They had been walking through the Gobi for three days.
Xi Yu had never known the sky could be so vast.
In the palace, the sky was a neat square—trimmed by glazed tiles, framed by palace walls, even the clouds moving in prescribed patterns.
But in the Gobi, the sky stretched from east to west, filling every inch of one’s field of vision and still seeming insufficient—spilling over beyond the dunes, beyond that blurred horizon at the edge of sight.
Xi Yu rode atop his camel, head tilted back to gaze at the sky, his hat brim sliding to the back of his head without him noticing.
In three days, he’d learned to doze on camelback, to wrap his face in cloth against the wind and sand, to tell camel tracks from horse tracks in the sand—the former round and broad, the latter narrow and deep.
But he still hadn’t learned to use a flint.
His fingers were long and pale, the calluses he’d earned in the cold palace were from gripping a writing brush, not from the brute force of striking fire.
On the second night, he’d crouched by the fire pit, posture perfectly proper, and nearly shattered his own fingernail while peppering his face with sparks.
Que Zhi had taken the flint back without a word and never let him touch it again.
This man still spoke very little.
Every morning when Xi Yu woke, the fire was already rekindled, the waterskins refilled—he had no idea where Que Zhi found the water, as if he instinctively knew where every hidden spring lay beneath every dry riverbed in the Gobi.
If Xi Yu didn’t ask, he didn’t explain.
They traveled in silence, with only the camel bells and the wind for company. But Xi Yu noticed that whenever his camel lagged more than nine feet behind, the lead camel would slow down on its own.
On the afternoon of the third day, Xi Yu was counting camel tracks with his head down when he heard Que Zhi’s brief voice from ahead: “There’s an oasis up ahead.”
He looked up.
A small patch of green floated on the horizon, looking unreal against the yellow sand—like someone had dropped a single drop of emerald ink onto the Gobi.
As they drew nearer, he made it out clearly—a dozen poplar trees surrounding a shallow pool of water. The surface wasn’t large, reflecting the sky and the shadows of the trees, shimmering in the breeze.
The poplar leaves rustled and fluttered in the wind—a sound that didn’t belong to the Gobi, but rather to the rains of Jiangnan.
Xi Yu slid down from the camel’s back, his feet sinking into the damp sand as he walked to the water’s edge and crouched down.
The water was clear, revealing the sandy bottom and the root tendrils of water plants.
He reached out—a cool sensation spread from his fingertips, making him shiver, and then he smiled.
This was the first time in the Gobi that he’d touched water.
Not the tepid stored water from the waterskins, but living water—cold, seeping up from beneath the earth.
Xi Yu cupped a handful and splashed it on his face. Droplets ran down his jaw, washing away three days’ worth of wind-blown sand.
He cupped another handful, hesitated, then took off his hat and buried his entire face in the water cradled in his palms.
The coolness pierced every pore. He exhaled, lifted his head, and droplets pattered down onto his collar.
Que Zhi was tethering the camels.
He tied both beasts to the poplar trunks, pulled the waterskins from the packs, and crouched by the water to fill them.
After filling both skins, he paused and glanced sideways at Xi Yu.
That man was utterly absorbed in playing with the water.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing his entire forearms—so pale they didn’t belong to someone who’d been on the road for three days, a thin film of water on his skin catching the sunlight in a soft, pearly sheen.
He splashed the water with focused delight, his peach-blossom eyes slightly narrowed, fine droplets clinging to his lashes. The natural flush at the corners of his eyes, heightened by the cold water, grew even more striking—like a flower petal just picked up from the snow, still bearing frost.
His reflection on the water’s surface was broken apart by ripples and then gathered again, over and over—each frame of that silhouette sharp enough to be startling: the perfectly defined curve of his jaw, that tear mole beneath his right eye glistening with reflected light.
Que Zhi looked only once, then looked away, not daring to look again.
Then he picked up the fourth waterskin and continued filling it—filling it so full that the water sat flush against the opening, without a single drop spilling.
“Que Zhi, come here.”
It was Xi Yu’s voice.
Que Zhi screwed the cap onto the waterskin and walked over.
Xi Yu pointed at the water. “What kind of fish are these?”
Several slender little fish swam through the water, silvery-white all over, darting swiftly among the poplar roots.
Que Zhi crouched down, took a look, and said, “Schizothorax. Edible.”
“Split-belly?” Xi Yu bent down again for a closer look—sure enough, there was a fine line along the fish’s belly. “Why is it called that? Does its belly split open?”
“Catch one and you’ll see. It swells up when out of water.”
Xi Yu didn’t try to catch one.
He just bent over, watching the fish swim back and forth in the water, his fingertip hovering an inch above the surface—as if he wanted to touch them but was afraid of startling them.
After a long while, he said softly, “This is the first time I’ve seen live fish.”
Que Zhi turned his face to look at him.
That didn’t add up. A scholar from Jiangnan—and this was his first time seeing live fish?
He didn’t speak, just looked at Xi Yu’s profile, at those peach-blossom eyes reflecting the water’s gleam and the shadows of the fish—and something else, something he probably wasn’t even aware of himself: a kind of innocence that had been hidden too long, too deep.
“There are no fish in Jiangnan?” he asked.
Xi Yu’s hand paused. Then he withdrew it, flicked the water from his fingertips, and pressed his hat brim back down, shielding the thin flush at the corners of his eyes and that tear mole. His tone returned to its previous gentle aloofness.
“There are. I just never saw them.”
He stood up and turned to leave.
Que Zhi remained crouched by the water, looking up at him.
“Xi Yu.”
“Mm.”
“The place you lived before—was there no water there?”
Xi Yu didn’t turn back.
He stood beneath the poplar tree, sunlight filtering through the gaps in the leaves, casting dappled spots of light across his faded blue robe.
His back was to Que Zhi. The silence didn’t last long, but every breath seemed weighed with consideration.
Then he said, “There was. But not much.”
He took a few steps, then stopped again, tilting his head slightly. His fingers lightly touched the corner of his right eye—as if checking whether that tear mole was still in its proper place.
His profile was caught between shadow and sunlight, half-illuminated, half-dark, and the faintest smile curved at the corner of his mouth: “But there’s plenty now.”
Before dark, Xi Yu made a decision: he was going to bathe.
He’d held out for three days.
At the inn, he could still draw well water to wipe himself down. On the Gobi, there was only sand and sweat—a damp cloth hastily rubbed over his skin was the best he could manage.
The collar of his blue robe had already developed a faint white ring of salt—the residue left behind by evaporated sweat.
He held out until the fourth day—he simply couldn’t take it anymore.
The oasis water wasn’t large, but it was enough for one person to have a decent wash.
Xi Yu walked to the water’s edge and began loosening his sash.
The faded blue robe fell open, revealing the lean shoulder blades of a young man.
His movements were unhurried. He folded the blue robe neatly and placed it on the poplar roots, took off his hat and set it on top, then the inner robe—and then—
About a dozen paces behind him, Que Zhi was feeding the camels.
He was dividing dried grass between the two beasts when he heard the soft rustle of fabric by the water and instinctively looked up.
A lean silhouette stood at the water’s edge with its back to him, bending down to undo the inner robe.
The blue robe was already off, folded neatly on the tree roots, with the hat pressing down on its hem.
Only a plain white under-robe remained, thin and clinging to the body, slightly lifted by the curve of the shoulder blades.
The figure bent to untie the sash, long hair slipping from the shoulder, the ends swaying gently in the hollow of the spine.
The skin at the nape of the neck was startlingly pale—untouched by sunlight for years, like the unglazed bone of fine porcelain beneath its enamel.
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