After that conversation by the well at dusk, Xi Yu assumed his encounter with that “blacksmith” was over.
In a frontier town like this, unfamiliar faces came and went every day. Some stayed a single night at the inn and were never seen again. Others vanished without even leaving a name behind, swallowed by the wind and sand.
He thought the blacksmith was no different—he’d come from some road, leave by some other, pause in the town for a while, then disappear as if he’d never been there at all.
But over the next three days, he ran into the man almost every day.
The first time was the next morning.
Xi Yu had woken late. The sun was already climbing above the inn’s mud wall, making the chili peppers drying in the courtyard gleam brightly.
As usual, he dragged his bamboo chair to the entrance and sat down, holding a bowl of millet porridge the innkeeper had saved for him, blowing on the steam.
From across the street, the blacksmith’s hammering had already begun—the same rhythm: heavy, steady, every strike landing on the same spot.
What a lot of strength.
He’d taken two sips of porridge when his peripheral vision caught a pair of boots stopping in front of him.
The boots were old, the leather worn to a pale white, the tops crusted with dried mud and white salt stains.
The owner of the boots stood before him, his shadow casting the entire length of Xi Yu’s body in darkness.
Xi Yu followed the boots upward: gray coarse-cloth trouser legs, a worn leather belt with frayed edges, then a dusty short jacket with its collar open.
And then he met those eyes.
Que Zhi stood in the morning light, holding a fresh flower in one hand and a paper bundle in the other.
He didn’t speak. He simply placed the flower and the bundle gently into Xi Yu’s lap.
The flower was fresh. The bundle was warm.
“What’s this?” Xi Yu caught them and looked up at him.
“Buns. Flower.”
Que Zhi’s voice was the same as before—low and raspy, as if his throat had been sanded raw.
He finished speaking, then immediately averted his gaze and dropped his head, hiding the tips of his ears that had flushed bright red.
In a fluster, he turned and walked back, but stopped after two steps, as if remembering something. He half-turned his head.
His profile in the morning light was sharply defined, the old scar on his cheekbone tracing a faint white line in the glow.
“Lamb filling,” he said, his tone as though he were reporting military intelligence.
“Eat more. You’re too thin.”
Before Xi Yu could respond, he had already strode back into the blacksmith’s shop. The curtain parted, and that tall figure disappeared into the dark interior. Immediately after, the hammering resumed—clang, clang, clang, one after another, unhurried and steady.
Xi Yu sat on the bamboo chair, holding the paper bundle, stunned for a moment.
He unwrapped it to find two buns inside—thin-skinned, generously filled, still steaming.
He broke one open. The aroma of lamb mingled with cumin rushed out, rich and oily, hot enough to make his fingertips redden.
He took a bite. It was delicious. Then he looked at the flower in his other hand.
But as he ate, he was already calculating in his mind—a complete stranger, who’d stared at him on first meeting, told him he was thin, and then on second meeting, placed flower and buns directly into his arms.
Having grown up in the Cold Palace, he was born not to believe in “unprovoked kindness.”
Who would be this attentive to a chance-met scholar? What was he after?
Xi Yu thought it over for a long time and came up with nothing.
He looked down at himself—a faded blue robe, frayed cuffs, the hat brim pulled low to cover most of his face.
The most valuable thing on him was the few taels of silver in his bundle—not even enough to buy a camel.
A blacksmith, if he were looking to swindle someone, wouldn’t bother with him.
The buns were still warm.
He took another bite. As he chewed, his fingers brushed against something at the bottom of the paper bundle—a small packet wrapped in oil paper, warmed by the buns, slightly stuck to the bottom.
Xi Yu opened it to find a piece of malt candy.
The candy had softened from the heat, sticking to the oil paper, pulling into a thin, fine strand.
Xi Yu put the candy in his mouth.
It melted. Very sweet.
He thought of Old Zhou.
Old Zhou used to bring him candy too—the cheapest malt sugar, sometimes with bits of thread and paper scraps clinging to it from his pockets.
Xi Yu always said he didn’t want it, but Old Zhou always brought it anyway. After Old Zhou died, he never had candy again.
He swallowed the sweetness still lingering at the root of his tongue. Beneath the hat brim, the corner of his mouth curved upward just slightly.
The second time was the next evening.
Xi Yu went to the backyard to draw water from the well.
The sky wasn’t fully dark yet—a final strip of dark orange still clung to the western horizon. The yard was empty.
He took off his hat and set it on the well’s rim, bent down, and scooped up a handful of cool water to splash on his face.
The frontier evening wind had already turned cold, and the icy water made him shiver. Droplets traced along his jaw and dripped onto his collar, staining the already softened fabric with dark wet patches.
He straightened up, casually brushed the damp hair hanging to his chest back over his shoulder, wiped his face with the back of his hand, then glanced down at the well’s surface.
Two reflections shimmered on the water. One was his. The other stood three paces behind him.
Xi Yu froze completely.
In that instant, his heart missed a beat—but his body reacted before his mind could. He didn’t spin around, didn’t cry out. Instead, he slowly straightened his back, lowered his gaze, letting his lashes veil whatever lay in his eyes.
This was an instinct he’d honed over more than a decade in the Cold Palace: when danger approached, hide first. Lower your head. Conceal your most conspicuous feature—your eyes.
Then he turned sideways and reached for his hat on the well’s rim, his movements so steady they betrayed nothing.
“My apologies,” Xi Yu said, his voice warm but distant. “I’m in your way.”
He picked up his hat, settled it back on his head, and pulled the brim low. Throughout the entire motion, he didn’t look at the man once.
But he could feel that gaze.
Que Zhi stood three paces away, holding a coil of hemp rope, as if he’d just come from the storeroom in the back.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.
His gaze rested on Xi Yu. Those amber eyes held no surprise, no embarrassment, no guilty flicker of being caught staring.
He just looked—at the damp strands of hair clinging to the side of this person’s neck, at the water droplets sliding past the collar and disappearing into the depths of his robe; at his face still wet, catching the dusk light in a thin, glossy sheen; at the shadow beneath the hat brim that hid most of his face, revealing only a small stretch of jaw—sharp, pale as the moon just drawn from the well.
How long had he stood by the well? What had he seen?
Que Zhi didn’t say. He just ground out two words from his throat: “It’s nothing.”
His voice was lower than usual, rawer.
Xi Yu gave a slight nod and walked past him.
His pace was unhurried, the hem of his blue robe brushing against the wild grass by the well with a faint, soft rustle.
Que Zhi stood where he was, not turning around.
He shifted the coil of rope to his other hand, his knuckles unconsciously tightening, the coarse hemp biting into the calluses of his palm.
Then he walked to the well and dropped the bucket in. The bucket hit the water with a dull thump.
He stared into the well for a while. The water reflected his face—brows furrowed, gaze dark, lips pressed into a thin line.
He suddenly raised a hand and wiped his face. His palm was slick with sweat.
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