expression growing grave. “How is the militia and volunteer army under your command progressing in their training?”

“The Zhao Family Army, though a militia, yields to no force under any warlord’s command.” The white-robed young man said with conviction.

“Excellent!” Yuan Qingyun looked pleased. “In turbulent times, heroes emerge. Given the current state of affairs, those who make good use of the moment can surely forge great deeds. Gongsun Zan intends to expand his military strength, and has now dispatched trusted subordinates to Zhending to recruit the finest militia. Looking across all of Changshan Commandery — who else but you, Zi Long, is worthy of such a role? This is a golden opportunity. If you can enter Gongsun Zan’s ranks, with your ability, you will have made your name within three years!” Yuan Qingyun paused, and a shadow of concern crossed his face. “The only trouble is — I’ve received word that Gongsun Zan is selecting only the single most outstanding militia for induction. Zheng Qiong also has his eye on this, and his Zheng Family Army outnumbers yours. His followers are no mere rabble either, and Zheng Qiong himself is ambitious by nature. If he gets the advantage first, it will not bode well for you.”

The white-robed young man said lightly: “In years past, Zheng Qiong challenged me to a duel and I unhorsed him. If he likes, we can have another fair contest.”

“The Prefect also shares this view.” Yuan Qingyun nodded. “Zheng Qiong is the Prefect’s wife’s younger brother, so naturally the Prefect hopes his own man will distinguish himself — but rest assured, with me present, I will not allow this contest to be handled unfairly in any manner.”

“Thank you, Brother Yuan!” The white-robed young man raised his cup toward him. “Meeting a man of principle like Brother Yuan — Zi Long counts himself most fortunate.”

Yuan Qingyun raised his own cup: “May the day come when Zhao Zi Long of Changshan makes his name under heaven and leaves his mark on history.”

Two wine cups came together with a firm, resonant clink.

Si Xi had long since emptied his wine, and snippets of the neighboring table’s conversation drifted into his ears.

Both of these young men, he recognized. The one in cyan, Yuan Qingyun, was the handsome young man Madam Hu never tired of praising — also the acting Commandant of Changshan Commandery, young and accomplished. The one in white, he knew far better still, because every day he heard at least one person speak the man’s name at least twenty times. Zhao Yun, courtesy name Zi Long, age twenty-three, a native of Zhending in Changshan. Militia commander. Martial arts extraordinary, known above all for a dragon-gall silver spear that had never met defeat across all of Changshan.

At the thought of that person, Si Xi let out a wine-flavored belch, put down his payment, and stood to leave.

6

Two streets from Spring Pavilion stood an unassuming cluster of old residences, tucked behind sparse trailing vines and wildflowers, with a small drainage ditch running alongside. Everyone called this place “Deep Flower Lane” — legend had it that in ancient times, this had been a hillside covered in peonies.

“Hehe, he didn’t even notice they’d swapped performers behind the curtain!”

“That proves your singing is exceptional — even I must admit defeat.”

It was now the third watch of the night. Two young women — one tall, one short — were walking arm in arm back toward Deep Flower Lane, chatting as they went, warm and easy in each other’s company.

“Zhu Qi Xi — it’s really you?” Si Xi’s voice gave both of them an almighty fright.

“Do you walk without making any sound?! You scared me half to death!” A fist struck Si Xi’s shoulder, and the flower-faced girl stared at him with wide apricot eyes, patting her own chest in outrage.

The blue-clad woman beside her, with her elegant, willowy figure, was considerably more composed — she smiled at Si Xi: “It’s you? Did you come with your master?”

“No.” Si Xi didn’t spare her a direct glance, just said: “You let this crazy creature sing in your place and you’re not afraid she’ll ruin your reputation?”

“Having someone stand in for me while I rest — why wouldn’t I be pleased?” Jin Xiu cast down her eyes and smiled. A single expression was enough to dim a hundred flowers.

“Were you at Spring Pavilion just now too?” The girl blinked in shock, looking as though she’d been caught by the ear, and turned scarlet.

“Come home!” He grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled.

“Let’s see Miss Jin Xiu home first — it’s so late, what if she runs into trouble?” The girl wouldn’t budge.

“No need — my home is just ahead, how could I run into trouble?” Jin Xiu declined with a smile. “Go with Si Xi. Off you go.”

“Trouble?” Si Xi gave Jin Xiu a sidelong look, laced with an undercurrent of meaning. “As I see it, so long as Miss Jin Xiu does not do harm, that is already all one could ask.”

Jin Xiu’s expression shifted subtly, but she quickly smoothed it back to nothing. She bid them farewell with a smile, and as she turned to leave, added one more remark to Si Xi: “Give my regards to your master — the red bean cakes he brought last time were very good.”

“I will. Safe travels.” Si Xi nodded.

On the way back, Si Xi glanced repeatedly at the girl walking beside him — still grinning foolishly, as though sunk inside a sweet dream.

Her name was Zhu Qi Xi. Seventeen years old. She lived right next door to Closed Flower Studio. The first time Si Xi had seen her, she was only twelve. At an age when most girls should have been practicing their needlework, she was gripping a thick, greasy cleaver, standing at the cutting block under her father’s instruction, learning to slice pork in the shortest possible time. Old Father Zhu was a well-known butcher in the marketplace — never short-changed anyone, a man of considerable integrity. Unfortunately, when Qi Xi was fourteen, Old Father Zhu fell ill and died. On his deathbed, he arranged for Qi Xi to take Madam Hu as her godmother and earnestly begged Madam Hu to look after her. Madam Hu naturally agreed. At first she had wanted to groom Qi Xi into a salesperson for Closed Flower Studio, but she quickly abandoned that idea — because Qi Xi had very earnestly told her that she preferred selling pork to selling cosmetics. And so Qi Xi took over her father’s business and became the only female butcher in Zhending County, doing reasonably well for herself. As time passed, those who knew her all called her “Piglet,” and the name “Zhu Qi Xi” was seldom spoken anymore — except by Jin Xiu and Si Xi.

“Si Xi, was my singing good?” Walking along, Qi Xi suddenly jumped in front of him and began walking backward, facing him.

“Adequate.” Si Xi looked straight ahead. “You painted your face like a monkey’s backside just for that Zhao Yun — absolutely hideous.”

“And here you are, one of Godmother’s people, not even recognizing the finest cosmetics around!” Qi Xi pouted but wasn’t in the least bit upset. “I heard him say his favorite song was Battle South of the City, so I learned it long ago. That day Miss Jin Xiu came to Closed Flower Studio to buy something and mentioned he often goes to Spring Pavilion with Brother Yuan to listen to songs and drink — I thought the chance was rare and begged Miss Jin Xiu to help me so I could have the opportunity to sing this song for him in person. And tonight, Miss Jin Xiu really did send her attendant to notify me, saying they were at Spring Pavilion and I should hurry over. Ah — you have no idea, I was so nervous! Miss Jin Xiu accompanied me on the pipa herself, and — heaven be praised — he actually liked it very much!”

Qi Xi grew more excited with every word, and without watching where she stepped, her heel caught on a dirt ledge. Lucky for her, Si Xi was quick-eyed and caught her hand just in time.

“He was praising Jin Xiu.” He let go of her hand. “Watch where you’re walking!”

“But it was me singing!” Qi Xi remained utterly unconcerned, and the smile in her eyes was nearly spilling out. “Regardless — I sang, he heard, he approved. A perfect outcome! He’ll probably never forget this evening, will he?”

“You’re not well.” Si Xi said directly. “No matter how many pointless things you do, he won’t come to like you.”

Everyone in Zhending probably knew that pig-selling Zhu Qi Xi was absolutely devoted to militia commander Zhao Zi Long. Gossips even claimed to have once heard Zhu Qi Xi, in a drunken moment, shout out “if I marry, I’ll marry Zhao Zi Long!” — nearly everyone treated this as a joke. How could that jade-tree-in-the-wind, white-horse-silver-spear Zhao Zi Long ever take a second look at this hopelessly ordinary girl who sold pork? To say nothing of Zhending — across all of Changshan Commandery, who knew how many unmarried young women regarded him as the man of their dreams. Matchmakers had practically worn out the Zhao family threshold, and it would never in a thousand years come around to her, Zhu Qi Xi. The only ones who didn’t laugh at her were probably Madam Hu and Jin Xiu — and Ban Mei — and of course she herself didn’t laugh at herself. She had never found anything wrong with her own feelings.

“As long as you enjoy it yourself when you’re doing it — isn’t that enough?” Qi Xi walked behind him, her face showing not a trace of disappointment. “This isn’t a business transaction where you’re always expecting something in return.”

“The Zhao fellow has never once looked you in the eye.” Si Xi showed her no mercy.

“Who says?” Qi Xi countered immediately. “When I was fourteen, my very first day at the market stall…”

“I beg of you — you’ve told that story at least five hundred times already!”

“Once more won’t matter! Hey, Si Xi, don’t walk so fast — I can’t keep up with you!”

He truly had heard the story of what had happened to Qi Xi at age fourteen more times than he could count — how she’d been bullied by a ruffian who took her pork and refused to pay and slapped her across the face, how the magnificent and heroic white-robed Zhao Gongzi had seen the injustice and in two or three moves sent the ruffian fleeing with his tail between his legs, how he had so gently picked her up from the ground where she’d fallen injured and carried her to the physician, how his face in that spring afternoon had been so utterly captivating — he had well and truly heard it until his ears had grown calluses.

And yet, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, no matter how many times she insisted on repeating it, he found he couldn’t bring himself to dislike it. She always seemed to be doing things that defied any praise, yet somehow carried in her person a kind of warmth that made even someone as habitually solitary and silent as himself feel a little more alive.

He could no longer quite recall how his relationship with Qi Xi had grown so close — nothing particularly notable seemed to have happened. The first time he saw her, this skinny girl was carrying a pig’s head in one hand and a large bucket of freshly washed laundry in the other, striding into Closed Flower Studio at a brisk clip. Before he and Ban Mei had come here, Qi Xi had nearly single-handedly taken on all of Madam Hu’s rough chores, and also kept the elderly mother company chatting whenever Madam Hu was away. Unlike ordinary girls from proper families, Qi Xi felt no shyness with strangers — the very first time she met him, she laid out her entire life story without holding a single thing back, then cheerfully dragged him along to deliver pre-cut pork head meat to several households on another street, warm and easy as though they’d known each other for ten or twenty years already. The following years needed no further explanation — whenever she came to Closed Flower Studio, the place immediately became livelier and more lively; she seemed to know neither exhaustion nor bad moods. In Si Xi’s eyes, Qi Xi was the sort of person who, even when running herself ragged for others, would still be humming a little tune — undeniably a bit of a simpleton.

But she also had her fierce moments. Once Si Xi fell ill — fever, headache, unable to eat. The doctor prescribed medicine to be taken once every hour. Qi Xi took this seriously, staying by his bedside the entire night, waking him precisely every hour, pressing him to drink every last drop of that bitter, bitter concoction. If he refused to drink, she pinched his mouth open and poured it in without the slightest compromise. The result: two days later Si Xi recovered, but Qi Xi, worn out from lack of sleep, had a lapse of concentration while cutting pork and gave her index finger a deep gash that took a long time to heal, leaving a permanent scar.

When he thought carefully about it, her presence was like eating steamed buns and noodles every day — nothing remarkable about it. But it had become a kind of gradually deepening… habit.

Down the pitch-dark, quiet street, a single paper lantern lit the way ahead — one running, one chasing — two young people’s light footsteps fading further and further into the distance, neither of them noticing that peaceable Zhending County was quietly churning with an undercurrent of tension, sharp as a drawn blade…

7

A soft breeze, a light rain, flowers in bloom, butterflies in flight — the season had turned everything gentle.

There was, however, one exception.

In the eastern training ground, blades flashed, spears moved, voices and hoofbeats wove together into a world of fierce, hot-blooded urgency.

Zhao Yun was dressed as always in white robes, gripping his gleaming Cliff-Point Spear, moving steadily through the ranks of soldiers, correcting the grips and stances of the men under his command from time to time. Every man present wore an expression of iron-hard resolve, filling the air with their thunderous battle cries as they moved through each formation. Even the white dragon steed tethered nearby, alongside the other horses, held its head high and stamped its hooves, neighing frequently — as though it too could barely contain the urge to charge into battle.

Fifteen days remained until the contest with Zheng Qiong. The Prefect had issued a formal decree: the Zhao Family Army and Zheng Family Army would compete fairly, each displaying their skill with blade, sword, horse, and bow before a panel of judges who would award scores. Then the two commanders would face off one-on-one — the winner gaining ten additional points, the loser losing ten. The militia that ultimately prevailed would be inducted under Gongsun Zan’s command and become a formal military force.

Whatever the rules of the contest, Zhao Yun was fully confident.

Now, these hot-blooded men bore the full blaze of the midday sun as they brandished blades and spears, sweating through their training. Their feet, moving in unison, sent clouds of dust rising from the training ground — an impressive sight. Zhao Yun moved with agile grace, white-robed as clouds, standing among them like the moon with stars in attendance — a most striking figure.

Watching this scene from atop the perimeter wall, Zhu Qi Xi was utterly transfixed.

“Hey! Have you looked your fill yet?” Below the wall, Si Xi — who had donated his own shoulder as a stepping stool — frowned up at her. “Aren’t you supposed to open your stall this afternoon?”

“Taking the afternoon off.” Qi Xi couldn’t take her eyes off someone in the training ground.

“Weren’t you going to Closed Flower Studio to check on Madam Hu’s mother?” he asked again.

“I’m not going until the evening. The old lady loves watching the shadow puppets I perform with my hands.” Qi Xi answered distractedly.

Just as they spoke, Zhao Yun demonstrated a reverse-thrust spear maneuver that drew a burst of admiring cheers. At the sight of his skill, Qi Xi was overcome with excitement — losing her head entirely, she let go of the wall and shot straight up to her feet, clapping and cheering at the top of her lungs, completely forgetting her precarious position. This sudden movement immediately threw her off balance, half her body tipping toward the inside of the training ground. Si Xi lunged for her feet but couldn’t catch them in time, and could only watch helplessly as the foolish girl tumbled straight into the training ground.

From the swirling cloud of dust, Qi Xi — lying face-down on the ground — lifted a face that was now a large, dirty smear, and looked up with acute embarrassment at the person walking toward her.

“Zhu Qi Xi. What are you doing?” Zhao Yun planted his long spear in the ground, brow furrowed, looking down at her from above — and making no move to help her up.

“Just passing by — hehe.” Qi Xi slowly picked herself up, brushing the dust off and beaming at him.

“Do you know that spying on military training carries twenty strokes of the rod?” Zhao Yun demanded coldly.

“Go ahead and beat me — my skin is thick.” Qi Xi somehow still managed to look cheerful. “You look wonderful when you’re training!”

At these words, the onlookers nearby erupted in quiet snickers. Zhao Yun turned his head and bellowed: “All troops — ten laps around the training ground! No talking!”

“I meant it sincerely!” She looked at his face and said with absolute earnestness.

“Get out!”

Zhao Yun grabbed her arm and began dragging her toward the exit, only to be met with a sudden cry from her.

“Now what?” He looked at Qi Xi, who had abruptly gone pained.

She pointed at her right foot. “I think I twisted it.”

He let go, crouched down, and carefully pressed the ankle. “Here?”

Qi Xi sucked in a sharp breath and nodded hard.

“You brought it on yourself.” He set his long spear to one side, turned his back to her, and crouched down. “Get on.”

“Get on?” Qi Xi sucked in another sharp breath.

“What else — roll out?” Zhao Yun’s expression darkened with irritation. “Hurry up!”

“Thud!” Qi Xi leapt joyfully onto his back with such force she nearly knocked him flat on his face.

She rested her chin on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He didn’t respond, carrying her with steady focus toward the training ground’s exit. Their shadows moved together in the sunlight. Finding him silent, the ever-restless Qi Xi freed one hand and fashioned a small dog shadow puppet, happily “biting” at the top of his head.

“Can you not behave like a proper young lady for once?” He finally spoke.

“When have I ever been improper?” Qi Xi drew back her hand, craning her neck to try to see his profile.

“Stop sending pork to my home for no reason!” he said with exasperated helplessness.

“You need to eat more meat or you won’t have the strength! Besides, your contest with Zheng Qiong is coming up — everyone I know is certain you’ll win!” she said with complete sincerity.

“Zhu Qi Xi, do you understand at all what I’m saying?” Zhao Yun looked up — and spotted Si Xi standing just outside the training ground gate. His expression brightened; he quickened his pace, walked up to him, and none-too-gently set Qi Xi down in front of him. “You’ve come at just the right time — take her away.”

“Hey!” Qi Xi instinctively grabbed at his robe hem. “You’re just going to leave me?”

“Your companion has come — there’s no need for me to manage you.” Zhao Yun said as much, then turned a serious face to Si Xi: “From now on, don’t help her come and spy anymore.”

“The feet are on her body.” Si Xi shrugged. “As long as she likes you, she’ll find a way to come and watch you.”

Qi Xi’s face promptly turned red. Even though everyone knew she liked Zhao Yun, being told to her face so plainly — and right in front of him — still gave her a start, and even Zhao Yun’s expression faltered for an instant.

“Zi Long, I —” She drew a long breath, wide eyes looking up at Zhao Yun.

Zhao Yun suddenly raised his hand in a stop talking gesture. In a moment the flash of discomposure was gone, replaced by his customary calm and resolve.

“Zhu Qi Xi, listen clearly.” He looked at her sitting on the ground, and said word by word: “Whatever you may think — I have never liked you. Not in the slightest. I hope you will stop disturbing me from now on.”

Qi Xi stared. Si Xi stood with his arms crossed, watching the whole scene without any particular expression.

Zhao Yun turned away, bit down silently on his back teeth, and threw out one final remark: “A young lady — it is still better to preserve her dignity.”

Watching his retreating figure as he walked back to the training ground, Qi Xi sat in a daze for a long while. Then she turned to Si Xi, smiled, and said: “Let’s go home.”

Some distance away inside the training ground, several young men gathered around Zhao Yun with easy grins: “Yun-ge, the Piglet is wholeheartedly devoted to you. Not to mention — that girl may act outrageously, but she’s a good person at heart. Why be so ruthlessly cold to her?”

He was silent a moment, then said: “I will be going to the battlefield sooner or later. Life and death are uncertain — why burden others because of it.”

The men exchanged looks.

“No more useless talk.” He reached down with a sharp motion and wrenched his Cliff-Point Spear from where it had been driven half a foot into the earth. “Resume training!”

This small episode dissolved into the strike of fists and clang of weapons, and the dust that rose again to swallow everything.

Only — no one noticed that during the process of supervising the men, Zhao Yun let his gaze drift several times to the other side of the perimeter wall, and then laughed quietly to himself.

The way that fool came tumbling down — it really was quite funny. Like a dear, clumsy toad.

So Zhao Yun thought.

8

On the way back from the training ground to Closed Flower Studio, Qi Xi rode on Si Xi’s back, quieter than usual.

“I told you before — you and he have no future.” Si Xi said lightly.

Qi Xi bit her lip and forced a smile. “Well, from now on, the pork I was going to send him can go to you and your master.”

“I don’t like meat. Neither does Master.” Si Xi shook his head. “You really are a fool.”

After a stretch of silence, Qi Xi suddenly said: “Do you believe — he’s going to become a truly extraordinary general someday?”

“Because he’s handsome?” Si Xi said deliberately.

“He is brave, but not bloodthirsty.” Qi Xi looked ahead. “War is coming — it’s only a matter of when. Once war begins, many people will die. If someone like him is in command, at least the innocent won’t suffer needlessly, and killing won’t be done for killing’s sake.”

Si Xi thought for a moment, then said: “Better think about how to sell your pork well. Things like that — it’s not your place to worry about.”

“I just like him, and I hope he stays well all his life, and never gets hurt all his life.” Qi Xi spoke as though she hadn’t heard him, murmuring to herself. “I never thought about getting anything back from him. It’s the same as when I bring food to Little Hu and the others, help Godmother with her work, keep Madam Hu’s mother company — I just like doing those things. I never thought about what I’d get in return.”

“Helping others and expecting them to remember your kindness — otherwise, what’s the point? It’s like doing business — you have to receive money in exchange for what you want.” Si Xi frowned.

“You said it yourself — that’s doing business.” Qi Xi buried her face against his back, gazing sideways at the marketplace around them. “My father used to say: But perform good deeds; ask not of what is to come. Live that way, and life will be happy and joyful on its own.”

But perform good deeds; ask not of what is to come…

Si Xi’s heart lurched. From nowhere, hazy and fragmented scenes flashed and wavered in his mind — a snow-covered mountain, flowing spring water, withered and dried leaves…

He stopped walking. Sweat the size of soybeans seeped from his forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Qi Xi noticed something amiss, felt his body trembling faintly, and quickly jumped off, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Why are you so cold? Is it acting up again?”

“I’m fine.” Si Xi fought through the headache, walked to the side of the road, and leaned against a wall to sit down.

“Does your head hurt again?” Qi Xi limped after him, looking at him with deep concern, and clasped his hands tightly. “Don’t forget who I am, alright!”

Si Xi had told Qi Xi plainly about his condition — he genuinely didn’t know who he was. Before meeting Ban Mei, he had no memory of how his life had been; it was all blank. Because of this strange illness, he forgot each previous day anew, day after day, in an endless cycle. It was only after meeting Ban Mei and taking the medicine Ban Mei gave him — medicinal pills that carried a faint scent of ginseng — that his memories had been preserved. What the pills were made of, Ban Mei had never said, and Si Xi had tried to replicate them himself, always failing. This was also why he had agreed to stay by Ban Mei’s side as an apprentice — he had no wish to become a person with no past again.

But lately, he’d discovered that his body seemed to be developing other problems. Whenever the headache came, his mind would blank for an instant, and those scattered scenes would float up. Just now, those eight characters had cut into him like a blade, then been carved out stroke by stroke — as though something tremendously important was trying to pour through those words and reach him.

The headache gradually receded. He looked at Qi Xi standing before him, her face full of worry, and said without much patience: “You are Zhu Qi Xi, the stupid girl who sells pork. I will never forget that.”

“You scared me to death.” Qi Xi patted her chest and let out a long breath. “I was really afraid you’d suddenly forget me. If that happened, I’d have no one willing to be my stepping stool anymore.”

“Then I’d rather forget you.” Si Xi brushed her hand aside. “Embarrassing!”

“Don’t!” She grabbed hold of him quickly and said very earnestly: “Promise me — that you’ll always remember having a friend named Zhu Qi Xi!”

“No!” Si Xi looked away. “Forget and forget — so what.”

“You can’t!” She crumpled her mouth, on the verge of tears. “I already have no family left. Am I not even allowed to have a friend?”

Si Xi turned back helplessly, said with impatience: “Fine, fine — I won’t forget.”

“Pinky swear!” She extended her little finger, tears already turning to laughter.

“Insufferable!”

One large and one small little finger, in the sunlight of March, made a solemn pledge.

9

“Ah — why does my eyelid keep twitching?”

At the dinner table in Closed Flower Studio, Madam Hu set down her chopsticks and rubbed her eyes hard.

“Didn’t sleep well last night? Thinking about some gentleman?” Ban Mei was stuffing a steamed bun into his mouth and sneaking a grin.

“Watch your mouth!” Madam Hu snapped her chopsticks down on Ban Mei’s bald head.

Si Xi ate his meal in peace, treating the two old fools as though they were invisible.

Strangely — his eyelid was twitching too.

Today was the day of Zhao Yun and Zheng Qiong’s contest, taking place on the western training ground. By now, the two armies should already be standing at the ready, tension wound to a breaking point.

The Prefect had issued an order: to allow both forces to focus entirely on the contest, the training ground would be sealed off during the event, strictly forbidding outside spectators. The entire town of Zhending was buzzing over this contest — though no one could get in to watch, everyone guessed the winner would certainly be Zhao Yun.

Si Xi thought so too.

Though he and Zhao Yun couldn’t be called friends, these past few years had given him a reasonably thorough understanding of the man. By Zhao Yun’s skill alone, this should be a contest with no real suspense.

So why had his heart been unsettled since he woke this morning?

When the midday meal was finished, as usual master and apprentice went to the kitchen to wash dishes and clean, while Madam Hu went to tend to her elderly mother.

Si Xi was slowly washing the bowls when Ban Mei, wiping down the stove, asked: “Apprentice — have you had headaches recently?”

“Yes.” Si Xi didn’t turn around.

“And have you seen the snow mountain again?”

He paused. “Yes. Each time clearer than the last.” He turned. “That place — where is it exactly? You know, don’t you? Why have you never told me?”

Ban Mei raised his head and said slowly: “I am waiting. You are waiting too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wash the bowls.” Ban Mei went back to scrubbing the pot with vigor. “When the time is right, it will come naturally.”

In the large pot of water used for washing, Ban Mei’s upper body was reflected — rippling gently on the water’s surface — and in that reflection, the ugly bald middle-aged man was nowhere to be found. In his place was a remarkably handsome young man, beautiful as something not of this world…

10

“Another wrong note.” In the private room at Spring Pavilion, Jin Xiu smiled and tapped Qi Xi on the forehead. “You clearly haven’t got your mind on this, and yet you insist on coming to me for pipa lessons right now.”

Qi Xi, sitting by the window, stuck out her tongue and set down the pipa she had been playing in a complete jumble.

Jin Xiu laughed softly. “A girl with her heart stirring — they all look the same.”

“Please don’t tease me, Miss Jin Xiu.” Qi Xi flushed and lowered her head. “He said he has never liked me.”

“Silly child.” Jin Xiu sighed. “You did everything you wanted to do. Whether he responds — don’t think too much about that.”

“I’m not thinking too much. Really.” She gazed out the window, and smiled. “He once saved me. I sent him pork. I sang him a song. He carried me on his back. That’s quite enough already.”

The words had barely left her mouth when Qi Xi’s gaze fell on someone below on the street — the cyan-robed figure moving with easy grace — wasn’t that the Commandant, Master Yuan Qingyun?

“Shouldn’t he be at the training ground right now, cheering on Zi Long and the others?” Qi Xi said with puzzlement. “Why does he look so unconcerned, coming into Spring Pavilion like nothing’s the matter?”

She darted out of the private room to get a better look — and saw Yuan Qingyun, accompanied by a small attendant and a man in black, being led by the proprietor directly into a private room at the far end of the second floor. The attendant was left standing guard outside the door.

Qi Xi thought carefully, and found the man in black oddly familiar — she seemed to have seen him at the training ground, standing in the very front row. He’d been highly skilled, and had even sparred with Zhao Yun. If he was one of Zhao Yun’s people, he had even less reason to be here right now.

“What’s wrong?” Jin Xiu followed her out.

“Something doesn’t feel right.” Qi Xi’s brow furrowed. “Why is Yuan Qingyun here with one of Zi Long’s people at this hour?”

Jin Xiu considered for a moment. “Come with me.”

She pulled Qi Xi along, doing their best to look unconcerned, and walked naturally into the room right next door to Yuan Qingyun’s.

Once inside, Qi Xi immediately pressed herself to the wall, ears straining to listen — but the wall was too thick, and she couldn’t make out a thing.

“I can’t hear anything!” she said anxiously.

“Naturally you can’t — let me.” Jin Xiu stepped forward and very gently pressed the side of her face to the wall.

“You can?” Qi Xi looked at her with some skepticism.

Jin Xiu smiled. “My hearing is sharper than most people’s.” She raised a finger, signaling Qi Xi to stay quiet.

In the room next door, the two occupants had no idea that ears were pressed to the other side of the wall.

“Has it been arranged?” Yuan Qingyun took a sip of tea.

The man in black stood to one side and nodded. “Last night, I applied poison to Zheng Qiong’s iron spear. To be safe, I also added something to the white dragon steed’s feed. With Zheng Qiong’s level of skill, even though he cannot defeat Zhao Yun, injuring him slightly would be easy enough. This poison — once it enters the bloodstream through a wound, there is no cure.”

“Excellent!” Yuan Qingyun smiled with satisfaction. “Once Zhao Yun is dead, the position of commander naturally falls to you. Then we pin the crime on Zheng Qiong — desperate to win, killing by poison — and with Zheng Family Army leaderless, it is the perfect opportunity for you to bring them under your command. Killing two birds with one stone.”

“Your wisdom, sir!” The man in black clasped his hands and smiled. “Though your subordinate still doesn’t quite understand — you and Zhao Yun have known each other for many years. We all thought the two of you were the closest of friends. Why…”

“I once genuinely admired his talent. If not for my constant promotion, how would Zhao Yun have so smoothly become a militia commander?” Yuan Qingyun set down his teacup, a cold glint in his eyes. “But unfortunately, this man has no sense of reciprocity. His head is full of those tiresome notions about serving the nation and the people. As I see it, even if he truly does rise to great heights, he is not the sort who can be directed by others — and that is of no benefit to me whatsoever. Better, then, to swap him out for a cleverer man, have him rise step by step instead, and let me enjoy some of the luster in the future. Wouldn’t you say?”

The man in black dropped to his knees with a thud: “Sir, rest assured — your subordinate will never forget your patronage and will certainly repay it in the future!”

“Very good.” Yuan Qingyun gave a contented nod, then put on a show of sighing: “Zi Long, ah, Zi Long — if you find yourself in this situation today, don’t blame me. If there is a next life, let us hope you’ll be cleverer, and understand that one must repay the kindness of others.”

With that, he smiled coldly and tossed his tea to the ground.

In the room next door, there was no longer any trace of Qi Xi.

Run! Run faster!

Qi Xi wished more than anything that she could turn herself into a gust of wind and reach him in the blink of an eye.

The moment Jin Xiu had repeated back word for word what was being said through the wall, that thought had already taken hold.

A cloud drifted over, just covering the sun. The world plunged into sudden cool shadow.

In her hand, she clutched a peony-shaped hairpin — the one Jin Xiu had given her as she ran out the door. Jin Xiu said: insert this pin in your hair, and it will temporarily conceal you from the sight of others. The training ground was heavily guarded on all sides — a girl alone could never force her way in. But she had to be quick; the pin’s power would not last long.

I didn’t even have time to ask Jin Xiu how she came to have something like this. I grabbed it and ran. There was no time to think about anything else now — only to pray that it wasn’t already too late.

You can’t get hurt. You absolutely cannot!

She ran faster and faster.

11

The contest on the western training ground had finally reached the stage where the two commanders faced each other in a final duel.

The Zhao Family Army had already taken the lead. Short of a miracle — Zheng Qiong defeating Zhao Yun — the outcome could not be reversed.

In the center of the training ground, Zhao Yun gripped his Cliff-Point Spear and straddled the white dragon steed, facing Zheng Qiong on his black horse with iron spear — both men stone-faced, eyes burning with the fire of absolute determination to win.

Only — Zhao Yun’s heart was quietly troubled. His always-robust and powerful white dragon steed had been acting strangely today. Even before entering the field it had been short of breath, its steps lacking their usual steadiness.

At the signal, man and horse launched forward; two long spears clashed back and forth, ringing out fiercely, sparks leaping. Dust swirled, horses screamed, and within a few exchanges, Zheng Qiong had been driven back step by step, his iron spear barely able to parry.

On the Zhao Family Army’s side, everyone was barely able to contain their excitement, practically ready to erupt in cheers of victory.

But just as everyone was certain Zhao Yun had the contest in hand, the white dragon steed’s front legs suddenly buckled, and the horse crashed to its knees entirely. Thrown off balance, Zhao Yun had no choice but to roll with the fall, landing alongside Zheng Qiong.

Given such a spectacular opportunity, Zheng Qiong — whose eyes had gone red with the heat of battle — could no longer think of yielding at the right moment. Years of humiliation as a defeated rival surged together into the tip of his spear, and he drove it straight toward Zhao Yun’s back.

Zhao Yun had no time to dodge; there was not even an opportunity to raise his own spear in defense. He watched the sharp spear point drive downward — and thought himself finished — but then something appeared from nowhere in the air, struck him from above with a thud, and pressed against him, physically blocking Zheng Qiong’s iron spear.

On horseback, Zheng Qiong had clearly felt the spear tip make contact with a body — yet when he looked again, his iron spear was stopping inexplicably short of Zhao Yun still on the ground, as though something was wedged between them in mid-air.

Zheng Qiong yanked the spear back with force. It came free with a soft sound, and on the spear tip — there was a clear, unmistakable trace of blood.

In the moment of Zhao Yun’s shock, something he could not see had fallen into his arms — and in an impossibly small voice, it whispered in his ear: “The spear tip is poisoned. Do not let it break the skin! Beware of Yuan Qingyun!”

Then — emptiness. Whatever invisible presence had been in his arms seemed to wrench itself free in a rush, and could no longer be found.

He stood, staring around in astonishment. But how could anything be seen? Everything had happened too fast — he hadn’t even had time to react. Had that been a person? If so, who?

The crowd, not understanding what had just occurred, surged forward in confusion. Even Zheng Qiong was stunned. The entire training ground erupted into chaos…

Run! Run now!

Qi Xi was still running. She’d burst out of the training ground and didn’t dare stop for even a moment — terrified that the hairpin’s power would fail before she was far enough away and someone would see her.

It doesn’t seem to hurt that much — only a little numb, and the numbness is spreading.

Fortunately, she had managed to put a good distance between herself and the training ground before she became visible again. And more fortunately still, she’d just happened to run into a small alleyway where no one was passing by — otherwise, appearing out of thin air like that would surely have frightened people to death.

Her head felt a little dizzy. She reached back and felt the wound on her back — it didn’t seem to be bleeding much. Hadn’t they said that once the poison entered the bloodstream through a wound, there was no cure? So how was she still running and jumping just fine?

She actually felt a small flash of relief. Maybe the poison wasn’t all that frightening after all.

Though her legs were starting to go weak, she pressed on, running all the way to Closed Flower Studio. The moment she charged into the back courtyard, she cried out at the top of her voice: “Si Xi!”

She couldn’t quite say why she’d called for Si Xi — some kind of habit, perhaps.

But when Si Xi came out at the sound of her voice, all he saw was a girl with no color left in her face, crumpled beneath the peach tree, the wound on her back slowly seeping blood the color of black…

12

“That she’s lasted this long is already a miracle.” Ban Mei looked at Qi Xi lying in the bed and slowly shook his head. “Heartrot grass. No antidote.”

The candles on the table had burned almost to their ends.

“She can’t be saved?” Si Xi stood at the window, his face completely blank, staring at the deep darkness of the night outside.

Ban Mei shook his head.

Jin Xiu sat at the bedside, clasping Qi Xi’s ice-cold hand, tears falling as she murmured: “You’re not made of iron — how could you use your own body as a shield!”

A cold light flashed through Si Xi’s eyes. He spun around, seized Ban Mei by the collar, and roared: “You’re supposed to be so capable! Haven’t you always been able to solve other people’s problems no matter what? So now you can’t? Bring her back to me! Bring her back!”

Jin Xiu rushed over to intervene, insisting it was her own fault.

“Silence!” Si Xi turned his furious gaze on her. “If you hadn’t given her that hairpin, she would never have had the chance to get inside the training ground! When the old man took pity on you all those years ago and didn’t finish you off — when he even became your close friend — I knew it would cause disaster one day!” His eyes had gone a fierce, blazing red, and he suddenly grabbed Jin Xiu’s arm, grinding his teeth: “Knowing what I know now — you should have been killed back then!”

Crack!

A sharp, resonant slap landed on Si Xi’s face — startling even Jin Xiu.

Ban Mei had never looked as grave as he did now. He stared at Si Xi: “Do you want to save her?”

“What a question!” Si Xi glared at him furiously.

“Are you sincere?” he pressed.

“I want her alive!!” Si Xi said with absolute certainty.

Ban Mei looked up to the heavens with a long sigh, and then — inexplicably — smiled with relief. “At last. At last you have someone you want to save.”

With that, Ban Mei walked toward him. With each step he took, his appearance changed slightly — and by the time he stood in front of Si Xi, the ugly middle-aged man had entirely become a graceful and handsome young man, with green eyes and brown hair, a single jade-green leaf hidden behind his head.

“You…” Si Xi was startled.

“You and I have both been waiting for this day all along. I was truly afraid it would never come.” Ban Mei extended his finger and pressed it to the center of Si Xi’s brow. A steady, cool current of energy seeped from his fingertip. “You have been away for so long. It is time to come back.”

The thin stream of energy entered Si Xi’s body and in an instant became a torrent of flame, burning everywhere — as though trying to consume every barrier that had been built over him. A tall snow mountain. Clear, shimmering spring water. A cavern that knew no four seasons… One by one, from haze to clarity, scenes came rushing back into his consciousness.

He was still for a long time. Then he drew a sudden, deep breath — as though drawing back every fragment of his scattered soul — and the dark color of his eyes and hair began to shift.

“Kui Yan?” He stared in a daze at the completely transformed figure before him, and instinctively reached back to touch the leaf that had reappeared behind his head. He tried the name aloud.

“Yes.” Kui Yan let out a long breath of relief and clapped him firmly on the shoulder.

“What happened…” Si Xi pressed both hands to his head and sank down powerlessly. “I remember — that night, you told me you were going to become an immortal. Then you went your way and I went mine, and I came down from the mountain… After that — it has all been these years as your apprentice.”

“Once a Ginseng Person leaves the snow mountain and enters the mortal world, if they have not served as a protector for another within three years, they will gradually lose all memory and spiritual power. That is the source of your strange illness.” Kui Yan said calmly. “Not only you — even I myself experienced a string of upheavals. The Celestial Realm fell into chaos; I gave up my divine position and returned to the snow mountain, only to find you had never come back. And so I wandered the mortal world, searching for your whereabouts. It took ten years before I found you among a group of beggars. I used my own true essence to prepare pills for you to take, temporarily suppressing your ‘illness’ — but for you to fully recover to what you once were, it could only come from within yourself.” He paused, then said: “You said — serve as a protector for another?“

“Our greatest ability as Ginseng People is to transform endlessly — but ultimately for one purpose alone: to save others. Every Ginseng Person who enters the mortal world chooses a human to become protector to, using our innate gifts to ward off disasters and calamity for that person, even if it means giving up our lives in the process.” Kui Yan looked into his eyes. “Those of our kind who left and went to the mortal world — some, to protect a child they watched over, transformed into a life-restoring elixir; some, to protect a blind girl, became the walking cane in her hand and shielded her from every stumble for the rest of her life; some, to protect a mother who had lost her child and gone simple-minded, transformed into her son, staying with her until she grew old.”

Si Xi’s brow gradually furrowed deeper, as though something was coming back to him.

“In truth, each of our kind was a Jie Wang in their own right — though they were nothing but demons.” Kui Yan looked at the last remnant of candlelight. “Once a Ginseng Person decides to become another’s protector, there is no going back. We will forever lose our original form and all our memories. Those who became pills — they are forever pills; once swallowed by a person, they vanish into smoke and shadow. Those who became walking canes — they are forever walking canes; once thrown into fire, naturally they become ash. Yet they are not dead things. In that form, with consciousness intact, with absolute loyalty, they will shield that person from all harm for the rest of their life. Only — when the one they protect finally dies of old age, their own fates diverge. Most in the end exhaust their vital essence and perish, leaving behind nothing in the end but one withered leaf in the ice chest.” He sighed. “In the hearts of those of our kind who protect another person — that person must be a deeply precious existence. Every one of these stories is different, and yet they are all exactly the same.”

Silence fell over the room.

“Everyone else — get out.” Si Xi suddenly broke the stillness.

Jin Xiu started. “You’re going to —”

“Get out!” Si Xi’s voice was harder now.

“Come.” Kui Yan stepped forward, took Jin Xiu’s hand, and walked toward the door. “He knows what he’s doing.”

The door was gently pulled shut. In the room, only Si Xi remained with Qi Xi — and a small, struggling flame of candlelight…

13

He walked slowly to the bedside, sat down, and for the first time looked at Qi Xi with genuine care and attention.

If she put in a little effort with her appearance — stopped wearing that perpetually greasy, rough-cloth clothing — she would be a graceful and lovely girl.

Kui Yan was right; he had remembered everything now. Those of their kind who had ended with nothing but a withered leaf — hadn’t they all sacrificed their lives for people just as inexplicably bewildering as this?

He touched the jade-green leaf behind his head — found again after having been lost. A Ginseng Person, after so much effort becoming human in form, was then thrust by a predetermined “calling” into giving everything up for someone — and receiving nothing in return. Why would Heaven create such a creature?

He smiled bitterly.

Hadn’t everything he’d been doing all along been a resistance to that “calling”?

But now, he no longer wished to resist. Truly, genuinely.

Qi Xi lay there before him, her life hanging by a thread. Whether she was a “deeply precious” person — he didn’t know. He simply wanted to bring her back to life. He wanted her to stand in front of her pork stall calling out her wares. He wanted her running noisily in and out of Closed Flower Studio.

If he were to become a pill that dissolved the poison — then for the rest of Qi Xi’s life, she would never again be harmed by any poison. And he, from that moment, would lose all his memories completely, and become forever a pill dissolved inside her body, gone without a trace…

So be it. How absurd — in the end, after all his circling around, he would arrive at the same place as all the others.

“I will save you.” He clasped Qi Xi’s ice-cold hand and looked at the scar on her finger. “Only — I’m afraid I may not be able to remember the you I know now.”

“Si Xi…” Qi Xi’s lips suddenly parted, her eyes opening slowly.

“You’re awake?” He tightened his grip on her hand.

“I was awake the whole time.” Her voice was very faint. “I’m sorry — I heard everything you all just said.”

He bowed his head. “I am a demon.”

“You are my best friend.” The corner of her mouth curved slightly upward. “For the sake of a best friend — will you promise me one thing?”

“Name it!” She drew a breath and said slowly: “I want you — and him — to keep living. Just that.”

“You —” he started.

“You, by living, can help more people. Him, by living, can make the battlefield a little less brutal.” She smiled. “If I’m gone, there will still be others to sell pork.”

“No!” His voice came out sharp.

“Yes.” She tried with all her effort to meet his gaze directly, then pushed herself upright. “I have decided. I hope you will respect my decision. I am not the least bit grieved. Not the least bit regretful.”

“Why does it have to be this way?” He drove his fist into the edge of the bed, his eyes reddening.

“My father used to say: But perform good deeds; ask not of what is to come. Many things — once you’ve done them, they’re done. As long as you were happy doing them, that is worth more than anything else.” She reached out and wiped away the tear at the corner of Si Xi’s eye, and smiled. “All these years, I’ve always been cheerful and content — isn’t it because of that one saying? I’m very content right now too. So don’t be sad — be good.”

“You fool…” He pulled her close, and a single tear fell onto her shoulder.

She leaned against his shoulder, smiled faintly. “He said he has never liked me. I don’t believe it.”

His heart ached, for no reason he could name.

A small breath of wind crept in through the window. The last remnant of the candle flame wavered several times — and went out.

14

He threw away the porcelain bottle with its single remaining poison pill, took up a jug of wine, and sat in the back courtyard of Qi Xi’s home. Just one wall separated it from Closed Flower Studio; if he looked up, he could see the peach tree — the one Qi Xi used to climb like a cat, hanging upside down to startle people on purpose.

He drank cup after cup, and the peach tree multiplied into many, but no matter how hard he looked, he could never find Qi Xi among them.

Behind him, Kui Yan came walking slowly.

“Tomorrow, I’ll go speak to Madam Hu.” He looked at Si Xi’s back. “I’ll tell her Qi Xi died suddenly of illness.”

Si Xi stretched out his hand and gripped the half-remaining jug of wine. “Would you like some?”

Kui Yan walked forward and sat beside him, doing his best to keep his voice easy and natural: “Let me tell you a secret.”

He turned to look at Kui Yan.

“Madam Hu is actually a man.”

Si Xi blinked.

“He was originally the old woman’s son-in-law. After his wife died, the elderly mother, consumed by grief for her daughter, developed a confused and simple-minded illness. To ease the old woman’s heart, he brought her from their hometown to Zhending. From that day forward, he put on his wife’s clothes, styled himself according to his wife’s way of dressing, all so the old woman could be at peace — believing her daughter was still alive in this world.” Kui Yan smiled quietly. “Quite unbelievable, isn’t it?”

Si Xi said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.

“Our ancestor said: But perform good deeds; ask not of what is to come.” Kui Yan picked up the wine jug and drank. “The moment you begin calculating the return, what you are doing is no longer a good deed.”

“You’ve wanted to say this to me for a very long time, haven’t you?” He glanced at him.

“It would have been useless to say it before.” Kui Yan shook his head. “Your capacity for compassion had not yet opened — anything I said would have meant nothing. Today, had you not sincerely wanted to bring Qi Xi back, your true essence could not have returned to its place; only then could my power take effect and help you fully recover.”

“Capacity for compassion?”

“The jade-green leaf on the head of every Ginseng Person — it is the symbol of our life, and the innate ‘capacity for compassion’ of a Ginseng Person. It is simply that in some it opens early, in others late — and in you, it was particularly late.” Kui Yan sighed. “All these years, I have taken you across the mortal world, leading by example — it was all in the hope that you would come to understand what ‘compassion’ means, and do so as early as possible. And yet you could never find your awakening. The reason I stayed with Madam Hu — it was entirely because ‘she’ is a person of great goodness. I hoped that by having you near such people as much as possible — through gradual immersion — it might help you return to yourself sooner. I did not want you to be forever a person drifting through life, without a past. Now that you have recovered, the choice going forward is yours: maintain things as they are, and in three years revert back to that person who forgets each yesterday — or do something different. My own true essence is no longer enough to make more pills.”

Si Xi drained the last drop of wine and lay down on the ground, turning his back to Kui Yan. “Thank you.”

“You —”

“I’m tired. I want to sleep for a bit. Don’t disturb me.” He cut him off. “Go play with your peony-flower demon. And while you’re at it — tell her that what happened to Qi Xi is not her fault.”

“Jin Xiu and I —” Kui Yan hurried to explain.

“I told you. Don’t disturb me.” He stood, moved to a spot far away from Kui Yan, and lay back down.

Just sleep well. When I wake, everything will be right again.

The night breeze drifted through, and a few peach petals fell onto the sleeping figure — dancing, singing — carrying with them a dream of friendship, or perhaps love…

15

Si Xi disappeared, and no one knew where he had gone.

Yuan Qingyun was stripped of his post and brought to justice. Zhao Yun took his men and was inducted under Gongsun Zan’s command, beginning the first steps of a life on the battlefield.

Afterward, as everyone would come to know, this young man who had walked out of Zhending — from a soldier of low standing — gradually found his way onto the most brilliant pages of history. He pledged his allegiance to Liu Bei, loyal beyond compare; he saved the young lord at Changban, his righteousness flowing through the heavens. Not a soldier in the army could speak of him without calling him “a man of courage through and through,” and even among common people, he was praised as one of the Five Tiger Generals.

There was also this: people said that Zhao Zi Long of Changshan had never once suffered defeat, and that beyond his personal skill, it was because he possessed three treasures — the Cliff-Point Spear, the white dragon steed, and the Unharmed Armor. Some went even further, saying that this great general of Shu, upon passing away in peace at an old age, was found without a single scar on his body.

In truth, on the very night this man — who had fought his entire life and never once removed his battle armor — passed away in illness, he had one brief rally of consciousness. He climbed out of his sickbed alone and went to the sealed chamber where he kept his weapons.

There, beside the Cliff-Point Spear that had been with him his whole life, was that silver-white armor — white as snow — which had fought alongside him through life and death, and which… could speak.

He vaguely remembered that this suit of armor had come to find him on its own, in the very moment when he decided to leave Gongsun Zan — whom he had judged was not a worthy lord — coming to stand before him of its own accord, as vivid as a living person.

That night, in an open stretch of forest, it had gone down on one knee, and said clearly, word by word: “With my body shattered and bones ground to dust, I shall protect you from harm for all eternity!”

At first, it had given him quite a shock. A living suit of armor dropping out of nowhere — who wouldn’t be startled?

He steadied himself and asked what its origins were. It said it had no past; from that day forward, it was his guardian shadow, always by his side.

Hearing its every word, earnest and resolute, Zhao Yun felt inexplicably that this armor was like someone he already knew — but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t place who.

Brave as he was, he ultimately accepted this guardian who had arrived from the heavens. He brought it back to his tent, and they made an agreement: in the presence of anyone else, it would behave exactly as real armor should, never revealing the truth to anyone.

It kept its word faithfully. For decades, its heart held only Zhao Yun, and it spent all its strength to shield him from harm across ten thousand troops and ten thousand horses.

Now, it stood alone in a corner of the chamber — iron and war horse, the past like a fading dream.

He, his hair white as snow, stroked its still-gleaming surface, and said with deep feeling: “Even now I still don’t know your origins — that is a true regret. Outside, people call you the Unharmed Armor. But I know — that is certainly not your name.”

“I am you; you are me.” It spoke in a low, heavy voice, looking at this weakened old man before it, and felt an inexplicable sorrow — as though someone tremendously important was about to leave forever. And that feeling… it seemed to have been felt once before, a very long, long time ago. But it could no longer remember. It never would.

Zhao Yun laughed, patted its shoulder, and said: “Well said! All these years we fought side by side, and with you to protect me, I have been able to turn every crisis into safety.” Then he coughed several times and leaned against it to sit down. “But old friend — from here on, I will have to walk alone.”

“Yes.” It nodded. “People — all must die, sooner or later.”

He looked at it, then at the Cliff-Point Spear still gleaming with cold light from its place across the room, and said: “If you should choose to leave — take the Cliff-Point Spear with you. It is also an old companion. I don’t want it to fall into another’s hands.”

“Good.” It nodded again.

He let out a slow breath, leaned against its legs, and gave a smile like a child’s. “Let me sing you a song. We have both been far too serious all our lives.”

“Sing.” It sat down as well, supporting this aged body.

“The waters run swift and deep; the rushes are dark and still. Brave soldiers die in battle; weary horses pace and whinny.”

He sang in a hoarse voice, fingers lightly tapping the rhythm.

There was one thing he had never told anyone. Back when he had still been militia commander in Zhending, he had once heard a girl sing a song called Battle South of the City at a place called Spring Pavilion — and even now, he would still say it was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard in his life.

And there was one more thing. The very night before he encountered the armor, someone had slipped a letter into his room. Inside was only one sentence:

“You must never forget — the person who sang for you at Spring Pavilion was named Zhu Qi Xi.”

Zhu Qi Xi… how could he ever forget that foolish girl?

What a pity — he had heard she died of sudden illness that same spring, at only seventeen years old. When the news reached him, his heart felt empty for a long, long while.

He sang on slowly, his voice growing softer and softer. Finally, his head tipped gently to the side, coming to rest on the armor’s shoulder, and he did not wake again…

The following day, his family found him in the sealed chamber, face wearing a peaceful smile.

And the Cliff-Point Spear and the Unharmed Armor that had accompanied him throughout his life also disappeared that same day, without any trace — never to be found again.

Epilogue

My tea had gone cold a long time ago — I had forgotten to drink it.

The chaotic hall, which had been in uproar just moments before, had been swept clean of its noise by a quiet, spreading sorrow. Even Ao Chi had fallen silent and solemn. Chi Pian’er was quietly sobbing on my shoulder. Jia-Yi had appeared in the corner at some point without my noticing.

Young Master Zhao looked more like a stone statue than ever — completely still on the sofa — until finally, after a very long time, he turned to the man in pink and asked: “Who are you?”

“If not Kui Yan, who else could it be?” I answered for him.

Kui Yan’s hehe laugh completely shattered whatever remained of the mournful atmosphere.

“My apologies for playing a little joke on everyone.” He stood up as though nothing had happened. “I simply came to visit old friends, and at the same time to assess how his current constitution is holding up — see how much longer he might live. It seems quite well, actually — he’s outlived most of our other kin by a considerable margin. I also wanted to see for myself whether this Bu Ting — which so many demons have spoken of in legend — truly lives up to its reputation.”

In one sentence, everyone was jolted completely out of the story — from sorrow to fury. Ao Chi had already picked up a folding chair. If I hadn’t held him back, this scoundrel’s head would have been blooming like a hundred flowers.

“Why aren’t you dead yet?” I looked at him with weary exasperation. “At your age — still playing tricks like this?”

“I was no ordinary Ginseng Person. I was a deity — I should be able to live a good while yet.” Kui Yan smiled cheerfully at me. “Besides — if I were gone, who would bring you the Celestial Crimson Shield?”

“According to what you’ve described — you’ve been free all this time, living as you pleased? As the Celestial Realm’s very first Jie Wang — you were never sealed inside a stone?” I suddenly thought of this very important detail.

He raised his hand, pinched that vivid red stone, and gave it a light twist — the “Celestial Crimson Shield” came free in his palm with the greatest of ease, nothing like the pattern I had seen with every other divine stone I’d collected, where some former god would vanish as I received it.

“Not everyone was sealed.” He walked over, cradled my right hand in his, and placed the stone — still warm from his body heat — in my palm. “I, and one other old fellow, did not become corrupted in that great calamity. This Celestial Crimson Shield was something that other, warmhearted individual and I searched for together. In those ancient days, after Nüwa fell to stillness, her heart rose into the nine heavens and for a long time would not dissolve. Everyone thought this kindhearted goddess — who had always overflowed with compassion for humanity — was still watching over her children. With the passage of much time, Nüwa’s heart, high in the sky, was touched by the essence of sun and moon, spring rain and summer thunder, until it crystallized into a shield-shaped red stone and finally descended to the mortal world. People called this stone the Celestial Crimson Shield and believed deeply that within this divine stone lived the compassion Nüwa, Great Goddess, held for all the world — and that as long as this stone remained among humanity, its power would naturally draw people to live in harmony and protect the mortal world across every age. We found this stone and placed it alongside those stones that had sealed the others, hoping to borrow and expand the Celestial Crimson Shield’s power, so that the already-chaotic mortal world might return to peace.”

I felt a sudden surge of excitement. If what he said was true, then he was the only living former deity who still clearly remembered what had happened back then! All the mysteries that had been troubling me — it seemed they could all be answered from his mouth.

“What exactly happened in the Celestial Realm in those days?” I looked at the Celestial Crimson Shield in my hand. “You sought me out and voluntarily handed the Celestial Crimson Shield to me — that wasn’t only to visit old friends, was it?”

He smiled, walked back to the tea table, picked up the unfinished cup of Fu Sheng, and downed it in one go — licking his lips: “Bitter and sweet all at once. Most fitting for old demons like us, who have lived through so much and seen the rise and fall of ages.”

“Don’t change the subject!” I glared at him.

“Let me have a bath, and a change of clean clothes — then I’ll tell you.” He tugged at his filthy outfit, then pointed at Young Master Zhao, who had remained silent throughout. “Right now, the one you should be more concerned about is him, isn’t it?”

I frowned, then turned to Chi Pian’er: “Take him to bathe!” Then to Jia-Yi: “You go and watch — don’t let this fellow run off!”

“Since I’ve come, I have no intention of running.” Kui Yan flashed what he considered to be a dazzling smile, and then was escorted off to the bathroom by Chi Pian’er and Jia-Yi.

Young Master Zhao still sat motionless on the sofa.

Ao Chi and I looked at each other. For the moment, neither of us knew how to open our mouths to comfort this pile of iron.

“Ha — so your name used to be Si Xi,” I said with exaggerated brightness. Maybe that would lighten the atmosphere.

Young Master Zhao raised his head: “I don’t remember. Other than the time I spent fighting at his side, and the days here at Bu Ting.”

“I once put out an advertisement recruiting a helper, and then — you came. When you first arrived, your temper wasn’t exactly mild, and you had a bit of a strange, distracted air about you.” I thought back to when he had first come to Bu Ting. “Gradually, you settled.”

“After he passed away, I took the Cliff-Point Spear and went deep into an uninhabited mountain. Every day, I did nothing but sleep. Occasionally I would go out to look at the world, and found it was gradually changing. The last time I slept, I didn’t know how many decades had gone by — the sound of electric saws felling trees woke me. By the time I hurried out of the mountain, the world had changed again beyond recognition. Just as I was at a loss for what to do, I saw Bu Ting’s advertisement for a helper. Along the way I had heard various demons speak of you, so I came to Bu Ting to try my luck.” Young Master Zhao slowly sifted through the memories. “But I can’t remember at all who Zhu Qi Xi was. And I don’t know this Kui Yan either…” He suddenly knocked his head hard with his fist. “I don’t even know myself!”

“You are Young Master Zhao — Bu Ting’s helper, and my family. Is that not enough?” I sat beside him and pulled his arm. “Stop hitting yourself. I’m counting on you to cook my meals and clean my house.”

“Mistress…” Young Master Zhao fell silent for a long time, then said honestly: “My heart feels a prickling ache.”

“Then go ahead and ache. I won’t stop you.” I stood, looked at him, and said: “You did not waste Qi Xi’s life. Nor your own.”

Young Master Zhao looked at me, words rising and falling unsaid.

“But perform good deeds; ask not of what is to come. Haven’t all of you — every last one of you — lived that saying beautifully?” I smiled, stretched, and said: “I’ll allow you half a day more of sitting in a daze. But once you’re done — get straight to the kitchen and make me something to eat!”

With that, I pulled Ao Chi along and walked out, leaving the crumbling house to Young Master Zhao, who had sunk back into the past. I thought he needed some space to himself right now.

“Do you think,” I said, settling into the reclining chair in the back courtyard, “that a good deed with no reward in return is entirely pointless?”

Ao Chi answered without a moment’s hesitation: “The moment every last trace of compassion in this world has gone out — then yes, your question would become its own answer.” A rare depth settled into his eyes, and he added: “But precisely because there are still so many like Zhu Qi Xi, and like Madam Hu, and like Young Master Zhao — the world still has reason to keep existing.”

“First time I’ve heard you praise Young Master Zhao,” I smiled.

“I like eating the food he cooks and the noodles he makes. I like how he keeps the house so clean and tidy… When you see him later, you absolutely must relay every word I’ve said to him! So he knows — no matter what his past was like, we still love him dearly!”

“That serious?”

“Obviously! If he got a shock from all of this and left home, I’d have to eat your cooking — and I’d rather just die!”

“I’ll help you along!”

“Ow, ow — you’re going to twist my ear off!”

In the back courtyard, even with just the two of us, it was just as lively as ever.

In truth, there are so many things in this world — the moment you start calculating gains and losses, the whole affair has already veered toward unhappiness.

So why think so hard about it? The Jie Wang doesn’t have to be in the Celestial Realm — they exist everywhere in the mortal world too. Compassion is not something only Ginseng People are born with — we all have it. Just follow it, and do what you want to do. It really is that simple.

But perform good deeds; ask not of what is to come. I truly do love this saying. When I get the chance, I must copy it down and paste it in the most visible spot in Bu Ting!

Oh wait — the wall is still full of holes. Who am I going to find to fix it, and who is going to pay?

Kui Yan, that scoundrel — I am absolutely not letting him off the hook!