Part One

While Li Zechuan and Ke Lie were conducting their interrogation, Lian Kai had already chased after them with Nuobu, having replaced the spare tire.

With the interrogation concluded, Li Zechuan crouched in a sheltered spot out of the wind and lit himself a cigarette. Lian Kai sauntered over and did the same, biting one between his lips. He blew out a half-circle ring of smoke and said, “What’s this guy’s deal?”

Li Zechuan glanced back. Ke Lie was wrestling the mud-soaked “Cotton Coat” into the rear seat of the jeep. Wen Xia, bundled up like a ball, stood nearby cradling the large Tibetan Mastiff, her big eyes roving about, clearly cooking up some mischief again.

Li Zechuan drew in a long breath of cold, raw air and said, “He claims his employer gave him a map and a small piece of sheepskin, and told him to find someone called Lao Hei in Longhua Zhen. The employer’s name is unknown — medium build, around fifty years old, wears glasses. As for this Lao Hei, he’s never met him. The road spike device was given to him by the employer, who told him to set out at night and bury it the moment he spotted a vehicle from the protection station following him — one vehicle disabled, one hundred yuan reward.”

Lian Kai furrowed his brow and oriented himself, and Li Zechuan flicked the ash off his cigarette. “If the old fool wasn’t lying, then the employer deceived him. The route drawn on the map doesn’t lead to Longhua Zhen at all — it leads straight into the depths of the protected area. I’ve looked at the sheepskin. It wasn’t freshly hunted.”

A false map, a small piece of old sheepskin, a road spike device — none of this fit the pattern of illegal trafficking.

Lian Kai grasped the implication at once. Squinting through the cigarette clenched in his teeth, he said, “They’re coming after us. The killer of the old station chief still hasn’t been brought to justice — that’s a very dangerous signal.”

“Cotton Coat” was nothing more than a rabbit used to lure the snake from its den. The map was fake, Lao Hei didn’t exist. Having him appear deep in the protected area in the dead of night was designed to draw the attention of someone with ulterior motives.

Then who, lurking in the darkness of the desolate depths of Kekexili, had already set their trap and lay in wait?

A chill crept up from the depths of Lian Kai’s heart.

Li Zechuan unwrapped a mint and tossed it into his mouth, rubbed his hands — numb with cold — and picked up a fragment of stone. He began marking points and drawing lines in the sandy soil, and gradually the outline of a rudimentary map took shape.

He said, “Tomorrow have Ke Lie send ‘Cotton Coat’ to the Forest Police Sub-Bureau in Ge’ermu for continued interrogation — see if anything more can be dug out. May and June are the lambing season for ewes. Besides the key lambing grounds, Wudao Liang and the Kunlun Mountain Pass are also of the utmost importance.”

Li Zechuan turned his head and coughed once, then continued. “Mount Kunlun is covered in year-round snow — a natural barrier. Anyone crossing it must pass through the Kunlun Mountain Pass, so a visible checkpoint must be set up there as a warning to those with ill intent: touch even one antelope and you won’t come back alive. Wudao Liang is the essential passage from the interior of Kekexili to the Qingzang Highway. There’s already a permanent protection station there — this year we’ll add a temporary one as well, to guard against poaching, illegal gold panning, and salt theft, and to give the patrol teams a place to rest and restock supplies. If we’re short on people, we implement a no-rest system for all personnel. Even one person holding down a single station must hold it without a single crack. Since the old station chief’s passing, not one antelope has died in the protected area — but that doesn’t mean the bad elements are gone. Both overt and covert checkpoints must be set up along the national highway. Not a single pelt is to leave this place.”

Lian Kai nodded in acknowledgment, then abruptly shifted his tone. “Dachuan, are you still unwilling to tell me what exactly happened when the old station chief died, a year and a half ago?”

That mission had come without warning. A herder had reported finding abandoned Tibetan antelope calves by the shores of Zhuonai Lake. The weather was too cold — the calves could freeze to death at any moment. The old station chief hadn’t been able to wait for backup and had gone into the mountains with Li Zechuan, who was still a volunteer at the time.

Kekexili’s environment is exceptional, and the selection criteria for volunteers were extremely strict: candidates had to be recommended by a high-ranking off-road club. Li Zechuan was the most outstanding of all the recommended candidates — he possessed solid wilderness survival skills, exceptional driving and vehicle repair abilities, and was also highly proficient with cold weapons.

The old station chief had said more than once that Li Zechuan must have been a wolf in a previous life — an alpha, raised running through snowstorms with a pack, eyes and teeth as bright and sharp as snow.

What was expected to be a routine rescue turned into a catastrophic turning point.

Three days and three nights passed without a word, and then Li Zechuan was found collapsed near National Highway 109, carrying the old station chief’s body on his back, discovered by the patrol team. He had gunshot wounds and knife wounds on him; his blood loss had at one point exceeded forty percent. That he had survived was nothing short of a miracle.

After waking, Li Zechuan gave a detailed account of everything that had happened over those three days — how they had encountered a small group of poachers, and how the old station chief had been killed by the poachers’ gunfire.

His account was logical and methodical. The investigation team, acting on the information Li Zechuan provided, quickly identified the suspects — the very same group the old station chief had spent so long pursuing.

After going through layer upon layer of scrutiny, Li Zechuan was cleared of suspicion, and on the strength of his exceptional performance was even given an exceptional appointment into the establishment. Everyone said he had inherited the old station chief’s spirit and would take his place in continuing to watch over the peace of Kekexili.

Lian Kai, however, had always felt that something was off — always felt that Li Zechuan seemed to be concealing something.

Whatever was being concealed was not enough to overturn the whole situation, yet it was of fatal importance.

Those concealed things had shattered the last of the softness and innocence within Li Zechuan’s heart, forging him into a weapon — upright and formidable — and into the uncrowned king of Kekexili.

Li Zechuan tilted his head back and whistled into the dark, heavy sky. The sound cut through the air — bleak and desolate. In a languid tone he said, “What, you just worked it out now? You’re only just thinking to suspect me? Too late — I’ve already infiltrated your side. Be a good boy and surrender quietly.”

Lian Kai raised his fist toward Li Zechuan with a smile. “I didn’t mean anything by asking. I just hope you’ll remember: no matter what happens, I will always count you as my brother.”

Lian Kai had lost his parents early. To him, the old station chief was not merely a superior but also family. The word “brother” carried an immense weight.

Li Zechuan knocked his fist against Lian Kai’s, and smiled. “What does the old saying go — deep feelings, write a report. Write mine while you’re at it, and save Station Chief Ma from always complaining my reports read like a failing grade in Chinese composition.”

Wen Xia came around from the back of the vehicle, craning her neck to peer at the two men crouching in the sheltered spot.

Although Lian Kai had never met Wen Xia, he had heard more than enough gossip from Nuobu, and in that instant inspiration struck. He stood up, brushed the dust off himself, and said with deliberate nonchalance, “Oh my, I think one of the bolts on the spare tire isn’t tight enough — I’d better go check. You two chat at your leisure.”

Li Zechuan stood as well, thinking helplessly: could you be any more obviously fake?

Wen Xia edged over carefully and stood beside Li Zechuan, close to his shoulder, hesitating. “Your hand must be hurting quite a bit, right? I’ve got a few bandages on me — would you like me to put one on?”

When Li Zechuan had moved in to subdue the man, the pulley on the compound bow had scraped a piece of skin off his hand. It drew a little blood, but didn’t really hurt; if Wen Xia hadn’t brought it up, he wouldn’t even have noticed.

Li Zechuan said nothing. Wen Xia took that as consent, pulled his palm toward her, tore open a bandage and wrapped it around the wound. Afraid he might be in pain, she even blew gently on it.

Around Li Zechuan’s wrist was a black sports watch. Wen Xia knew that beneath the watch face, hidden by the dial, there was a circular scar. It looked as though it had been made by a cigarette burn, but in truth it had been jabbed in with a chopstick.

The person who had left that scar on him was his mother.

Li Zechuan had grown up in unusual circumstances, enduring hardship from childhood. After entering the protected area, conditions had become even harsher, and his personal needs had stalled entirely at the most basic level — enough to eat and wear. This feeling of being cared for by another person was something he had not experienced in far too long.

The atmosphere became inexplicably a little intimate. Neither of them spoke.

Wen Xia held Li Zechuan’s hand and spread his palm flat, gently smoothing the thick calluses across his fingertips.

These had once been hands that held a camera — delicate joints, long slender fingers, nails trimmed neatly round. The bitter winds and sands of Kekexili had roughened skin that had once been fair; looking closely, one could still see the traces of chapping that had split and then healed.

Wen Xia suddenly didn’t dare imagine what kind of life he had been living these past two years.

Gunfights that could break out at any moment. Bloodthirsty, brutal poachers. Savage cold and snowstorms. Quicksand like a rampaging beast.

Had he taken care of himself? Had he been even a little kind to himself?

The answer was certainly no. That was a reckless, thoughtless man who had never known how to be gentle with himself.

Li Zechuan had just cleared his throat to say something when Wen Xia suddenly threw her arms around him.

Li Zechuan lost his balance and stumbled a step back, his back hitting solidly against the Humvee door. Wen Xia buried her face in his chest, choking out, “Li Zechuan, how can there be a person like you in this world? When someone is unkind to you, you say nothing. When someone is kind to you, you still say nothing. Do I have to cut out my heart before you can see how many versions of Li Zechuan are packed inside it? Don’t push me away again. Let me stay by your side — please?”

She murmured the same words over and over: “Let me stay. Let me be with you. God has entrusted the peace of this world to you — will you entrust yourself to me?”

Li Zechuan tilted his head back slightly. Beneath his thin single eyelids lay a black that was utterly pure, utterly cold. He raised his hand and pressed it against Wen Xia’s shoulders, and slowly — yet with absolute certainty — pushed her away.

“I genuinely like you.”

Wen Xia’s eyes were beautiful, like the ocean. The moment she looked up, it was as if a great whale were swimming through them, parting an ancient, undisturbed stillness.

Li Zechuan was briefly lost, but in an instant he was clear again.

He straightened Wen Xia’s collar, gave a small nod, and said: I know. I know all of it.

He said: Thank you for liking me. But I’m sorry — I cannot accept it.

He said: I truly cannot bear a devotion as unwavering as yours. Give up on me. Stop insisting. You deserve a better life.

The hand in the black tactical glove gave Wen Xia’s head a light pat. Wen Xia gripped Li Zechuan’s wrist, saying nothing, simply holding on tight.

Li Zechuan pried her fingers apart one by one, with enough force that the faint, delicate sound of her joints being bent back could be heard. Wen Xia’s tears fell onto his tactical glove in time with his movements — one drop, two drops… many, many drops.

Wen Xia was in pain. Her eyes and voice were full of the taste of swallowed sobs.

Li Zechuan turned his back, expressionless, no longer looking at Wen Xia’s face. He waved at Nuobu, who was crouching a short distance away petting the dog and keeping watch, signaling: time to go.

Nuobu glanced past Li Zechuan’s shoulder and looked at Wen Xia, who stood in place with her head bowed. He said, troubled, “Sang Ji, Xiao Xia is a really good girl. You…”

Li Zechuan raised his arm as if to swat him. Nuobu leaped behind Lian Kai like a startled rabbit.

Li Zechuan pointed at Nuobu’s forehead through the air and said, “Give the Humvee to you and Wen Xia. Lao Lei, I’ll ride with you in the jeep.”

The Humvee cost over a million yuan, and in terms of both suspension and insulation it was not remotely comparable to a Beijing Jeep worth only a fraction of that price.

Li Zechuan took the Tibetan Mastiff and sprawled across the rear seat of the jeep. Lian Kai drove, and “Cotton Coat” was locked in the front passenger seat.

Nuobu caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye as Li Zechuan got in the car, hooked his arm around Ke Lie’s neck, and whispered in his ear: “What did I tell you? Sang Ji is just a stubborn duck with a tough exterior. On the surface he acts like he can’t stand her at all, but in the end he still gave the best thing to Xiao Xia.”

Ke Lie pulled open the Humvee door and said quietly to Nuobu, “Dachuan has a lot on his mind. Don’t keep provoking him with your mouth. If you actually push him to the point where he strikes you, you’ll be bedridden for at least two days.”

Nuobu stuck out his tongue and swore repeatedly that he would never dare again.

Part Two

Lian Kai’s driving was not as smooth as Ke Lie’s, but it was steady enough. Li Zechuan shoved the large dog behind him to use as a cushion, and sat idly twirling something in his hands — a double-hole push dagger.

Lian Kai kept stealing glances at Li Zechuan’s expression in the rearview mirror. Li Zechuan closed his eyes and sighed. “If you have something to ask, just ask. It’s uncomfortable to bottle it up.”

Lian Kai smiled, was silent for a moment, then spoke in a tone that carried a trace of helplessness: “Dachuan, you’re someone who is far too hard on yourself. That’s not a good habit.”

Li Zechuan half-opened his eyes, his gaze still intense and dark. He thought: I’m not being hard on myself. I simply don’t want to burden a good woman.

The dog nuzzled the side of his face with a wet nose. Li Zechuan smiled slightly. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

After a long silence, Lian Kai let out a sigh. “People like us, who deal with poachers day in and day out — every single day we’re risking our necks, never knowing when we might fall out there and never come back. That’s exactly why you shouldn’t leave yourself too many regrets. Don’t wait until the moment you’re about to close your eyes to realize there were still many things left unsaid.”

Li Zechuan understood that Lian Kai was afraid he would have regrets. He felt a quiet pang, but said aloud: “It’s precisely because we’re people who risk our necks every day that we have to be more careful. If that day really comes and I’m gone — what happens to the person left behind?”

Lian Kai was checked by the gentle remark. He didn’t take offense, only looked out at the pitch-black night beyond the car window and let out a long breath: “You’re right.”

The wind raged outside the windows, and Li Zechuan’s thoughts were like a kite caught and carried off by it — drifting far, far away. He recalled the circumstances of the first time he had met Wen Xia. The moment they met, the young woman had left him with a vivid impression of her audacity.

Now that he thought about it, that had been four years ago. Wen Xia was in her third year at Nongda, studying a rather niche field — she called it veterinary medicine when speaking to others, which is to say she was a vet.

Veterinarian Wen was plagued by a particularly bad streak of misfortune: she caught the attention of thieves, and within half a month had lost five bicycles — all of them expensive brands. Her brother Wen’er, as her primary investor, did some quick arithmetic and was struck with horrified realization. At an average rate of one every three days, her loss rate was even higher than that of the shared bicycles that cluttered every street.

Upon learning that his money had been lining a thief’s pockets, Wen’er flatly refused to buy her a sixth bicycle, and rallied their parents to join him in imposing economic sanctions on his own younger sister.

Veterinarian Wen, rebuffed and dismissed, tossed her ponytail with a lift of her chin and declared defiantly that she would earn her own money and buy her own bicycle.

How admirable! Wen’er crowed with schadenfreude, then threw cold water on the whole plan. “The bikes you like aren’t cheap!”

The prerequisite for earning money is having a job. Wen Xia had squeezed out every last drop of effort at the national college entrance examination and had barely reached the threshold for a key university, only to be placed in Nongda to study veterinary medicine. The foundational knowledge from high school had long since been returned to her teachers along with the spring wind — the tutoring route was clearly not for her.

So what then?

Wen Xia cradled her head in her hands and racked her brains, until her close friend Tao Qianqian offered a suggestion: “I have a roommate who does promotional flyer work. The boss is reliable and pay is daily. Want to give it a try?”

Wen Xia figured that intellectual labor was beyond her, but physical labor was manageable. She nodded her head on the spot and decided: Fine, that’s what she would do.

When she arrived at the venue, Wen Xia discovered that promotional flyer workers also came with uniforms. An eye-searing bright yellow Pikachu costume, with its ears sticking straight up and two blotches of high-altitude red painted on the cheeks.

Tao Qianqian, sucking on a lollipop, suddenly let out a cry and pointed at a figure in the crowd with a large camera at his back. “Do you see that person? The most famous brilliant young scholar at our school — same year as you. Perfect marks for looks, perfect for combat ability, perfect for professional skills. Strangers should keep their distance; even acquaintances should tread carefully. Always wound up tight as a spring. If you dare go hug him while wearing that outfit, I’ll pay you three extra days’ wages.”

Tao Qianqian attended the best arts college in the area; within a ten-kilometre radius from the academic buildings as the center, the number of normal human beings could be counted twice on one hand.

Wen Xia, wearing her Pikachu costume and holding the Pikachu headpiece under her arm, gave her dear friend a very serious look and said, “His combat ability is perfect, and you’re telling me to go get myself killed? Tao Qianqian, do you hate me that much?”

Tao Qianqian held up her lollipop and raised five fingers. “Five days?”

Wen Xia pulled the headpiece over her head. “Deal.”

The figure wore a black shirt and dark casual trousers. A wide-brimmed camera strap hung around his neck. He was very tall — long-legged, waist pulled in, showing a defined waistline. From behind, he was undeniably the type that radiated “do not approach.”

Money makes even ghosts do your bidding. Wen Xia screwed her eyes shut and launched herself at Tao Qianqian’s so-called “brilliant young scholar.”

She had expected to get a solid, full-body embrace, but the scholar dodged nimbly to one side. Unable to stop her momentum, Wen Xia plunged headfirst into a mountain-shaped stack of soap bars. The “mountain range” collapsed with a thunderous crash, burying “Pika-Wen” layer upon layer, leaving only a lightning-bolt tail sticking out above the surface, drooping pathetically a couple of times.

The figure tapped the Pikachu tail with his long camera lens and said, “Hey, little Pokémon — you’ve got the wrong target. I’m not your Pokéball.”

His voice was low and deep. Rather pleasant.

With great difficulty, Wen Xia excavated herself from the soap heap, and the instant she looked up she met a pair of dark eyes.

Single eyelids — from the inner corner to the outer, the line flowed with the sleek precision of a brushstroke reversed at the tip — a rare and striking beauty. The tail of his brow was faintly broken, the bridge of his nose sharp and high. The fingers resting on the camera were slender and refined, his nails kept scrupulously neat.

Tao Qianqian had not lied to her. This man was handsome to the point of appearing almost unreal.

Wen Xia felt her heartbeat stutter, and the tips of her ears and her cheeks flushed red together. From inside the thick, muffled costume, she spun a lie: “Congratulations, sir — you are the one hundred and eighth lucky customer of today’s promotional event, and you have won one Pikachu bear hug!”

The man glanced at her, dropped a cold “too ugly, not hugging,” and turned to leave.

Wen Xia dug in her heels. Dragging her plump, padded body, she gave chase and stretched out her arms to block his path. “You can’t leave without hugging! You’ve won a prize, so you have to claim it! Hug!”

The man had probably detected from her voice that there was a young woman inside the costume. He arched an eyebrow, leaned close to the Pikachu’s head, and said quietly, “Little Miss, groping people requires at least some degree of skill. What you’re doing — forcing yourself on someone — counts as sexual harassment. Keep pestering me and I really will call the police. I’m not joking.”

He patted the cheeks of the Pikachu — the ones painted with those two blotches of high-altitude red — wound his camera strap around his wrist, and walked away.

Tao Qianqian sidled over, lollipop in cheek. “Well? Handsome and aloof, right? I was completely enchanted by him on my very first day of school. Unfortunately, the difficulty level is far too high — to this day I still haven’t managed to get his WeChat or phone number.”

Wen Xia put two and two together: “You talked me into going to hug him — don’t tell me you were planning to swoop in and ask for his number while I created the opening?”

Tao Qianqian spread both hands in a show of innocence. “More friends, more opportunities — I’m just expanding my social network!”

Wen Xia swung her round paw and landed a smack on Tao Qianqian’s pancake-flat little figure. “Tao Qianqian, use me as cannon fodder one more time and I’ll stew Tao Piaopiao in water!”

Tao Piaopiao was Tao Qianqian’s cherished, dearly-loved tabby cat, tipping the scales at ten and a half jin and so round it barely resembled a cat anymore.

Tao Qianqian ran after Wen Xia begging forgiveness. Wen Xia waved her off like a bothersome fly, telling her to go bother someone else — she still had official business to attend to.

The costume was thick, heavy, and airless. Wen Xia stumbled through the crowd like a heavily pregnant woman.

The mall was having a grand opening — thirty percent off everything storewide. The discounts were generous, the giveaways plentiful.

Handing out flyers was one thing, but she also had to satisfy the various demands of passersby. Those who wanted photos or wanted hugs — Wen Xia could understand. But someone grabbing her “tail” without a word and with considerable force, nearly yanking her off her feet — that was a bit much. And now it was happening again, and with no small amount of strength.

When would this ever end? Even a Pokémon had its dignity!

Wen Xia rolled up a flyer into a paper tube and rapped the little monster who was yanking her “tail” on the head. “You — let go!” she snapped fiercely.

The little monster was a boy of four or five, with a watermelon-bowl haircut, and a long braid trailing down the back of his head.

The child was startled by Wen Xia’s fierce yell, and after a blank moment burst into wailing sobs: “Uncle… hit… little monster… hit…”

Wen Xia caught a very familiar figure walking straight toward her out of the corner of her eye.

Black shirt. Casual trousers. A cannon-barrel of a large camera. And those single eyelids like a reversed brushstroke.

The ancients were right — the closer two enemies are, the narrower the path between them.

Wen Xia hurriedly pulled the child into her arms to soothe him, pleading, “Big Sister was wrong — no, the little monster was wrong! The little monster shouldn’t have hit you, so please stop crying!”

I’m afraid his uncle will misunderstand and think I’ve subjected you to some kind of harassment.

The child wailed louder and louder with no sign of stopping. Wen Xia did not dare face that “uncle” with perfect combat ability under these circumstances. Clutching her innocently wronged tail, she fled for her life, leaving one little troublemaker standing behind, bawling his heart out.

Part Three

Even Wen Xia herself couldn’t quite say whether she and Li Zechuan could be called fated.

By the time the promotional event ended, the sky had gone completely dark. Tao Qianqian had no sense of loyalty and was whisked away by a phone call from a friend, off to the colorful delights of her nightlife, leaving Wen Xia stranded at the venue alone.

Wen Xia hesitated between taking a taxi and riding the subway, then ultimately bowed to the mercy of her bank balance.

She had puffed herself up in front of that extortionate brother of hers, Wen’er, boasting that she would save up to buy a better bicycle herself — best to economize where she could.

Near the mall was a construction site, with prefabricated modular panels forming a narrow gravel path leading to the subway station. The path was dark and long, looking rather eerie — but it was close to the station.

Wen Xia bounced on the spot a couple of times to work up her courage, then stepped into the dim, narrow path.

Five minutes later, she was regretting it with her whole being.

The path grew darker with every step. The traffic and neon lights fell further and further behind her. She had walked less than two hundred metres inward when Wen Xia suddenly heard a crisp sound, like a heel stepping on a stone.

Wen Xia spun around, her phone-turned-flashlight swinging in a rapid arc. The blue garbage bin in the corner cast a long shadow. A few flies buzzed about noisily. Aside from that, nothing.

No people, no stray cats or dogs — not even a single wild rat.

The anxiety in her chest grew stronger. Wen Xia quickened her pace without thinking. From behind came the sound of a heel crushing gravel again — neither fast nor slow, matching her step for step. Wen Xia was nearly in tears. She let out a sharp scream and bolted.

She had never run this hard, even during the eight-hundred-metre sprint in her physical fitness exam. If someone had been there with a stopwatch, she might well have broken a record.

She didn’t know how far she had run when suddenly a weight fell on her shoulder. Wen Xia pivoted half a turn under the force, like a compass spinning on a point, and in the dim light of the sky made out a tall figure blocking her path.

A flood of robbery scenes from television dramas erupted in her mind. Wen Xia, her face drained of color, seized the “claw” resting on her shoulder and sank her teeth into it.

To her surprise, the person blocking her was already prepared. A clean, precise joint lock — and she was firmly secured against him.

Soldier Wen, refusing to give up, went for a follow-up kick aimed below the belt. The person behind her was more than capable of handling it and stepped on her loose shoelace.

Soldier Wen was disarmed and rendered immobile, furious enough for steam to rise from the top of her head. “Is it my money you want or my body? Just say which!”

The person behind her let out a small laugh. His voice was low and deep — rather pleasant, and faintly familiar. “Robbing money — explain. Robbing someone — elaborate.”

Wen Xia had the feeling she was being toyed with. As she slowly tried to work out why this person’s voice was so familiar, she said indignantly, “If it’s my money you want, I’ll lie down. If it’s my body, you lie down. Take your pick.”

The person behind her let out a rather helpless sigh. “You girl, you really are…”

Whatever came after “really are,” the person didn’t finish. But Wen Xia was struck by a sudden flash of realization and matched the voice to the face.

It’s him! It’s him! It’s really him!

Wen Xia heard her own heartbeat stumble into disorder. She pressed her lips together. “If you’re not a bad person, then let me go — my arms are sore, it hurts.”

The grip around her wrists loosened slightly, and Wen Xia slipped out from his hold. She snatched up her phone and shone it at his face.

The light was too bright. The person raised a hand to shield his forehead, narrowing his eyes slightly. The warm yellow light filtered through the gaps between his fingers and cast scattered shadows around his nose bridge, deepening the contours of his features, making the lines of his face all the more striking.

It was the same scholar she had encountered earlier.

He was leaning against the blue metal wall of the modular panels, the strap of his camera bag slung over one shoulder. The buttons of his black shirt were not fully fastened, revealing a small strip of lightly tanned skin and a thin collarbone chain — quite striking.

Wen Xia, with a complete lack of composure, swallowed quietly.

The man tilted his chin up slightly. Beneath his single eyelids lay a calm, detached light. “All that biting and kicking — had I known your fighting ability was this strong, I wouldn’t have stepped in at all.”

Wen Xia felt a little embarrassed. She cleared her throat. “I heard footsteps behind me and thought I was being followed. My reaction was a bit excessive — please don’t take it to heart.”

The man looked at her for a moment, then said, with a trace of resignation, “You were actually being followed. It wasn’t your imagination.”

Wen Xia’s expression froze. She swiftly turned to look into the vast darkness behind her, and when she spoke she stammered: “That… that can’t be… The person behind me… wasn’t that just… just you?”

The man looked as though he wanted to sigh again. He produced his wallet and pulled out two documents, holding them up in front of Wen Xia’s eyes. “This is my student card and national ID. Look carefully — I’m not a bad person. This road is too dark and too unsafe. I’ll walk you to the subway station. If you’re still not convinced, you can call a family member and keep the line open the whole way — hang up once you’re inside the station.”

Before the man could put the documents away, Wen Xia grabbed his wrist and, in the dim light, read the words on the student card with great care —

Chuanmei University. Photography Department. Li Zechuan.

The Zuo Zhuan says: when a river is blocked, it becomes a lake.

Wen Xia turned up the corners of her mouth in a secret smile. What a beautiful name.

Li Zechuan put his documents away and made a gesture of invitation, indicating that Wen Xia should walk ahead of him.

Wen Xia turned her eyes and said, pitifully, “I’m a little frightened — could I walk beside you instead?”

Li Zechuan nodded and said, simply, “As you like.” One hand slipped into his trouser pocket, and he turned and walked in the direction of the subway station.

The road ahead was still very dark, but Wen Xia felt, inexplicably, as though sunshine had filled her heart.

I know your name now. How wonderful.

My name is Wen Xia — the “wen” of warmth, the “xia” of summer. The Pikachu at the promotional event who tried to forcibly hug you — that was me inside the costume. Did you recognize me?

Wen Xia had a whole stomach full of things she wanted to say to Li Zechuan, but was afraid he would find her tiresome. She hesitated for a long while and in the end didn’t dare open her mouth.

A wild cat suddenly darted past Wen Xia’s feet. Wen Xia let out a stifled shriek and in the same motion clutched Li Zechuan’s sleeve.

Li Zechuan turned his head and looked at Wen Xia. His pupils were dark and deep, his expression rather indifferent. He said nothing, and did not pull away. Taking advantage of her nerve, Wen Xia let her fingertips creep along his sleeve little by little until she had gathered half his sleeve into her hand.

The narrow path came to its end. One more turning past a crossroads and the subway station would be in sight. With the brightly-lit sign appearing in her field of vision, Wen Xia wrinkled her nose — we arrived so quickly. I should have walked more slowly.

Li Zechuan pointed to the subway entrance. “Go on in. In future, when walking alone at night, don’t take shortcuts.”

Wen Xia said a small “mm,” reluctantly released Li Zechuan’s sleeve, and stole several more glances at him before slowly shuffling toward the entrance.

There will be plenty of time ahead. As long as we’re still living in the same city, there will surely be a chance to meet again.

While waiting for the train, Wen Xia balled both hands into fists and struck a classic strong-sailor pose at her own reflection in the platform doors. Opportunities always go to those who are prepared. Even if fate won’t give me a chance, I’ll create one myself!

A passing passenger spotted Wen Xia grimacing and posing at the platform doors and let out a few suppressed snickers. Wen Xia sent a cool sideways glance in that direction — and caught sight of an unmistakably familiar figure.

Black shirt. Long legs. An enormous camera bag.

Wen Xia’s expression was one of pure shock. “Why is it you again?”

How old are you! — in the sense of: how can it always be you!

Li Zechuan tilted his head back, the line of his neck long and elegant, even the shape of his throat striking. He glanced at the route board and replied simply: “Couldn’t get a taxi.”

Wen Xia swiftly extinguished all her spirit and reverted to a mild and obedient manner, making small talk: “You’re taking this subway too? What a coincidence, what a coincidence.”

Li Zechuan took out his phone and tapped the screen twice, with no indication whatsoever of any interest in conversation. Wen Xia blinked a couple of times, listlessly, closed her mouth, and said nothing more.

The train pulled in and then set off again. The rushing air sweeping through the car carried waves of cold. Wen Xia gripped the handrail and sneezed into the floor with her head bowed, her sinuses beginning to sting — she was probably coming down with a cold.

Li Zechuan, standing beside her, lowered his eyes and looked at her. His lips moved faintly, as though he said something, but it was just then covered by the announcement sound of the train arriving at the next station. Before Wen Xia could use the moment to ask what he’d said, two figures — one tall, one small — stepped into the car.

Part Four

The taller one was an elderly grandmother, her hair pinned up in a bun, plainly dressed. The shorter was a little girl of four or five. The girl wore two small braids, with short fringe spilling loosely over her brow — an endearing sight.

The car was quite full. A woman in a dress blocked most of the girl’s small frame, and Wen Xia could only see the top of a round little head. It was only when that woman sat down in an empty seat that Wen Xia noticed the little girl was completely bare above the waist, wearing only a light pink pair of shorts.

The grandmother was muttering away: “Look at you — never still for a moment. I told you not to go near the fountain and you had to go join the fun. How are you supposed to wear your clothes when they’re this wet? When your father gets off work, I’m definitely telling him about this.”

The little girl kept her head bowed, staring at her feet, not uttering a sound. The two thin braids swayed back and forth beside her ears. Whispers rose up around them, and some people even took out their phones and aimed the cameras at the little girl, clearly meaning to take photographs.

Wen Xia’s expression shifted. She was just about to intervene when Li Zechuan had already moved through the crowd and strode over in quick, purposeful steps. He drew a shirt jacket from his camera bag and wrapped it around the little girl like bundling a dumpling, then used his own back to block the ill-intentioned stares and phone cameras.

The grandmother drew the little girl a step behind herself, her face full of wariness.

Li Zechuan’s tone was calm. “She is growing up. She already has a sense of gender and self-respect. You should not let her appear like this in a public place. She is still small, yes — but that does not mean she won’t be subjected to ill-intentioned scrutiny and harm.”

The grandmother glared at Li Zechuan with open displeasure and said in a low voice, “What child doesn’t grow up bare-bottomed? Scrutiny, harm — it’s people like you adults who have filthy minds. Filthy minds see filth in everything.”

Li Zechuan stood a full head taller than the elderly woman. He looked down at her, lowering his gaze. “You’re right — adults are filthy. That is precisely why you must teach your child how to protect herself, rather than allowing her to be exposed bare before the eyes of strangers. You are her family. If even you don’t teach her how to protect herself, who will? If even you don’t understand how to protect her, who will?”

Li Zechuan’s voice and expression were entirely calm, carrying no trace of anger or preachiness, yet they held a powerful force.

Wen Xia was the first to applaud, her clapping resounding and enthusiastic.

Voices of agreement rang out from the crowd, all taking the side against the old woman.

The train arrived at the next station at just the right moment. The grandmother hurried off with her granddaughter. As they brushed past, the little girl said in a small, tentative voice: “Thank you.”

Something softened very slightly in Li Zechuan’s eyes. A smile with a warmth to it curved at the corner of his lips.

That smile was preserved in Wen Xia’s memory for a very long time — like a scarlet maple leaf stripped of all moisture, frozen forever in the instant of its deepest, most vivid color.

So that no matter how much turmoil came afterward, Wen Xia remained, without the slightest doubt, convinced that Li Zechuan was a good person.

A very, very good person.

Worthy of being loved. Worthy of waiting for.

The protection station had six dormitory rooms in all, each with four bunks, used to accommodate volunteers and passing guests. Affected by altitude sickness, Wen Xia had not slept well. She woke early, freshened up, and began jogging laps around the open ground in front of the station.

On her fourth lap, a sharp, piercing whistle suddenly rang out from the large enclosure behind the protection station. Wen Xia wiped the sweat from her brow and made her way around to the wire netting on the outside of the enclosure, where she saw Li Zechuan using long chopsticks to grip pieces of meat and feed a small falcon perched on his forearm. The little creature had a pair of beautiful brown eyes, with the silhouette of the Kunlun reflected in its irises.

Wilderness. Falcon. Above, a vast azure sky stretching ten thousand spans. Further away, the eternal Kunlun Mountains. The wind carried the cries of wild animals.

Li Zechuan stood there, his figure upright as a sculpture. Sunlight played in his close-cropped black hair. The colors of the world converged in him alone, forming a beauty of the most extreme and consummate kind.

Wen Xia’s heart gave a sudden, trembling lurch. She thought: she must have been entangled with this man since a previous lifetime — that even if she had crossed the Bridge of Helplessness and drunk Meng Po’s soup, she would still love him.

She pushed open the small gate in the wire netting and stepped one foot into the pasture. Something bumped against her heel, then vanished at startling speed. Wen Xia let out a shriek, stumbled half a step, and nearly fell over.

Li Zechuan looked at her. “That’s a pika — a small animal that looks like a rabbit in shape but has the body and characteristics of a rodent. It eats grass and doesn’t bite.”

Wen Xia felt her own startled reaction had been rather embarrassing, and her cheeks flushed with sheepishness as she crept carefully over to Li Zechuan’s side.

Li Zechuan gave a slight motion of his arm. The falcon caught the momentum and soared upward, its wings tracing a pure black line through the air. Wen Xia tilted her head back and was entranced by the sight, murmuring softly: “It really is beautiful.”

The two stood side by side. The wind lifted Wen Xia’s long hair and let it drift across Li Zechuan’s face. He caught a faint, soft fragrance — warm and gentle.

From behind came a soft rustling sound. Wen Xia turned and saw several small, fuzzy Tibetan antelopes. The little ones hadn’t yet grown their horns; their muzzles were somewhat broad, with a touch of black at the tips of their ears, and a short little tail standing up on each rump, swaying gently with the wind.

They had been raised by hand at the protection station and were afraid of neither people nor strangers. They blinked their large, lake-clear eyes and stretched their necks to peek about curiously.

Wen Xia’s delight was beyond words. She hadn’t imagined she would get to see living Tibetan antelopes so soon. She wrapped her arms around Li Zechuan’s arm, saying rapidly: “Tibetan antelopes! Baby Tibetan antelopes! Can I move closer? Will it scare them?”

Li Zechuan was momentarily startled by the sudden embrace, and using the motion of bending down, slipped out from Wen Xia’s hold. He opened a thermos box at his feet, took out a feeding bottle, and handed it to Wen Xia. “Hold this and they won’t be scared.”

Wen Xia took the bottle and stepped forward. The little antelope flinched in alarm and quickly drew its neck back, its front hooves pawing anxiously at the earth.

Wen Xia thought for a moment, then sat down where she was and unscrewed the bottle cap, giving it a gentle shake. The scent of milk drifted out. The little antelope recognized that smell, lifted its nose, and sniffed. The bolder one came edging over and latched onto the bottle’s nipple. It drank too fast, producing sweet milky sounds, its eyes and nose tip both glistening.

The other small antelopes gathered closer too, clustering around Wen Xia, sniffing at her hair and the hem of her jacket. Wen Xia hugged one of them and pressed her cheek against its forehead, her fingers gently kneading the soft fur at its neck, mimicking the way a ewe would soothe her young.

Li Zechuan watched from nearby, and a line he had once read in a book came to him without warning — what warms me, besides winter sunlight, is the unguarded smile you give without knowing it.

His right index finger made an unconscious movement — the motion a photographer makes pressing the shutter.

Suddenly, he found himself missing his camera.

“Sang Ji—” Nuobu called from outside the enclosure. “Station Chief Ma is back. He says to let you know — assembly and meeting in half an hour!”

Li Zechuan set aside the scattered thoughts in his head and touched Wen Xia on the shoulder. “Come on — meeting.”

The station chief’s name was Ma Siming. He was not tall — a quiet, honest, stocky man with a firm, enveloping handshake.

Station Chief Ma had come to Qinghai as a soldier at twenty and never left after that, building his life there, his character taking on the forthright solidity unique to this weighty land.

On the day Wen Xia arrived at the protection station, Station Chief Ma had gone to the county seat to present a report and missed the chance to greet her. Feeling he had been remiss in his hospitality, the moment he returned he gathered the station staff and forest police together, introducing Wen Xia and letting everyone get acquainted with one another.

Wen Xia looked at the alarming red capillaries in Ma Siming’s face and couldn’t help but feel a pang of concern. This was a classic symptom of high-altitude heart disease — the tough man’s health was likely in a far from optimistic state.

Space and funding were both tight at the protection station; there was no independent meeting room. But no one there was the type to make a fuss over such things. Two wooden tables pushed together, a few chairs arranged according to the number of people, and an improvised meeting space was assembled.

It wasn’t just the protection station — the entire Kekexili Nature Reserve was faced with a shortage of resources and personnel. The Forest Police Bureau of the reserve had only twenty personnel on administrative payroll, of whom fourteen worked on the front line, stationed year-round at different protection stations. Li Zechuan, Lian Kai, Ke Lie, and another man named Zhaxi — a Khampa — were stationed at Suonan, and in Station Chief Ma’s eyes they were like his own sons.

All four forest police officers had changed into their uniforms: a dark navy ground, with cap insignia, collar flowers, rank insignia, badge numbers, and chest insignia. Collars starched straight, trouser creases perfectly pressed, peaked caps held in hand — every inch of them radiated integrity and authority.

The others were well enough, but when Li Zechuan pushed open the door and walked in, the room let out a collective gasp of admiration. Too handsome — like a male model. A walking, breathing advertisement for the power of a uniform.

Wen Xia raised a hand and touched the tip of her nose — good, no nosebleed.

The four of them walked side by side to stand before Station Chief Ma, heels together, hands raised in salute.

Station Chief Ma held his enamel tea mug in one hand and pointed with the other at the four towering figures standing before him like pillars. “Let me do some introductions. Li Zechuan, Lian Kai, Ke Lie, Zhaxi — when there are patrol missions, they lead the departures. I’m getting old and can only manage the office.”

Wen Xia stood and shook each hand in turn. When she reached Li Zechuan, her smile was especially bright, stars flickering in her eyes: “Wen Xia, graduate student in veterinary medicine — or as it’s colloquially known, a vet. If anyone’s pigs, dogs, chickens, or ducks come down with a cold or fever, feel free to look for me. One injection and I guarantee they’ll be bouncing around in no time.”

Lian Kai caught Wen Xia’s thread and steered the conversation toward Li Zechuan. “The four of us are all bachelors — no home to speak of, let alone pigs, dogs, chickens, or ducks. But Dachuan there, he’s got something with wings perching on his shoulder and something with a voice at his feet. You two will have plenty to talk about. Oh right — he and Ke Lie share a room, third one on the left.”

Wen Xia said with a smile, “Quite right — Li… Officer Li and I do indeed have many things we could discuss.”

Li Zechuan stood perfectly straight, peaked cap in hand, gaze fixed straight ahead, expression unreadable.

Station Chief Ma was a man who got things done and never wasted words. Having seen to the introductions, he moved directly into the subject of protecting the Tibetan antelopes during lambing season. Ma Siming said: “The higher authorities are concerned about insufficient personnel at the protection stations and have dispatched five short-term trained volunteers and a team of accompanying journalists. The time of arrival will be notified separately — preparations for reception must be made in advance.”

Li Zechuan nodded his assent. Zhaxi muttered: “Volunteers are all well and good, but what do journalists come here for? Just to cause trouble?”

Station Chief Ma set his enamel mug down on the table with a heavy thud. “You complain when there’s no one, and when people are given to you, you pick and choose — how many complaints do you have in you!”

Wen Xia was so startled by the sound of Station Chief Ma slamming the cup that she stuck out her tongue. Catching Li Zechuan glancing her way, she hastily straightened her spine and sat properly.

Zhaxi had walked straight into the line of fire and dared not say another word.

The improvised meeting concluded in just twelve minutes — an impressive show of efficiency.

Ma Siming dismissed everyone and kept Li Zechuan behind on his own. He fished a pack of hard-shell Zhonghua cigarettes from his drawer. “Bought them for you on my trip to the county seat. Smoke them sparingly.”

Li Zechuan relaxed his shoulders, shook one out first and held it up to Station Chief Ma’s lips. “As expected — the old superior is the one who knows how to look after people.”

Ma Siming waved a hand. “Business first. Lian Kai briefed me on last night’s apprehension. It’s a very dangerous signal — the poachers are beginning to stir again. The patrol team should head into the mountains. You’ll lead as before. Several of the people responsible for the old station chief’s death are still at large — be doubly careful.”

Li Zechuan smiled. “I’ve got a tough life.”

Ma Siming flipped through a stack of documents at his side, hesitated a moment, and then said: “There’s one more thing — just for you to know; don’t say anything about it. A merchant by the name of Wen’er, through a civilian environmental organization, has donated over two hundred thousand yuan’s worth of supplies to Suonan Baohuzhan.”

Li Zechuan tapped the end of the cigarette against the box. “Wen’er is Wen Xia’s brother. Is he using the guise of donating supplies to pressure us into finding a reason to remove Wen Xia from the protection station?”

Ma Siming said: “The protection station is short of both money and people — especially professional talent like Wen Xia. Having her stay will be of great help to us. This sort of thing can’t be discussed openly. Just keep it in mind.”

Li Zechuan leaned against the table, one broken eyebrow arching up at an angle, allowing a small smile to show. “Getting the person and the funds together in one go — Station Chief Ma, your appetite is remarkable.”

Ma Siming gave him a kick: “No respect for your elders.”

Li Zechuan took the kick without dodging or flinching, tucked the cigarette box into his pocket, and lowered his eyes — no one could tell what light lay hidden within them. He said slowly: “Wen Xia’s personal records and background — you’ve looked them over. What kind of family she comes from, you understand better than I do. A pampered daughter of a wealthy household, coming here on a whim to have an experience. We won’t need to scheme to drive her away — within half a month, she’ll be clamoring to go back herself.”

Ma Siming looked at him: “You know Wen Xia? She came here because of you, didn’t she? Mind how this looks. At this protection station, year in and year out, you get more letters than anyone else — one after another, like snowflakes — all written by young women. A heap of unwanted romantic entanglements blooming left and right, and not one wife brought home for yourself yet.”

Li Zechuan smiled, and with some wisdom sidestepped the topic entirely. “You can be sure — whoever else may leave, I won’t leave. I’ll fight the poachers to the very last. Blood for blood — since they dare to profit from the flesh and blood of these animals, they should repay that debt with their own flesh and blood.”

A flash of emotion passed through Ma Siming’s eyes. He raised his hand and pressed it to Li Zechuan’s shoulder, his voice dropping low and firm: “When the old station chief was alive, he would often tell me you were a good child — that he trusted you. I trust you too. Good child — remember this: you are a good person. Stay alive, and you can keep fighting. Only when good people live longer than bad people can this world hold onto hope.”

The smile on Li Zechuan’s face gradually faded. He realized that Ma Siming must have learned something — and had chosen, just like the old station chief, to trust him.

That trust was both a weapon and a source of strength.

Li Zechuan slowly straightened, his expression solemn. He raised his hand in salute.

Five fingers pressed together, sliding from the chest, the right arm level with the shoulder. It was as if the sound of a blade leaving its scabbard rang out — his crisp new uniform bent into a sharp, precise arc.

The better a person is, the more they ought to cherish their life — for they are the world’s hope. They are the weapon that defeats evil.

Always remember: you are a good person.