(1)
The moment Li Zechuan said “come here,” the jeering erupted into a roar. Wen Xia’s face flushed crimson with embarrassment. Lian Kai sat on the roof of the vehicle, tossing a short knife up and catching it in his hand, laughing as he called out, “A young lady will get shy, you know — Li Zechuan, you big lug, shouldn’t you be the one to make a move!”
“Fine, I’ll make a move!”
Li Zechuan stood up, stretched lazily, then strode over to Wen Xia in a few broad steps. He hooked one arm under the bend of her knees and wrapped the other around her back, hoisting her up and slinging her over his shoulder.
Wen Xia had no time to react. She was already hanging upside down, all the blood in her body rushing to her head, the world spinning before her eyes, golden sparks bursting across her vision.
Nuobu stood there slack-jawed, mouth gaping, watching as Li Zechuan carried his Xiao Xia sister over in long, confident strides.
Li Zechuan stopped in front of him and waved a hand. “Move. You’re in the way.”
Nuobu snapped out of his daze and hurriedly stepped aside. Li Zechuan passed him and set Wen Xia down on a relatively clean mat.
The greener Fang Wenqing’s expression turned, the more gleeful Lian Kai became. He knocked the hilt of his knife against the vehicle roof — thump, thump, thump — stirring up the crowd: “You’ve already carried her! Not kissing her would be a crime — kiss her, kiss her, give us a kiss!”
Once someone took the lead, the spectators chimed in with excitement, the chorus of “kiss her, kiss her” ringing on all sides.
Wen Xia’s face grew even redder. Li Zechuan patted the top of her head, then flicked his toe against a loose pebble, launching it into the air in a sharp kick. The stone sliced through the wind straight at Lian Kai’s face. Lian Laolei ducked just in time, chuckling: “Fine moves, young hero!”
Li Zechuan struck an exaggerated martial bow. “You flatter me, you flatter me.”
The whole group laughed along, and the matter was let go. Fang Wenqing bit through her lower lip — blood stained her teeth red — and she didn’t even notice.
The mutton leg had been roasted by Third Elder himself, using a time-honored local technique passed down through generations. The flavor was rich and fragrant, yet not the least bit greasy — so delicious you’d want to swallow your own tongue.
Zhaxi was a true Kham Tibetan — warm, hospitable, gifted in song and dance. He had drunk a little too much highland barley wine; his face was flushed a deep, ruddy red. With his fur robe belted at the waist, he circled the bonfire singing in Tibetan, some joining him in dancing and singing, others clapping along to the beat. In this desolate, forbidden stretch of land, the revelry here was the only color for miles.
So fleeting, and yet somehow so timeless.
Third Elder, half-drunk, clapped a heavy hand onto Li Zechuan’s shoulder and called out loudly: “Tonight’s a good night — don’t hide your talents, come on, show us what you’ve got!”
Li Zechuan didn’t demur. He pulled a compound bow from the back of the Hummer, tightened the sight, fixed the vibration dampener — a seamless sequence of movements, fluid and effortlessly cool.
Wen Xia was just thinking there wasn’t a target anywhere to be found — how would they manage? Then she turned and spotted Nuobu digging out several empty pull-tab cans, mixing fluorescent powder into the sand, then stuffing the mixture into the can bodies to add weight.
Li Zechuan put on his night-vision goggles. He drew the bowstring back until it curved like a full moon. Nuobu let out a sharp cry, swung his arm, and launched two cans into the air.
The wind tore across the wild plain; a sound like clashing iron rang at her ear. Wen Xia held her breath, her gaze tracing the rising arc of the cans. At the highest point, the arrow split the air — a thunderous crack — and both cans were shredded simultaneously. The sand mixed with fluorescent powder scattered like stars, carrying the faintest glimmer of gilded light, scorching a long, lingering trace across the eye.
One arrow, two targets — the fierce beauty of cold-forged weapons was fully laid bare in that single moment.
Everyone burst into applause and cheers. Li Zechuan turned, looked toward Wen Xia — his gaze calm as ever, with just the faintest trace of a smile, unhurried and self-possessed.
Wen Xia met his eyes across the crowd, and in that instant her heart lurched into a sudden, rapid beat, as if a current of warmth had surged through her.
In this world, people are always meeting, and always parting. To find love — that is an extraordinary stroke of fate. She was so grateful that the person she loved was someone like this: handsome, formidable, kind — devoted to compassion, possessing the skill to slay dragons, yet willing to be a guardian instead.
Li Zechuan set down his bow, picked up a wine jug, and raised it high above his head. Ke Lie rose to his feet alongside him, then Lian Kai and the others followed. The wind howled like a battle flag; their gazes were brighter than the flames themselves, illuminating the night across the wild plain.
Li Zechuan raised his voice: “This cup is to celebrate Ke Lie’s achievement, and to send off the mountain patrol team. The journey is about to begin. I will fulfill my duty without faltering, courageous and fearless.”
Every member of the mountain patrol team shouted in unison: “We swear on our lives — to guard the plateau, to punish the violent, may heaven bless us, victorious in every battle!”
Those voices were hard and resonant, stirring up wave after wave of echoes, howling freely into the wind.
Beneath a sky washed clean by the stars, they drank down their hardships along with the strong spirits, shouldered their blazing weapons, and stood watch over the peace of this land.
As the saying goes: those who do evil shall be destroyed; darkness and daylight shall both be made radiant.
Some things endure — undying and imperishable, never falling — such as pure faith, such as love and compassion.
Once again, Wen Xia understood: Li Zechuan had always belonged here. It was here that he was reborn, here that he found his backbone again.
After the oath-swearing ceremony, the atmosphere erupted completely. Some laughed and embraced Ke Lie; some wept and raised their cups to him. Wen Xia and Li Zechuan slipped away from the crowd, the two of them leaning back against the hood of the Hummer, standing side by side. Lian Kai tilted his head back, drained the last of his wine, and raised the jug in Li Zechuan’s direction from across the way. Li Zechuan raised his own jug in return.
The starlight was bright and clear; the air was thick with the rich, heady fragrance of spirits. Li Zechuan’s profile was reflected in the depths of Wen Xia’s eyes, like a sharpened cold weapon — handsome and severe.
This man was hers. This unreasonably good-looking man had put on her ring. From now on, he was her person.
Wen Xia could hear the sound of her own heartbeat. Emboldened by the faint warmth of the wine, she leaned close to Li Zechuan’s ear and softly asked what the Tibetan song Zhaxi had been singing was about.
She was too close — as she spoke, her lips brushed lightly against Li Zechuan’s ear. Warm breath fell on his skin, carrying the particular fragrance that lingered after a bath.
Li Zechuan pressed the tip of one slender finger gently to Wen Xia’s lips. He smiled softly, and murmured low: “The lyrics mean — I will like you for a very, very long time.”
Even without understanding a word of Tibetan, Wen Xia knew that Zhaxi had been singing a drinking song. There was no way it contained those lyrics. She smiled and rested her head against Li Zechuan’s shoulder, her heart at peace.
A camera flash swept a cold white line across the air, dazzling. Li Zechuan raised his hand to block it and instinctively pressed Wen Xia against his chest, hiding her face, then looked toward the direction of the shutter sound. Fang Wenqing appeared from behind the lens, showing half her face, smiling with cool detachment: “Such a beautiful scene — how wasteful not to leave a memento. Besides, the public has a right to know the true working conditions of your team.”
The last line carried just a hint of provocation and threat.
Li Zechuan straightened up, unhurried and unintimidated: “You can photograph people, but not faces. It’s not safe. Delete that shot.”
“Isn’t Officer Li supposed to be invincible?” Fang Wenqing ran her tongue over her teeth, her smile ambiguous. “Are you actually afraid of retaliation?”
“Being afraid of dying and seeking death are different things. Being afraid of dying is no disgrace.” Li Zechuan extended his hand. “Give me the camera.”
Fang Wenqing’s grip went slack, and the camera dropped — caught by the strap around her neck, the body swinging against her chest. She deliberately pushed her chest forward, smiling. “If you want it, come and get it yourself!”
Li Zechuan grabbed the lens and yanked hard. The camera strap around her neck snapped with the force. Fang Wenqing stumbled forward several steps, making as if to fall right into Li Zechuan’s arms. Wen Xia stepped in between them and steadied Fang Wenqing, smiling pleasantly: “Careful there, Sister Fang. Supplies are tight at the protection station — there are no foreign-made medicines here for you.”
Li Zechuan quickly scrolled through the photos on the camera. He held it reversed, screen facing outward toward Fang Wenqing, narrowed his eyes, and said: “Is this part of your journalistic work as well?”
The screen displayed a photo — clearly a candid shot, the lighting and angle a complete mess, but the subject matter was undeniably striking: Li Zechuan in the middle of a sponge bath, his back to the camera, bare from the waist up, his short hair slightly damp, his waist lean and narrow, his muscles flowing and defined — textbook-perfect physique.
Fang Wenqing smiled. “Occupational habit. When I see something worth photographing, I photograph it.”
“That’s not a habit a journalist should have.” Li Zechuan scrolled further back and found a few similar shots. Impatient, he simply pulled out the memory card, pinched it between his fingers, and snapped it clean in two. “Don’t insult the profession.”
The memory card broke with a sharp, brittle crack. A fierce gleam flashed in Fang Wenqing’s eyes. She suddenly spun around to one side: “Cheng Fei! Your photos — they’re destroyed!”
Cheng Fei came running at the sound, took one look at the camera in Li Zechuan’s hand and the snapped memory card, and his expression collapsed. He seized Li Zechuan’s collar with both hands and snarled in a low, furious voice: “Those photos were for my personal photography exhibition — I hadn’t even backed them up yet, and now they’re ruined in your hands! Li Zechuan, if you want to get back at me, come at me directly — don’t use such underhanded methods!”
“Get back at you? You think you’re worth that?” Cheng Fei was slightly shorter than Li Zechuan. Li Zechuan glanced down at him, his expression full of contempt. He pulled his own collar free, then said coolly, “Fang Wenqing used your camera to secretly photograph me — if you want to settle accounts, settle them with her. Also: if you can’t even keep track of your own camera, letting any random person pick it up and use it however they please, what kind of photographer are you? What right do you have to hold an exhibition?”
Cheng Fei felt as though he’d been slapped across the face. It burned. In an instant his reason abandoned him entirely, and he swung a fist at Li Zechuan. Li Zechuan stepped back, sidestepped, and Cheng Fei, unable to stop himself, lurched forward and went down — cracking his head open, a line of blood seeping from his brow.
People turned to look at the commotion. Fang Wenqing took out her phone and tapped it a few times — clearly angling the camera at Li Zechuan’s face — and said coolly: “Officer Li, you’re a public official. Whatever you do, don’t stoop to Cheng Fei’s level. You must not strike back. Otherwise, if footage like this makes it in front of the public, the reputation of the Suonan Protection Station will be completely ruined.”
What Fang Wenqing said appeared to be a reminder to Li Zechuan, but was in reality a cue to Cheng Fei.
Cheng Fei understood her implication in an instant. He leaped to his feet and drove a fist straight at Li Zechuan’s face.
Li Zechuan had no time to step back. A faint, familiar sweet fragrance suddenly drifted past his nose, and a nimble figure flashed across his line of vision.
Wen Xia’s move was lightning-fast. She seized Cheng Fei’s wrist, brought her open palm down like the blade of a knife, and struck hard at his elbow joint, while simultaneously kicking her foot into his shinbone. Cheng Fei dropped straight to his knees, clutching his numb, aching elbow and howling without stop.
Wen Xia dusted her palms lightly, tilted her chin up, and looked down at Cheng Fei with undisguised contempt: “Officer Li can’t strike back, but I can. Officer Li doesn’t bother holding grudges — I do. Old scores and new debts together, and all I gave you was one kick. Consider yourself lucky. The Suonan Protection Station is a place that fights poaching, not a venue for throwing tantrums. As for Miss Fang—” Wen Xia turned her gaze to Fang Wenqing, her tone withering, “your professional conduct and your awareness of the law both leave much to be desired. Peeping, covert photography, eavesdropping, spreading another person’s private information — all of these are illegal violations of rights with legal consequences. I hope you’ll keep that in mind.”
While she spoke, Wen Xia’s manner was haughty, her eyes round and lovely. Li Zechuan thought she looked like a proud ragdoll cat, and couldn’t help reaching up to ruffle the top of her head.
“Miss Wen certainly knows a great deal!” Fang Wenqing took in the small gesture between them and laughed coldly. “I heard that you were once kidnapped by poachers and went missing for nearly twenty hours. Those men are desperadoes — addicted to drink, to money, to women. I wonder whether they did anything improper to you, Miss Wen. Women are ultimately more fragile than men. Some wounds, once inflicted, ache for a lifetime.”
“So that’s what they mean by no ivory ever coming from a dog’s mouth,” Wen Xia exploded. “Fang Wenqing, did no one in your family ever teach you to speak like a decent human being!”
More and more people turned to look; the atmosphere was tense and awkward.
Li Zechuan spoke up at the right moment, his voice carrying authority. He placed a hand on Wen Xia’s shoulder. “This is a celebration banquet, not a debate. All this bickering — what does it look like? We still have work tomorrow. That’s enough. Put out the fire, dismiss, and rest. Miss Fang, I believe that a journalist’s primary duty is to report the truth, not to provoke conflict and fabricate things from nothing — certainly not to slander and defame. This is not a question of professional standards; it’s a question of character. The very foundation of a person.”
Li Zechuan had taken a roundabout dig at Fang Wenqing’s character. Lian Kai didn’t bother sparing her face at all and laughed out loud. Fang Wenqing made to speak again, but Lian Kai was faster, calling out loudly: “Pack it up, pack it up! Half the night of carrying on, aren’t you people tired? Da Chuan, do a sweep of the fence — make sure wolves can’t get through!”
Li Zechuan called back in acknowledgment. Seeing Wen Xia still standing in place, cheeks puffed with indignation, he pressed his hand to the back of her neck and turned her firmly around. “Come on, walk with me — let’s go check the fence.”
Yuanbao was crouched at the entrance to the large enclosure, a thick ring of stiff fur bristling around his neck, full and dense, fierce and imposing. Even wolves gave him a wide berth.
Li Zechuan patted the big dog’s head and told Wen Xia: “Yuanbao is a hero for guarding this enclosure. With him here, snow leopards and wolves don’t dare come in to steal the lambs.”
Wen Xia didn’t respond. She kicked at a loose stone with the tip of her shoe and muttered: “If you hadn’t held me back, I definitely would have sorted that woman surnamed Fang tonight. Beaten her until she was scrabbling for her teeth on the ground!”
“The fight can wait until tomorrow. Once the patrol team heads into the mountains, you and I won’t have many chances to be alone.” Li Zechuan stood before her, his gaze deep and steady on her face, smiling softly, his voice dropping low. “Are you really not going to take the opportunity to kiss me?”
Wen Xia blinked in surprise — and then the world blurred. Li Zechuan lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.
The large enclosure was behind the building. The lights from the front yard couldn’t reach here; everywhere the eye landed was darkness.
Darkness blinded the eyes but sharpened every sense. Breath blazed like fire, tangled and fervent.
Wen Xia seemed to see golden sand flowing before her eyes — a dazzling color seared into her pupils, burning a permanent, indelible mark.
Some people are beside you; some people are within your heart. The most beautiful thing of all is when the person in your heart and the person beside you are the same.
Wen Xia held tight to Li Zechuan’s waist; their breath mingled together. She wanted to tell the whole world, to let everyone know — this person was the one she loved.
(2)
The mountain patrol team officially departed on the second night after the celebration banquet — two in the morning, the coldest and darkest hour.
The weather was poor. Wind laced with sand and pebbles struck the glass with a sharp, percussive clatter. Wen Xia had never fallen deeply asleep, drifting in and out of a half-waking state, when she heard someone knock at the door. Nuobu’s voice came through: “Xiao Xia sister, wake up — it’s time to set out.”
Wen Xia was instantly alert and dressed quickly. While gathering her things, the grass-woven ring fell out of her clothing. The woven grass had dried out — grown brittle and fragile, so delicate that even the slightest touch would crumble it. Wen Xia gingerly tucked it inside her notebook. On the inside cover of the notebook, two names were written side by side: Li Zechuan. Wen Xia.
Those two names pressed close together — as if their owners would never be apart.
By the time she reached the assembly point, the patrol team had already gathered. Lian Kai and Ke Lie were each carrying a large wooden crate to the vehicle. As they moved, the crate’s edge shifted open a crack; in the moonlight, the contents gleamed amber — catching the eye, leaving the faintest impression on the retina.
Bullets. Live ammunition. Every one fired would make someone bleed — or die.
Wen Xia’s heart seized with sudden unease. She closed her eyes. A blurry vision formed: Li Zechuan’s figure swathed in a haze of blood, his face unclear.
In the face of guns and fire, who isn’t helpless?
Wen Xia raised her hand and rubbed her face, forcing herself to be calm. Her teeth pressed into her lip, drawing a thin crimson line.
A sharp pain struck her face — someone had gripped her chin, stopping her from biting down. She opened her eyes. Li Zechuan stood before her, a combat knife in his hand, the hilt extended toward her.
The blade was half-drawn from its sheath, the metal coated in black chrome, melting into the darkness of the night like an assassin wrapped in camouflage.
Li Zechuan gently patted the top of Wen Xia’s head. “Take it. For self-defense.”
Ignoring the eyes of those around them, Wen Xia closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him — urgent and soft: “No matter how hard this road gets, I’ll walk it with you.”
Li Zechuan held her back in a reassuring embrace, his eyes very bright — sharp, yet carrying a faint tenderness.
Ma Siming had grown much thinner. The highland winds had carved his features sharper, more angular. He stood ramrod straight beneath the flagpole at the protection station, his expression intensely grave, enunciating each word: “Boys — are you ready?”
The sun had not yet risen. The color of the national flag was the only blazing thing.
The members of the mountain patrol team stood in a line: Li Zechuan, Lian Kai, Zhaxi, Ke Lie, Nuobu. They stood at attention and saluted the flag, their backbones straight as newly cast steel rods — rigid, unyielding, unbendable.
A roar like thunder rose into the clouds as the young men cried out together:
“Always prepared — to guard the plateau!”
At that moment the wind surged with unusual force, the bright red flag whipping and snapping.
Li Zechuan’s eyes were fixed on the flag — single-lidded, extraordinarily fine, with a faint pale break at the tail of his brow, like a severed brow. An eagle soared high, the wind at its ear; the color of the flag was the only light in his eyes — so red, and so blazing.
Fang Wenqing and Cheng Fei raised their cameras in unison and captured this moment.
Where there are those blinded by greed and self-interest, there are also those of gallant spirit and loyal hearts. As long as the latter exist, this world is still full of hope.
Yet Wen Xia knew: the photographs would be processed, the names would be redacted. To those outside the protection station, to those who lived far away, they were only a few blurred silhouettes, a vague collective number — how many sacrificed, how many saved.
Years from now, perhaps someone would think of them, and sigh: they were some extraordinary young people.
But how extraordinary, exactly?
45,000 square kilometers of uninhabited land. The total number of patrol staff, combined, did not exceed fifty. Brutal climate aside, ammunition and supplies were also a problem. Strong, able-bodied young men went in — whether they would come out alive, no one could say.
How many times had white-haired mothers at home waited and waited, only to receive back a small box, a handful of pale ash?
Newlywed wives sat in their bridal chambers, eyes red from weeping, murmuring over and over: we had a plan — we were going to have a child this year…
And yet, even so, these men chose to hold their ground. With their sincere and faithful blood, they raised high the banner of justice.
Ma Siming clapped Li Zechuan hard on the shoulder. “Protect the journalists accompanying you.”
Li Zechuan withdrew his gaze from the flag. His eyes were very dark — in the night, steady and resolute. “Rest assured. If only one person can come back alive, I will give that chance to the two journalists.”
“That’s the spirit — every one of you!”
Ma Siming praised them with a laugh, his expression proud; and yet Wen Xia saw something glimmering in his eyes. He raised his arm and roared, the words ringing like iron striking stone: “Move out!”
Blazing headlights tore open the night. Five vehicles set off in convoy, driving out of the protection station, heading toward territory unreached by the national highway — the heart of Kekexili, a true uninhabited zone, and a true forbidden zone for life.
Third Elder still wore that same old Tibetan robe. His face was deeply lined; his hair and beard carried streaks of gray and white. He stood where the wind blew fiercest, as if lost in memory, as if moved to reflection, and said quietly: “Back in the day, when I joined the bull team, I was about the same age. It was hard then — my two sons, one had his skull shattered, the other sank into a bog. I clawed my fingers to the bone, but I couldn’t pull him out. I watched him die.”
Ma Siming raised a hand and laid it on Third Elder’s shoulder, pressing firmly. He had no eloquent words; he only said quietly: “We haven’t forgotten. We all remember.”
The wind lifted the hem of Third Elder’s robe. The old Tibetan robe spread open like the wings of an eagle. He drew a long breath, and his song came out as a roar—
Iron-forged men, upright and proud, We have no tears — we only have our lives. Toward that victory we charge ahead, Eight hundred li of mountains and rivers, ours to traverse.
In this world unchanged since ancient times, wind is the only constant.
The voice of the song and the howl of the wind mingled together and carried far, far away.
Upright men, burning hot, Burning hot, sharing one life as one. A hero’s world is a hero’s dream. Even in death, we shall be heroes.
……
There will always be those who fight, who strive — not for fame or fortune, but for belief.
This world is vast. Some people are cold; others are fighting through blood and fire. Don’t look at only one side and lose faith in it. The human world is beautiful. It is worth protecting.
Fang Wenqing and Cheng Fei were assigned to separate vehicles. Nuobu was driving the truck, loaded with fuel and provisions, bringing up the rear. Wen Xia rode with Li Zechuan in the Hummer’s front passenger seat and asked quietly: “What’s the survival limit for the patrol team in the wild?”
An endless expanse of plateau, with nothing but wind and cold. The core zone’s altitude exceeded 5,000 meters; oxygen content was less than 40% of that at sea level. Temperatures could plunge to forty degrees below zero Celsius. Daytime was manageable; night was the true trial — an ascetic’s existence. How long could they endure?
Li Zechuan said calmly: “Forty days.”
Forty days — that was the last line of defense. They could not wait until their ammunition and supplies ran out before making a desperate final stand. They had to find traces of Nie Xiaolin before that — catch him and bring him to face the justice he deserved.
Li Zechuan’s hand reached past the gear lever and rested on the back of Wen Xia’s hand. Wen Xia glanced down, then turned her hand over and laced her fingers through his, as if holding on. She said: “I used to read the phrase ‘life and death together’ in books and think it was something distant and remote. Today I finally understand — being able to reach that point is what makes something real. Li Zechuan, I will be with you always. You will never be alone.”
“All right.” Li Zechuan’s eyes remained fixed on the darkness beyond the windshield. He said only one word — and yet in it, he offered all the tenderness of a lifetime.
The convoy headed south. The view was vast and open; the wind was fierce. The dull yellow of the horizon melted into the sapphire blue of the sky, seemingly without limit. The massive silhouette of Mount Kunlun rose into view — sweeping the eye across it, one felt only solemnity.
Tracking criminals in this uninhabited land, tire tracks were a vital clue — they had to keep their eyes on tracks, and also guard carefully against getting stuck. In the afternoon the sky changed slightly and a freezing rain began to fall. Lian Kai and Fang Wenqing’s vehicle got stuck once, the rear wheels sinking into muddy slop and refusing to climb out.
Li Zechuan and Ke Lie each put a foot down and sank straight past their calves in the mud. The wind was harsh and the temperature close to zero; the mud clung to their skin like ice, wet and bitterly cold.
Cheng Fei had been following behind them, but at the sight of this he paused, planting himself on the dry ground. Wen Xia shoved him out of the way, grabbed an entrenching tool, and moved to help.
“Stay back,” Li Zechuan said, glancing back. He spoke to Nuobu: “Go find something to put under the wheels.”
Cheng Fei gave an awkward little laugh and raised his camera toward the men half-kneeling before the wheels. “A photo like this would turn out beautifully.”
Wen Xia clenched her fist and fought down the impulse to slap him senseless.
At high altitude, with the thin air, physical labor quickly left one gasping for breath. Lian Kai manned the steering wheel while Li Zechuan, Nuobu, Zhaxi, and Ke Lie took turns wielding the entrenching tool in rotation. It took an hour and a half of effort before the vehicle was freed. All of them were coated in filth. The freezing rain had passed, leaving a few small puddles in the hollows; Wen Xia drew some of the clean water into her hands so they could wash up.
The water was very cold — pouring onto skin like a blade. When no one was watching, Wen Xia gathered Li Zechuan’s fingers into her palms, rubbing them gently, warming him back up.
Li Zechuan wiped away a small smear of mud that had landed on her nose, and said quietly: “Young ladies shouldn’t take the cold. Don’t go jumping into puddles.”
Wen Xia’s cheeks grew slightly pink.
Li Zechuan took out his compass and adjusted their direction. In one day, they had covered fewer than forty kilometers. From the 109 National Highway to the Zhuonai Lake protection station, the total distance was nearly 140 kilometers. In good weather they could arrive within three days; if they ran into a storm, no one could say.
Night came without a sound, and the temperature plunged sharply. The freezing rain turned to sleet, wrapped in the wind, biting at exposed skin like tiny blades.
Following the water source, they searched as they went. When the sky had gone completely black, they finally found a relatively flat stretch suitable for making camp. The altitude here already exceeded 4,700 meters; beneath the yellow sand was solid permafrost, and tent pegs couldn’t be driven in at all. They had no choice but to anchor the tent ropes to the vehicles.
There were two tents — one large, one small — woven from black yak hair, warm and windproof. Wen Xia and Fang Wenqing shared the smaller one. Li Zechuan walked a full circuit around the small tent, tucking down every edge and corner to ensure no cold air could creep in. He also hung a miner’s lamp from the tent’s peak, letting the light radiate outward — wolves and bears alike would not approach where there was light.
Fang Wenqing stood to one side, arms folded, and said coolly: “Who would have thought you could be so attentive.”
Li Zechuan didn’t even look at her. “I’m not doing it for you.”
Dinner was self-heating ration packs — pour in a little water and the pack heats on its own. Paired with high-calorie canned beef, it was filling and warming against the cold. Lian Kai didn’t even bother with chopsticks. He finished in a few mouthfuls, glanced at the outer packaging, and said: “Fancy stuff, all foreign writing.”
Li Zechuan swallowed what was in his mouth, pointed a chopstick at Wen Xia, and said: “Wen Xia’s brother is called Wen’er. He brought these supplies. Not many to go around — make them count.”
Zhaxi grinned. “Wen’er’s quite a character — cornered Da Chuan in the office and gave him a thorough beating. What a scene. Spectacular!”
The whole group burst out laughing and turned their gaze toward Wen Xia.
Wen Xia turned so red she could have died. She hugged her bowl in both hands and buried her face in it.
Li Zechuan finished the last grain of rice, stood up, and went around giving everyone a kick, laughing: “You really do talk too much — not even imported canned beef can shut you lot up!”
After the meal, everyone received half of a slightly unripe fruit to supplement their vitamins, along with a stirred cup of glucose powder. The group then gathered and held a brief meeting, laying out the marching plan for the coming days — aiming to reach the Zhuonai Lake protection station within three days, then proceed to sweep the area toward West Jinwulan Lake.
As the night deepened, Lian Kai stood and stretched. “The temperature drops overnight — the vehicles have to be started every three hours or they’ll freeze up. I’ll take the second half of the night watch. Who’ll take the first?”
The second half of the night was the coldest, and also when people were most exhausted. The watch was a rough duty.
Ke Lie said: “Let me take the second half. I’m younger, I have more stamina.”
Lian Kai was the oldest of them all, and let out a hearty laugh. “Young man, don’t get too cocky!”
The others laughed along with him.
“Tonight Ke Lie and I will stand watch — Ke Lie takes the first half, I’ll take the second.” Li Zechuan took a sip of hot water. “Tomorrow it’s Laolei and Zhaxi’s turn. Nuobu’s stamina isn’t quite up to the rest of ours — let him adjust first.”
Lian Kai and Zhaxi agreed readily. “Deal!”
(3)
Patrolling the mountain is, in truth, a rather monotonous kind of work. Day after day of advancing through uninhabited land — battling wind and sand and snow, watching antelope and yaks run free, but encountering no other human beings. Between heaven and earth, a vast, unbroken silence.
Daytime was tolerable; night was harder to endure. Sometimes they couldn’t find a suitable place to pitch camp and had to sleep in the vehicles. To conserve fuel, they couldn’t run the heat all night. When the cold became unbearable, they would climb out and run laps around the vehicles — from sundown to sunrise.
Lian Kai told Wen Xia these stories of the patrol route, laughing as he spoke. Wen Xia couldn’t laugh. Her heart only ached.
Yes — in an era of prosperity, someone is always carrying the burden.
Wen Xia raised her head and saw the sky crowded with stars. They shone brilliantly; tomorrow would surely be fine weather.
Ke Lie sat beneath that star-filled sky, with an injury on his shoulder. He had some difficulty wrapping the bandage around — not yet secured, it slipped loose again.
Lian Kai had already gone into the tent. Wen Xia walked over, stood behind Ke Lie, and said: “Let me do that.”
Ke Lie, who rarely showed expression, gave a small nod and said, “Thank you.”
Wen Xia dressed the wound with practiced hands; he could barely feel the pain. Ke Lie had earphones plugged in; the music drifted out, an old English song —
When I was young I’d listen to the radio, Waiting for my favorite songs, When they played I’d sing along, It made me smile…
Wen Xia smiled. “You like this song? My brother likes it too.”
Ke Lie kept his eyes lowered. After a long pause, he said: “Da Chuan told me you’re from Beijing.”
“That’s right.” Wen Xia smiled. “When you have the chance, come to Beijing — I’ll have my brother treat you to Peking duck.”
Ke Lie had a certain hardness woven through his temperament and his character; even his lips were set in a flat line. He rarely spoke, so when he did his voice was always low and measured. He said: “Then you must have seen Tiananmen. Is it very beautiful?”
Wen Xia thought for a moment, took out her phone, and opened her photo album. There was one photo of her and Wen’er taken in front of Tiananmen.
It was dusk. Traffic flowed thickly along Chang’an Avenue; the red walls and yellow tiles of the ancient gate stood solemn and grand, magnificent in scale.
Wen Xia pointed to the man standing beside her. “My brother, Wen’er — six years older than me. He dotes on me.”
The photo had been taken in summer. Wen’er wore a sleeveless white T-shirt and denim shorts; his face was hidden behind sunglasses — his features indistinct, but his lean, well-proportioned build was striking enough on its own.
Wen Xia had her arm hooked through his, squinting into the camera with a wide, artless smile.
Ke Lie thought of the brief glimpse he had caught when two vehicles passed each other in front of the protection station — he had only seen a profile, from chin to brow, the lines clean and perfect.
Warm in demeanor, refined in manner, clear as wind, bright as a cloudless sky.
That name suited him rather well.
“When the mission is over, come to Beijing,” Wen Xia said sincerely. “I’ll take you to see Tiananmen, and the Monument to the People’s Heroes. We’ll eat roast duck at Bianyifang and the most authentic copper-pot hot pot. My brother’s treating — he has plenty of money!”
Ke Lie’s face showed little, but Wen Xia waited a long while before she caught the faint shadow of a smile in his eyes. He gave a small nod. “If there’s the chance, I’ll definitely go.”
Wen Xia returned to the tent. Fang Wenqing had already burrowed into her sleeping bag. Wen Xia took off her outer coat and climbed in as well. The night wind was loud, tangled with the distant howls of wild animals; sleep would not come.
The tent had no window. Moonlight could not enter. Wen Xia’s gaze settled on the miner’s lamp hanging from the tent peak, and she let out the softest of sighs.
Fang Wenqing spoke suddenly: “Let’s talk for a while. I can’t sleep either.”
Wen Xia shut her eyes quickly, said nothing, and gave no response.
Fang Wenqing smiled to herself, shifted inside her sleeping bag to face Wen Xia, and said: “What is it you even like about him? Throwing away a perfectly comfortable life to come suffer in a place like this.”
Wen Xia kept her eyes closed, and said lightly: “Didn’t you come too?”
“I’m different from you.” Without her makeup on, Fang Wenqing’s brows were very faint. “I came for him, but I never planned to stay for him. You, on the other hand — I can see it. You’d die for him here.”
“Then keep watching,” Wen Xia said. “One day you’ll ‘see’ clearly just how worth loving he is.”
Fang Wenqing’s voice sounded unusually distant, as if coming from far away. She gave a small laugh. “All right. I’ll wait and see.”
The word “see” landed hard — like a deliberate provocation.
Wen Xia turned over, putting her back to Fang Wenqing, making it plain she had no interest in further conversation. Fang Wenqing had found her rhythm, however, and continued on her own: “Two years ago, when I ran into him in a bar in Xining, he looked completely lost — gray and hollow, nothing like he is now. I bought him a drink and asked him where he’d come from, what he liked. He said, besides silence, there was a girl he liked — liked so much he had no choice but to leave her.”
She paused deliberately at this point, letting the silence fill the room. Only the soft sound of breathing remained. But Wen Xia had opened her eyes. Her deep, beautiful pupils reflected a watery light, and the shadow of a whale swimming past.
After some unknown length of time, the phone tucked in her pocket suddenly sounded. There was no signal out here; the phone could only serve as an alarm. Wen Xia checked the screen — one in the morning. Time for the night watch to change shifts.
She pushed open the small flap of the tent and stepped out. She saw Li Zechuan sitting cross-legged on the vehicle roof, smoking. The magnificent, timeless stars of ten thousand years formed the backdrop; his straight figure was etched against them, like a reverse-pressure brushstroke on the final painting.
Her heels brushed through the wild grass with a soft rustle. Wen Xia didn’t look up; she went straight to the rear door of the vehicle and pulled it open, climbing inside. Li Zechuan, watching from above, saw everything clearly. He finished his cigarette with a smile, then jumped down from the roof, pulled open the door on the other side, and climbed in as well.
The moonlight was generous, and it lit up the interior. The moment Li Zechuan leaned in, Wen Xia grabbed his collar and kissed him.
Her lips were ice-cold, but her tongue was warm, slipping past his teeth and reaching deeper. Li Zechuan was never a passive man; after a brief moment of surprise, he quickly took hold of the rhythm. Wen Xia’s breathing shifted constantly with his movements. She tasted the faintest trace of tobacco, and the cool sweetness of mint candy.
Exhausted, yet too restless to sleep. Wen Xia rested her head on Li Zechuan’s shoulder and touched the line of his throat, murmuring: “Confess honestly — in those two years in Qinghai, did you ever think about going back to find me?”
Li Zechuan tilted his head; their eyes met — one pair moist, one pair deep black. His throat moved slowly, and he heard his own voice, lower than usual: “Before you arrived, I had already filled in a leave-of-absence form. Once the patrol mission ended, I was going to go back — to see my mother, and to see the girl I liked. I wanted to know how she was, whether anyone had been unkind to her. Those two years in Qinghai, I kept dreaming of her. Dreaming of the first time we met.”
Wen Xia’s lashes were caught with tears, her eyes brilliantly wet. In a fit of pent-up indignation, she bit down on the side of Li Zechuan’s neck, and said in a muffled, muddled voice: “You vanished after a single text message — do you have any idea what it feels like to be nearly out of your mind with worry? I searched everywhere I could think to search, asked everyone I could ask. Whenever I had a moment free, I went to the cemetery, hoping I might catch a glimpse of you at your mother’s grave…”
Li Zechuan felt as if he had taken a blade — the pain was sharp. He unzipped his coat and pressed Wen Xia’s hand inside, flat against his chest where his heart beat steadily beneath. “There won’t be a next time,” he said. “I promise.”
Wen Xia wiped all her tears on Li Zechuan’s coat. She bit her lip, her voice low and steady and certain: “You’re my person now. You can’t leave me again…”
Li Zechuan heard the other meaning threaded through these words: We are together now. Whatever happens — life or death — we face it together.
He carried three lives on his back: his own, Wen Xia’s, and Li Nianxi’s — a name already chosen.
So no matter how hard it got, he had to stay alive. To live, and to live well.
The stars burned all through the night. The next day brought fine weather, as promised. The convoy set out early, moving in the direction of Zhuonai Lake while keeping an eye on activity along the route — tire tracks especially.
As the temperature climbed, the frozen mud began to thaw. The supply vehicle got stuck once — pulled free with the winch — then got stuck again less than three hundred meters later. Lian Kai cursed in frustration; Li Zechuan patted his shoulder, gesturing for him to save his energy.
After pulling the vehicle free from the mud, Nuobu ran off to relieve himself in a sheltered spot out of the wind. He came sprinting back barely two minutes later. Lian Kai cracked: “Front to back in under two minutes? Did you wet yourself?”
The group laughed along. Nuobu’s face flushed red. He ran straight to Li Zechuan. “Sang Ji brother, I found marks — tire marks.”
With a woman present, Nuobu had felt too embarrassed to go nearby, so he had run farther out than usual, and that’s where he spotted the marks. The wind was fierce; blowing sand had already buried most of the track. Any later, and there would have been nothing left to see.
Ke Lie lay flat on the ground and examined the tracks carefully. The tread pattern was block-shaped — typical of off-road vehicles. The distance between the tires was wide, the type designed for mud terrain, suited to harsh conditions. Three of the four tracks were lighter, one heavier — one tire had recently been replaced. Local residents wouldn’t bother with specifications like that. Either tourists, or…
Li Zechuan made the call without hesitation. Pursue!
The road conditions were too poor for the vehicles to pick up speed. After crossing a long, gradual slope, the tire tracks had been completely covered by blowing sand — vanished entirely. The trail had gone cold.
Lian Kai stopped the vehicle and circled once. Nothing. Nuobu’s eyes reddened with frustration; Li Zechuan’s expression also darkened. He stood still for a moment, then suddenly turned his head and looked off in a particular direction. Everyone followed his gaze.
All that met the eye was blinding wind and sand, roaring as it swallowed the plain. Cheng Fei laughed scornfully: “Officer Li’s lost it. Jumping at shadows.”
The words had barely left his mouth when a black speck appeared in the distance. It grew slowly larger, taking on shape — a small cargo truck with a rear storage box.
Li Zechuan glanced at Cheng Fei. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were cold and sharp. Cheng Fei looked away, jaw clenched.
The patrol team moved like a pack of wolves converging, forcing the truck to stop. Ke Lie was the first to rush in, gun aimed through the windshield at the truck driver’s head. The driver was terrified. He practically fell out of the cab, collapsed to the ground, legs so weak he couldn’t stand.
Li Zechuan hauled him upright by the collar, his voice cold. “What are you doing out here?”
The man was dressed in Tibetan clothing, his face weathered and aged — he looked as if he had passed fifty. His cracked lips trembled; he couldn’t string a complete sentence together. He looked every bit the picture of a guilty conscience.
Li Zechuan had long run out of patience. He raised a hand, and Lian Kai quickly went around to the back of the truck.
The cargo truck was extremely old and battered — the instrument panel was broken, and every part of it rattled except the horn. The rear storage door was propped shut with a rust-speckled iron rod. Lian Kai pulled out the rod, opened the trembling door of the storage compartment, and found inside a boy of about fifteen or sixteen — also dressed in Tibetan clothing. The boy froze at the sight of Lian Kai bursting in, not knowing what to do.
Several burlap sacks were stacked in the compartment as well, bulging and heavy, their contents unknown.
Lian Kai told the boy to get out and handed him over to Nuobu to watch. He then drew his short knife and slashed open one of the sacks. White powder instantly billowed out. He picked up a little with the knife tip, put it in his mouth, and spat it immediately.
Lian Kai sighed and put away his weapon. He walked to Li Zechuan’s side and, leaning close to his ear, said quietly: “Salt haulers.”
(4)
The Qinghai region has a number of salt lakes — brine lakes with extremely high salinity. As temperatures rise and water evaporates, a thick crust of salt is left on the surface. You often see the blue-green lake water edged by a white border, like a carefully fired piece of porcelain; that white border is salt. Harvesting salt is therefore one of the traditional livelihoods of the local people.
But no resource is inexhaustible — salt is no different. Over-harvesting poses a serious threat to salt lake resources, so the local government issues salt-harvesting permits: only those with permits are authorized to harvest salt. Everyone else is considered to be stealing or poaching salt illegally.
The problems facing this land are not limited to poaching. Grassland degradation, climate change, overgrazing, and various forms of pollution are all pressing issues that demand urgent attention.
The driver and the boy stood side by side. The driver was so stooped he was barely taller than the boy; to look at him, he appeared to be someone’s grandfather. His cracked lips quivered; he couldn’t get a whole sentence out — he looked every bit like a man with a guilty conscience.
Ke Lie put away his weapon and stepped back. Li Zechuan narrowed his eyes, looked the two of them over, and said: “Do you have a permit? Routine inspection — please present it.”
The driver stared blankly, helpless. Nuobu translated once in Tibetan. The driver mumbled something, his large, roughened hands hanging at his sides, working over and over at the hem of his clothing — an utterly pitiable sight.
Li Zechuan softened his tone. “You have an ID card, at least?”
Fang Wenqing raised her camera and took a few shots. The sound of the shutter was jarring. The driver’s face flooded with alarm; he instinctively shielded the boy behind him, and began explaining something in Tibetan with urgent, scattered words.
Wen Xia couldn’t understand a word. Nuobu said: “He says his wife died. His cattle died. The child hasn’t been to school in three years, and was found to have a tumor in his head. This is his first time doing this — he only wanted to earn enough money to treat the boy. If someone’s to be shot, shoot him — don’t touch the child.”
At the word “shot,” the boy’s knees hit the ground with a loud thud; he moved to kowtow. Wen Xia was closest to him and quickly helped him up. As she did, she noticed the boy’s hands — several cracks split the skin at the joints, one of them terrifyingly deep.
Harvesting salt with hands like that — Wen Xia couldn’t imagine how much it must hurt.
Wen Xia always carried antibacterial ointment and bandages with her. She took the boy’s hand and applied the medicine. Nuobu quickly explained in Tibetan: they were conducting a routine check and would not harm anyone, but harvesting salt without a permit was illegal, and the two of them would need to go to the protection station for processing.
The driver quieted and stood helplessly to one side, watching Wen Xia tend to the boy’s wounds. Wen Xia’s fingers were lovely — fair and slender — moving around the equally white bandage as if in a small dance. The boy, whether from shyness or fear, kept his head bowed and wouldn’t raise it.
When she finished wrapping the wound, Wen Xia pressed the remaining ointment and bandages into the boy’s pocket, with Nuobu passing along the instruction: change the bandage and medicine every two days, and try to keep it away from water.
The driver produced his identity card. Wen Xia glanced at it. This man who looked as if he’d passed fifty was actually just over forty. And he and the boy were not grandfather and grandson — they were father and son.
Wen Xia felt a heaviness settle in her chest without quite knowing why.
The patrol team needed to dispatch one vehicle to escort the father and son to the Wudao Liang protection station for processing. Zhaxi was a local, understood Tibetan, and had enough experience to handle unexpected situations — so he volunteered. Li Zechuan agreed, then suddenly reached out and pulled Wen Xia forward, pushing her toward the vehicle. “You go with them — someone to look out for you along the way.”
Wen Xia was perfectly clear on what Li Zechuan meant. The tread pattern on the cargo truck’s tires was not block-shaped. The tracks they had spotted earlier were not from this salt-hauling vehicle. Danger was still lurking out there, and could erupt at any moment.
Once she entered the Wudao Liang protection station, Zhaxi would find every possible excuse to keep her there.
Wen Xia snapped Li Zechuan’s hand away with a sharp strike — hard enough to leave the back of his hand reddened. Li Zechuan looked up. Their gazes met, and he saw in Wen Xia’s eyes a certainty and calm unlike anything he had ever seen there before.
Wen Xia said: “I told you — wherever you are, I am!”
Li Zechuan pressed his lips together; his eyes grew complex for a moment.
Wen Xia turned and walked toward the vehicle, then stopped halfway and looked back at him. “I have never been someone who likes to wait. Wherever you try to leave me, I will find you — and then I’ll give you a slap!”
With that, Wen Xia got into the front passenger seat of the Hummer and slammed the door with unusual force, sending a loud bang echoing through the air.
Li Zechuan touched the tip of his nose — but his eyes were smiling.
Truly — what a woman.
From the Hummer’s passenger seat, Wen Xia watched Li Zechuan gather the patrol team members together and say a few words. The men all started checking their pockets. Zhaxi escorted the father and son into a vehicle; Li Zechuan pushed something into the driver’s pocket. The driver froze for an instant, then his knees began to buckle. Lian Kai caught him before he went down.
The wind carried over fragments of voices. Wen Xia caught one phrase, indistinctly — take this for the boy’s treatment.
When Li Zechuan got into the vehicle, Wen Xia was wearing her goggles and feigning sleep. The sun had risen; it was growing warm. She had loosened her coat zipper, exposing a slender stretch of collarbone. Li Zechuan reached to ruffle her hair; she tilted her head away and evaded him.
Li Zechuan gripped her chin and drew her toward him. He pressed his cool lips to her collarbone and murmured: “Making me lose face in front of everyone — shouldn’t I punish you for that?”
Wen Xia kept her eyes shut. She sniffed. “Go ahead and punish me. My life’s all I’ve got anyway!”
Li Zechuan laughed and gave her earlobe a light pinch. His face caught the sunlight — and something in it was warmly, gently tender.
Wen Xia thought of something. She jabbed Li Zechuan in the side with her finger. “This month’s allowance is gone again, isn’t it? The cost of being a good person really is steep!”
“How about I hand you my wage card when we get back,” Li Zechuan said, leaning across the steering wheel and smiling. “You can manage it for me!”
Wen Xia laughed despite herself. “My spending money is probably more than your annual salary. What exactly would I be managing?”
Li Zechuan cradled her face in his hand, his voice barely above a murmur: “My salary really is nothing to speak of, and I have nothing of value to my name — except this life. I’ll give that to you too. All right?”
His gaze was soft — settling over Wen Xia like a gentle warmth, surpassing every love poem ever written.
Wen Xia sighed inwardly. Some people, she thought, need only a single look to make you surrender a lifetime.
The patrol team’s convoy set out again. This time it wasn’t a stuck vehicle they encountered — it was a storm.
At three in the afternoon, a great wind rose. Whirling sand and loose stones were snatched up and flung violently against the windshield with a rattling crash. The vehicle swayed and shuddered under the force, in danger of tipping over. Cheng Fei was terrified, screaming for help over the radio. Li Zechuan grabbed the receiver and bellowed at him to be quiet.
Lian Kai said: “We can’t keep moving forward. If sand gets into the engines, we’re in serious trouble.”
Ke Lie’s voice remained steady as still water. “Visibility is too low — pushing ahead risks losing our way. If the wind wipes out the tracks, Zhaxi won’t be able to find us when he comes back.”
Li Zechuan took out his compass, roughly assessed the direction, and said: “Follow me. There’s a farmhouse nearby — we’ll take shelter until the wind dies down, then get back on the road.”
“Farmhouse” was a generous term — it was a low, modest little house, its walls built from mud mixed with broken stones, standing in the vast expanse of the open plain and looking impossibly small. Surrounding it was a low earthen wall that served as a courtyard, and at the gate was tied a dog the size of a calf, entirely black. At the sound of the engines, the dog erupted into frenzied barking, its sharp teeth bared beyond its lips — a fearsome sight.
Pure-bred Tibetan mastiffs carry a strain of bear in their blood. They are large and imposing, their coats black and lustrous, ferocious yet loyal, able to endure hunger and cold — exceptional guardians of flocks.
The owner of the house was an elderly woman with white-streaked hair, dressed in a faded Tibetan robe the original color of which was no longer distinguishable. Hearing the commotion, she opened the door and peered out. At the sight of a crowd of tall, sturdy men in goggles blocking her gate, she gave a start, and the dog’s barking grew even wilder. Li Zechuan took off his goggles and greeted the woman. She recognized him at once and smiled, welcoming everyone inside to wait out the wind, while calling a sharp rebuke at the big black dog to stop its noise.
The dog was entirely obedient and fell silent immediately, circling a few times before settling down in place.
One by one they shook the dust from their clothing before stepping inside. The room’s furnishings were simple — a shrine and a few old pieces of Tibetan furniture. The elderly woman invited everyone to sit, lit the stove to boil water and make tea, and spoke as she worked: “Last year, when my son was out herding and got caught in a blizzard, Officer Li went out and brought him back. If not for Officer Li, he would have lost his life. I’m so grateful to Officer Li. He’s all I have — I don’t know how I’d go on without him. My son and his wife have gone to the town to sell sheepskins; they left my granddaughter and grandson here with me to look after the house.”
Li Zechuan crouched by the stove, helping the old woman tend the fire. Warmth from the flames spread across his face. He smiled. “That was just my duty — and besides, every time I come past your door, I stop to cadge a flatbread from you. All these thanks, and it starts to feel awkward between us.”
Herders commonly burn dried cattle dung as fuel — it catches easily, produces little smoke, and has no unpleasant smell. Fang Wenqing took one look and retreated to the far end of the room, her expression one of undisguised disgust.
When the tea was ready, the elderly woman cupped a bowl in both hands and passed it, one by one, to each person — her manner humble and warm.
The room was dim; stepping in, one could barely make anything out. After a few moments, Wen Xia’s eyes adjusted and she spotted, in the corner atop a sheepskin mat, a small boy of three or four, cheeks dark and ruddy, nestled against a small Tibetan puppy whose downy fur hadn’t yet shed.
The boy had likely never seen so many strangers at once; his eyes went wide, his expression frightened. Wen Xia fished two milk candies from her pocket and unwrapped one, placing it in his mouth. Milk candy is very sweet, and sweet things always win people over — the boy laughed immediately, and grabbed Wen Xia’s hand to bring her over and pet the puppy’s head.
Only then did Wen Xia notice something was off with the puppy. It was listless and weak, and seemed to be running a fever.
The elderly woman said: “There were eight in the litter, every one of them vigorous, except this one — can’t seem to nurse properly, keeps vomiting. It’s nearly a month old now, but still no bigger than a chick.” She shook her head and sighed.
Cheng Fei clicked his tongue. “Just throw it away. It’s eating and defecating uselessly — and the smell, honestly. What kind of hygiene is it to keep a sick dog right next to a child?”
The moment the words left his mouth, the elderly woman’s expression changed entirely.
In the harsh conditions of the plateau, Tibetan dogs — faithful and fierce in equal measure — were often treated by herding families as one of their own, no different from their children.
Li Zechuan gave Cheng Fei a look. “No one’s asking you to speak. Isn’t the tea hot enough to keep your mouth shut?”
“How are you talking to me!” Cheng Fei’s brows shot up; he bristled. “Am I wrong? It’s a sick dog — keeping it next to a child, that’s completely brainless—”
Before Cheng Fei could finish, a dark streak of light flew from Li Zechuan’s hand and slammed into the wall just past Cheng Fei’s ear with a sharp crack, sending up a small puff of gray dust. When the dust settled, Wen Xia could see clearly what it was — a small, pure black diamond-shaped blade.
Lian Kai ambled over, pulled the blade from the wall, and waggled it in front of Cheng Fei. “See that? The edge is sharpened. An inch to the left, and you’d have lost an ear. Work more, talk less. Understood?”
Cheng Fei had gone white with terror. Li Zechuan turned from him without another word and asked Wen Xia: “Can it be saved?”
Wen Xia said: “Neonatal septicemia in a puppy — along with mild acid-base imbalance from the look of it. Nothing that can’t be managed. An antibiotic injection should do for now.”
While they were still speaking, Nuobu had already fetched Wen Xia’s medical kit from the vehicle and brought it over. Li Zechuan ruffled the top of Nuobu’s round head affectionately. “You are quick.”
Intravenous injection would be most effective, but Wen Xia was worried the puppy would squirm and dislodge the needle, so she wrapped the little creature in a wool pad and loosely bound it with a hemp rope.
Wen Xia suddenly paused and said to herself: “How did a perfectly fine puppy end up wrapped by me to look like a chocolate ice cream cone?”
One by one the group came over to have a look, and they all laughed. The elderly woman laughed most warmly of all. She took Wen Xia’s hand, her eyes shining with gentle affection. “Thank you, child.”
With so many people inside and the stove burning strongly, a faint flush had come to Wen Xia’s cheeks. Her eyes were bright and clear, looking especially lovely. Li Zechuan felt his heart beating a little faster. He was about to reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear when the wooden door creaked open, and a bright, clear laugh drifted in: “Grandmother — look who’s here!”
The cloth curtain hanging in the doorway was lifted. A Tibetan girl of seventeen or eighteen stepped inside, her black hair braided with colorful cord, her brows thick and dark, and a row of white teeth showing as she spoke. Behind the girl came another figure — tall and slender, coat hood drawn up over the head, face buried in layers of shadow, features unclear.
Wen Xia recognized that person in an instant, and her expression shifted completely. Before she could draw the combat knife tucked in her boot, the old woman’s little grandson came toddling over, arms outstretched, and wrapped himself around that person’s legs, babbling indistinctly: “Older brother, carry! Brother, carry me!”
The person bent down and scooped the child up. As he moved, the hood slid back. Eyes like peach blossoms appeared first — then the teardrop mole at the corner of the eye, and the nose ring on the nostril that had been swapped for a stud, silver, gleaming, blending with his intense gaze to give off an air of wild, untamed indifference.