It wasn’t until the evening of the next day that he truly met that “blacksmith.”
Xi Yu was sitting at the inn’s entrance as usual.
The sun had already set, and the last traces of twilight were gathering at the horizon. The street vendors were beginning to pack up their stalls.
Xi Yu had just bathed, and his hair wasn’t completely dry yet, so he’d left his hat off—simply tying his long hair loosely behind his head. A few damp strands clung to the sides of his neck, soaking the collar of his blue robe.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a stretch of pale, slender forearm. The wrist bone jutted out slightly, and faint blue veins were visible beneath the skin.
He was looking down, wiping his hands with a cloth, when he caught a glimpse of someone emerging from the blacksmith’s shop in his peripheral vision.
He didn’t look up immediately.
He just swept a glance from the corner of his eye.
The man was very tall.
He appeared to be nearly a head taller than Xi Yu, with an excellent build—not the pampered bulk of the well-fed, but the solid, hardened frame of someone who’d been through fire and blades. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, muscle lines shifting beneath his coarse linen robes with every movement.
The blacksmith was bare-chested, a cloth of indistinguishable color slung over his back, his entire body slick with sweat and coal dust.
His bronze skin gleamed with a muted luster in the fading light, crisscrossed with old and new scars layered upon one another.
He walked to the well, drew a bucket of water, and raised it to pour over his head.
The water crashed to the ground with a loud splash, soaking his boots and trousers.
He didn’t seem to mind. He shook the water from his hair with a rough, careless motion.
Then he turned his head and met Xi Yu’s gaze.
They were not far apart—just a few steps across the yellow-earth street.
The twilight slanted in from the side, casting both their shadows long across the ground.
Xi Yu now saw the man’s face clearly.
Deep-set eyes, a high-bridged nose, brow bones as sharp as if carved by a blade. Shadows pooled faintly in his eye sockets. His irises leaned toward a deep hue, his gaze sharp and unflinching.
His jaw was firm and defined, his lips on the paler side, his features bearing the hardened edges weathered by years of wind and sand—wild and strikingly handsome.
A faint old scar ran across his cheekbone, so aged it was barely noticeable unless you looked closely. His entire bearing was one of contained power—standing there like a towering mountain range, carrying both the untamed ferocity bred by the desert winds and an innate, imposing dignity.
His eyes were not the common color of Central Plains folk—they held a hint of amber, as if the sands of the Gobi had been sun-scorched and preserved in his gaze.
That face was not the delicate, refined type of the Central Plains, but one of rough, bold lines—sharp brows, strong jaw, an air of rebellious wildness emanating from every angle.
Deep-set eyes, a straight, prominent nose—each feature on its own was fierce and striking, but together they formed a face that was fiercely, breathtakingly handsome.
Xi Yu looked at him quietly and gave him a four-character assessment in his heart: Authority without anger.
The man spoke. His voice was rougher and deeper than Xi Yu had expected—as if his throat had been worn raw by wind and sand: “Where do you come from?”
Xi Yu raised an eyebrow slightly.
That tone wasn’t casual conversation. It sounded more like an interrogation of a captive.
Without revealing anything, he continued wiping his fingers unhurriedly. Only after he’d dried the last one did he look up and meet the man’s gaze from beneath the shadow of his hat brim.
His peach-blossom eyes curved slightly—his habitual expression, perfectly gentle, non-aggressive, yet revealing nothing.
He said: “Jiangnan.”
The man gave no reaction.
No nod. No reply. He just kept staring at him.
Those amber eyes glowed especially bright in the shadows—like the eyes of a wolf on the Gobi at night.
Xi Yu felt the faintest tension creep up his back under that gaze—he was no stranger to this kind of look. He’d observed others the same way back in the Cold Palace.
Scrutiny. Assessment. Judgment.
This man was no ordinary person.
The silence stretched on for a few seconds.
The air was filled only with the soft rustle of wind passing through the alleyway, and the distant, fading echoes of hammering.
Finally, the man slowly withdrew his gaze, shifting his attention away from Xi Yu. He bent down to set down the bucket, his fingertips brushing carelessly along its rim, then picked up the grimy, coal-smudged cloth and turned to walk back toward the blacksmith’s shop.
His steps were steady, bearing the heavy, grounded weight of years of hard labor.
After two steps, he paused abruptly. His back was straight as a ramrod, and without turning his head, he spoke—his voice low and rough, carried back through the evening wind with an unplaceable nuance: “You’re too thin.”
Xi Yu froze, his fingers halting mid-motion. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his eyes.
With that, the man strode without hesitation into the shop. The heavy curtain was swept aside with a casual flick of his hand—whoosh—and fell back into place, shutting out the fading daylight. His figure vanished instantly into the dark, shadowy depths of the forge.
Xi Yu sat there, the cloth still suspended in his hand. It took him a long moment to process it—was that concern? No, it didn’t feel like concern.
Concern wasn’t thrown out so bluntly, like a hurled stone.
But it didn’t feel like disdain either.
Who would speak to a stranger with that tone if they meant to dismiss them?
Xi Yu thought about it for a long time, but couldn’t find a fitting word to describe that remark.
Eventually, he gave up.
But he remembered that voice.
He remembered those amber eyes that had only glanced at him once in the twilight. And he remembered the crisscrossing old scars on those shoulder blades as that tall figure disappeared behind the curtain.
That night, as the innkeeper was keeping accounts behind the counter, Xi Yu broke his usual silence to ask: “That blacksmith next door—how long has he been here?”
The innkeeper didn’t look up: “Even longer than you. About half a month now. Said he was waiting for camels. If you ask me, the camels came and went long ago—he’s just making excuses to stay. He’s been pounding Old Li’s anvil to pieces every day; Old Li’s about ready to cry.”
She tapped her brush against the inkstone and looked up at Xi Yu. “Why do you ask?”
Xi Yu lowered his eyes, his lashes casting faint shadows in the lamplight, his tone casual: “Nothing. Just curious.”
The innkeeper didn’t dwell on it and went back to her books.
Xi Yu carried his oil lamp back to his room.
He closed the door, set the lamp on the table, and stood by the window, pushing it open just a crack to peer outside.
A lizard was lying on the courtyard’s mud wall—probably the same one from daytime. It hadn’t moved.
It lay motionless on the stone, as if waiting for something.
Xi Yu watched it, his fingers absently toying with a loose thread at his cuff.
Waiting for camels? Making excuses to stay?
He thought again of those amber eyes.
There had been no trace of camels in those eyes. No trace of ironwork either. Only that imperious, penetrating gaze—as if it saw right through everything.
Xi Yu closed the window. The lizard was still there on the stone.
The corner of his lips curved slightly as he murmured to himself.
This little town—it really was interesting.
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