After two days of camping at the river bend, they finally reached the foot of the snow mountain.
The snowline Xi Yu had been gazing at from afar all this way was now right before him.
At the base of the mountain, the scree slopes were covered in patches of wild iris—blue-purple, low to the ground, their petals still holding dewdrops condensed from melting snow. The air was cold and thin, every breath carrying the scent of snow and crushed stone.
Xi Yu jumped off his camel and stepped onto the scree. The soles of his boots crunched over weathered granite fragments, making a fine crackling sound—like stepping on some ancient bones.
“So this is the snow mountain.” He tilted his head back, his voice soft, as if afraid of waking something.
Behind him, Que Zhi tethered the camels, pulled two heavy cloaks from the saddlebag, and walked over to drape one over Xi Yu’s shoulders.
Xi Yu was still gazing upward in a daze when a sudden weight settled on his shoulders. He looked down to see gray wool wrapping around his empty right sleeve.
He reached up and touched it—thick, the stitching rough but sturdy, not new, carrying a faint scent of soapberry.
“When did you prepare this?” he asked softly, his gaze falling on the other’s subtle movements, a faint trace of curiosity hidden within.
“Before we set out.” Que Zhi lowered his head and fastened his own heavy cloak, moving unhurriedly—in truth, he’d prepared warm clothing early, mindful of the mountain chill.
He stepped slowly up the slope, his tone light and gentle, without a trace of harshness, his plain words quietly wrapped in thoughtful care.
He stopped on a protruding rock, turned, and reached down. His hand hung in midair, palm up, the old scar on the web of his thumb faded almost to invisibility.
Xi Yu placed his hand in it. Two hands, both pale from the mountain cold, clasped together. Que Zhi gave a firm pull, hoisting him up, then let go and continued climbing—as if he’d only given a casual helping hand.
They made their way up along a dry alluvial gully. This was clearly not a proper mountain path—just a shallow channel carved by running water, its bed piled with loose gravel and boulders that had rolled down from above. Every step sent the ground sliding back half a pace beneath their feet. The camels couldn’t come up here.
Xi Yu led the way.
He climbed fast, using both hands and feet. His fingers, used to holding a writing brush, gripped the rock edges until his knuckles went white. When his boots slipped on the gravel, he didn’t make a sound.
The wind whistled sharply through the rock crevices, as if the whole mountain were blowing on a giant flute. He climbed a few steps, looked up at the snowline, then kept climbing. The hem of the heavy cloak dragged over the gravel, its cuffs caked with stone dust and debris.
Que Zhi followed behind, always keeping within two body lengths—close enough that if Xi Yu slipped, he could reach out and catch him.
He didn’t say “Slow down,” didn’t say “Be careful.” He just followed in silence, as if he would always be there to steady Xi Yu.
He watched Xi Yu’s pace and knew—young as he was, his stamina couldn’t match someone raised on horseback. But he said nothing. Only when Xi Yu’s foot slipped on a loose stone did he reach out and brace his back.
His palm pressed against the heavy cloak, warmth passing through the coarse wool—just for an instant. Xi Yu steadied himself, didn’t look back, and kept climbing. Because he knew that even if he fell, there would be someone behind to catch him.
They stopped to rest halfway up the mountain. Xi Yu sat on a protruding rock, catching his breath, his white puffs of exhalation scattered by the wind.
Que Zhi stood behind him, untied the waterskin from his waist, and handed it over. Xi Yu took a sip, then looked up at the snowline that still stretched a third of the way above them. His lips parted—
But Que Zhi cut him off: “This is your first time climbing a mountain this high. Don’t rush.”
“Have many people climbed this mountain before?”
“Yes. Herders. Hunters. Medicine gatherers. But no one like you has climbed it.”
“What do you mean—no one like me? You mean no Jiangnan scholar has climbed it?”
“No.” Que Zhi took the waterskin back, drank, capped it, and looked at him.
The mountain wind carried his voice in fragments—low and deep, as if filtered through the rocks: “It’s that among Jiangnan scholars, there’s no one as happy as you.”
Xi Yu turned his face away, stood up, and brushed the stone dust from his hands. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of unwilling pride at being seen through.
In the afternoon, they crossed the snowline.
The moment his first foot stepped onto the snow, Xi Yu froze entirely. This wasn’t the thin, fleeting snow of the Gobi that melted after a day’s wind—this was real, year-round accumulated snow. His boots pressed down with a soft creaking sound, yielding beneath him as if stepping on clouds.
He crouched down and scooped up a handful of snow. It didn’t melt instantly in his palm but kept its fluffy, hexagonal crystal form, glittering with fine light under the sun. He brushed the snow from his hands, stood up, and looked around—then tilted his head back to gaze at the summit.
Not far above, a hollow held deeper snow, with wind-sculpted snow cornices hanging from the rock edges like frozen banners.
They had just climbed above the cloud line; above them, only wind-scoured gravel remained, not even moss could grow. And below—the mountain’s base and the Gobi had shrunk into a blur of gold, the river bend far away now just a silver thread.
Xi Yu heard Que Zhi stop behind him.
He turned around.
Que Zhi stood behind him, snow dusting his heavy cloak, his hair tousled by the wind. Against the snowy mountain backdrop, he looked exceptionally tall and straight.
His eyes, amid all this white, were no longer the amber of the Gobi—they were deeper, touched with gray, a gray-blue-gray, as if the mountain’s shadows had been crushed and dissolved into them. And those gray-blue-gray eyes were looking at him. Not at the view—but at him, standing in the snow, brushing snow from his hands, wearing Que Zhi’s heavy cloak above the cloud line.
Que Zhi walked over to him, pulled a piece of dried rations from his sleeve, and broke it in two.
One piece—the larger half—he’d deliberately kept whole as he broke it, using his fingers to pinch the edge. The break was crooked, but the larger half landed steadily in Xi Yu’s hand.
The rations were hard, making his jaw ache as he chewed, but he ate them happily.
Not because he was hungry—but because here, at this elevation where nothing grew, chewing dry rations tasted better than any imperial feast.
“Que Zhi.”
“Mm.”
“You were right. You can see really far from here.” He shifted a step to the side, making room for Que Zhi beside him.
His boot prints and Que Zhi’s boot prints lay on the same patch of snow—one set shallow and narrow, the other deep and wide, like some unfamiliar script written across the snow’s surface.
Que Zhi didn’t look at the distance. He looked at the person beside him—the one who’d tilted his head up at the mountain’s base, now standing at his shoulder, snow spilling into his collar, his lips pale from cold, but his eyes startlingly bright.
That wild, unrestrained flower—blooming more freely than ever above the snowline. He swallowed the words back, saying only: “The wind is picking up. Don’t stay too long.”
On the way down, something went wrong.
Not with Xi Yu—with Que Zhi.
Leave a Reply