That night, he buried his face in the blanket, curled into a ball, the soles of his feet pressed against the wool lining. The smooth sensation of the wooden comb and the warmth of another’s fingertips still lingered in his hair.
The wind blew from afar, and the campfire crackled once. He did not wake.
The next morning, Xi Yu woke to find a waterskin by his feet. It was warm—someone had heated it by the fire and placed it beside him before he awoke. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, his hair sleep-tousled, but the knot Que Zhi had tied last night still held the ends of his hair neatly together, not a strand loose.
He reached for the waterskin, poured warm water into his palm, and rubbed it over his face. Then he pulled on his boots and walked over to Que Zhi, who was dismantling their makeshift stove.
His hair was still loose, stray strands flying about in the morning breeze, but his words were firm: “Today I want to eat those raisins from last night.”
“All gone.”
“Then you lied yesterday when you said you were saving them for emergencies.”
“I didn’t lie.” Que Zhi set the dismantled stones in neat rows beside the dune, dusted off his hands, and straightened up. “Giving them to you was an emergency. You skipping a meal—that’s an emergency.”
Xi Yu stared at him, lips parting as if to retort, but no fitting reply came. He realized that the silver tongue he had honed over eighteen years in the cold palace often failed him in front of this man. Not because he couldn’t argue back, but because Que Zhi’s words never followed any script—all his carefully prepared barbs landed on cotton.
He finally brushed the sand off his sleeves, lowered his head, and felt the tips of his ears growing warm again.
But this time, he didn’t look away. He raised his chin and met Que Zhi’s gaze directly: “Then find me something else. I want fresh fruit.”
“There’s no fruit in the Gobi.”
“You’re the guide. It’s your job to find it.”
Que Zhi set down the last stone and stood up. He looked at the person before him—hair unbound, green robe wrinkled, boots caked with dust, still that slender, palm-sized face, but his chin was no longer tucked beneath his hat the way it had been at the inn.
The way he tilted his chin up and gave orders was worlds apart from the distant, mild-mannered scholar who had hidden everything beneath his hat brim just days ago.
Que Zhi had known from the very first glance that the other man wasn’t real. This was the real one—a little willful, a little unreasonable, the kind who would wrinkle his nose and say “my feet are turning into hourglasses” when sand got in his boots, who would pick a fight with himself over a hair ribbon, who would stick out his foot and say “pour it” as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
It was the tone of someone who had been spoiled—though only for a few days.
Not unpleasant at all. In fact, a trace of deeply hidden, secret joy rippled quietly in his heart.
Xi Yu himself never knew that he was naturally soft in every way. Sometimes, without even speaking, simply standing there quietly—with his strikingly beautiful features, gentle brows and eyes, and a demeanor so clear and soft—he looked like a pampered little Persian cat, soft and obedient, mild and sweet.
And if he spoke, his voice light and gentle, he was like a plump little glutinous rice ball—fair, pure, and so utterly endearing that one couldn’t help but want to indulge him, to treasure this unique tenderness in secret.
Every move he made carried an unconscious softness and sweetness, alluring without knowing it, so lovely it made one’s heart melt—irresistibly tempting one to yield and quietly cherish this exclusive gentleness.
Que Zhi reached out to straighten Xi Yu’s skewed collar. His fingers paused at the edge for an almost imperceptible moment, then he withdrew them.
“Let’s go. There’s a town ahead. I’ll find you something when we get there. Come on.”
Xi Yu watched his back, then lowered his head to fix his collar properly. The smile tugging at his lips wouldn’t go down, so he let it stay.
He trotted a few steps to catch up with Que Zhi. The camel’s hooves left a string of tiny, deep prints in the sand, wobbling and overlapping with the larger prints ahead.
The morning light cast their shadows one in front of the other across the golden Gobi, separated by the width of a fist.
It was on the afternoon of the eighth day that Xi Yu realized something was wrong with Que Zhi.
That morning, they had traveled as usual.
The Gobi dawn was gentle—cool breezes skimmed the ground, sculpting the sand into shallow ripples, as if the desert itself were breathing.
Xi Yu rode his camel at a leisurely pace, following behind Que Zhi. With one hand, he held a piece of dried rations and took small bites, his gaze drifting lazily across the vast, desolate Western Regions scenery.
Bored, he used his other hand to reach out and toy with the empty waterskin hanging from the saddle. His fingers hooked around the knot and gave it a gentle swing back and forth.
The empty leather pouch knocked softly against the wooden saddle, making a light thumping sound—he played with it like a rattle, thoroughly amused.
The road ahead was veiled in drifting sand and dust. Que Zhi sat upright on his camel, back straight, without turning his head. His low voice drifted back through the wind:
“You’ll ruin the waterskin.”
Xi Yu took another bite of his ration, cheeks puffed out, and tipped his head back with complete conviction:
“No, I won’t. It’s empty, it’s not heavy. A few gentle swings won’t break it.”
Far from stopping, he swung it even more lightly and happily—carefree and soft, utterly unconcerned with the warning.
Que Zhi didn’t respond. After two seconds of silence, a low, muffled sound came from his throat.
Xi Yu had already learned to read that sound—it wasn’t anger. It was acquiescence.
He grinned and swung it a few more times with extra flair.
But by afternoon, he noticed that Que Zhi’s silence was different from before.
Not the kind of silence that came from being at a loss for words. It was another kind—his back was too straight, his fingers gripping the reins white-knuckled, his head tilted slightly to one side, as if listening for something far away.
Xi Yu followed his gaze and saw only the endless Gobi and a heat-shimmering horizon.
But he noticed that Que Zhi’s camel had somehow moved from the front to beside him. The two camels walked side by side, and Que Zhi’s body was positioned precisely to shield his left side—the west.
“What’s wrong?” Xi Yu asked.
“Nothing.” Que Zhi’s voice was flat.
Xi Yu didn’t believe him. He was about to press further when he felt something off—the wind had stopped.
The wind never stopped in the Gobi. He had grown used to the constant howling in his ears, used to the prickling sensation of sand against his skin.
But now the wind had suddenly died, and the entire desert had fallen into an unnatural stillness. The sky was still blue, but it was a bleached, pale blue—as if someone had draped a veil over it.
The camels began to pace uneasily, low guttural rumbles coming from their throats, nostrils flaring wide, front hooves pawing at the ground.
Xi Yu gripped his reins tighter, his voice still steady: “Que Zhi, what exactly is going on?”
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