The sun had just risen when the two of them set off together.
The sunrise over the Gobi was different from the one in the small town.
In town, sunrise was something that happened between the rooster’s crow and the rising cooking smoke—blocked by mud walls, filtered through tree shadows. By the time the sun appeared, it was already half a pole high, warm and gentle, with no temper to speak of.
But on the Gobi, sunrise was a silent eruption.
The eastern horizon would first be torn open by a crack, letting through cold white light. Then came orange-red, then gold. Finally, the entire sun would leap up from the horizon in one burst, illuminating the whole desert until even the edges of the sand grains were visible in sharp relief.
Xi Yu sat on his camel, watching this sunrise. He didn’t even notice his reins had gone slack.
He had seen sunrises before.
The Cold Palace’s windows faced east. In winter, the light that leaked in was also orange-red—but it was light that had been shattered by the window lattice, filtered through old paper, confined by four tall walls. When it fell to the ground, it was only a small patch. He would crouch beside it and reach out to cup it in his hands, but it never warmed him.
Later, after leaving the palace, he’d seen sunrises from the caravan carts—but then there had been the sound of wheels grinding on the official road behind him, the caravan leader’s shouts overhead. The sunrise was scenery, yes, but also just background.
This time was different.
Before him stretched an endless Gobi. No walls, no trees, no signs of human life.
There was only the Gobi and him watching the sunrise. The Gobi said nothing, and neither did he.
Xi Yu sat up a little straighter on the camel’s back. His eyes beneath the hat brim reflected the entire golden morning light.
Que Zhi, riding ahead, glanced back at him.
From where he sat, Xi Yu was completely bathed in the morning glow.
His faded blue robe had been dyed a warm yellow. The frayed threads at his cuffs caught the light in gold, as if some careless embroiderer had casually stitched a few lines with golden thread.
His face was half-hidden in the shadow cast by his hat brim, revealing only a small stretch of jaw—pointed, pale as jade not yet touched by the sun.
His eyes held a faint smile, the corners of his lips curving in the barest trace. It wasn’t quite a smile—but in the morning light, it looked like one.
Que Zhi turned back, tugged his reins, and said nothing.
And so they traveled on, one ahead of the other.
There was no road on the Gobi—only the tracks left by those who had passed before. Camel hooves pressed into the sandy soil, scattering in a pattern of deep and shallow prints, like some difficult script.
The wind was light, occasionally sweeping up to carry fine sand against their faces in a prickling spray.
Xi Yu pulled the cloth at his collar up higher to cover his chin.
After a while, he spoke: “Do you know the way?”
From up ahead came Que Zhi’s low reply: “I know it.”
A pause, then he added: “I’ve traveled it before.”
Traveled it before? Xi Yu thought for a moment, but didn’t press further.
He just said: “Good.”
The camels’ hooves struck the sandy earth with a dull, rhythmic thud—one after another, unhurried, like the heartbeat of the entire Gobi.
Listening to that sound, something inside Xi Yu began to slow down too.
Xi Yu started noticing things he hadn’t had time to notice before—a lizard darting across the sand, stopping to tilt its head at him, then vanishing into a crack between stones.
An eagle circled overhead, flying so high that its wings barely seemed to move, as if buoyed by the wind, watching the two tiny black dots on the ground below.
In the distance, a few clumps of dry shrubs stood, grey and dusty, blending in with the rocks until it was impossible to tell where plant ended and stone began.
He suddenly remembered an old book in the Cold Palace—left behind by someone unknown—with a page depicting the Gobi and camels.
The drawing was crude; the camel looked like a table with legs.
He had flipped through that page countless times, rubbing the edges of the paper until they were soft and frayed.
Back then, he thought that was what the Gobi looked like. That was a camel. That was the distant horizon.
Now he knew it wasn’t.
Camels didn’t look like tables, and the Gobi didn’t look like a drawing.
The Gobi in the drawing was dead. The real Gobi was alive—the wind was alive, the sand was alive, even the silence was alive.
He wanted to tell Old Zhou: The world outside the place you helped me escape from—it’s truly vast.
But he could only think it, not say it. Old Zhou could no longer hear him.
Xi Yu swallowed the thought and looked up to watch the sunrise again.
Once the sun climbed higher, the Gobi was no longer so gentle. It was hot.
Not the muggy, humid heat of the Central Plains—this was dry, fierce heat, like being roasted over a furnace. Every inch of skin was losing moisture, and his lips began to peel.
The sun bleached the sand to a white glare. In the distance, the air warped and shimmered with heat, turning the Gobi into a blurred mirror where nothing was clear.
Beads of fine sweat formed on Xi Yu’s forehead, sliding down his cheeks and soaking the inner edge of his hat brim.
But he didn’t take off his hat.
He sat upright on the camel, back straight, one hand holding the reins, the other resting on the saddle. His posture was as proper as if he were seated at a desk, brush in hand.
Que Zhi looked back at him several times.
The first time was just a glance. The second time, his eyes lingered for half a beat. The third time, he pulled his camel to a full stop.
Xi Yu’s camel stopped as well.
“What—” Xi Yu started, but before he could finish, Que Zhi had dismounted and strode over to him.
He looked up at Xi Yu on the camel, brows furrowed, sunlight blazing directly onto his face, turning those amber eyes into a pale gold. His pupils narrowed slightly: “Are you unwell?”
“No,” Xi Yu said, a little puzzled.
“Your face is pale.”
“It’s the sun,” Xi Yu wiped the sweat from his chin with his sleeve. “My skin is fair—it doesn’t tan. I’m not unwell.”
Que Zhi stared at him for a few seconds.
His eyes swept over him like a hawk’s—from his complexion to his lips, to the hand holding the reins, checking for any tremble.
Then, seeming to confirm something, his brow relaxed a fraction—though his mouth remained pressed tight.
He walked to his own camel, pulled a blanket from one of the packs, shook it out, folded it into a thick square in a few quick motions, and handed it back to Xi Yu: “Pad this under you.”
He said, “The camel saddle’s hard. It’ll hurt after a long ride. It’s your first time riding a long distance—you won’t say anything, but by the time you do, it’ll already be too late.”
Xi Yu took the blanket and ran his fingers over it. It was thick, woven from coarse wool, prickly to the touch—but it would indeed cushion the hardness of the saddle.
He looked down at the blanket, then back at Que Zhi, whose cheekbones were flushed red from the sun.
“Don’t you need it yourself?”
“I’m used to it,” Que Zhi had already swung back onto his camel. He paused, then added: “You don’t have to get used to it.”
Xi Yu arranged the blanket beneath him. It was much more comfortable.
He looked up at the tall silhouette ahead. The sun blazed against his grey coarse robe, its outline wavering slightly in the heat haze.
He still couldn’t see through this man—sparse with words, direct, offering no explanations. Yet every pause, every turn of his head, came at just the right moment.
Xi Yu pulled the dagger from his sleeve and looked again at the carving on the sheath.
Still, he couldn’t read it.
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