The west gate of Liangzhou City was not a gate—it was a breach.
A section of the rammed-earth wall had collapsed, leaving roughly half a gap. The stone foundations on either side remained, with the grooves for the door axles still visible, but the door panels themselves had long since disappeared.
The herders couldn’t be bothered to circle around to the south gate to enter the city, so they came straight through this breach. Camel hooves had trampled the collapsed earth into a sloping ramp, layered with crisscrossing cart tracks and hoofprints, all covered by a thin frost that had fallen that morning.
The wind blew in from the west—not cold—carrying the mingled scent of green grass and livestock manure.
That was the grassland breathing.
Xi Yu stood at the west breach, looking outward.
He had imagined the grassland as flat—just like the geography records he’d read to tatters in the cold palace: “The Northern Steppe is vast grassland, stretching beyond sight.”
But now, standing before the breach, he saw only a gently undulating sea of grass—yellow and green interwoven, pulled into varying shades by the morning light. It was more three-dimensional, and more complex, than he had ever imagined. In the distance, herders moved slowly with their sheep—white against the yellow grass—their robes a deeper blue than the sky.
Que Zhi walked up from behind him, carrying a bundle, his camel following with dull, muffled thuds as its hooves struck the slope.
He followed Xi Yu’s gaze into the distance for a moment: “Had your fill of looking?”
“No.” Xi Yu took the reins from his hand and stepped out beyond Liangzhou’s west gate. His boot slipped on the loose soil as he walked down the ramp, and he instinctively grabbed Que Zhi’s arm to steady himself. When he let go, he patted his sleeve—as if merely brushing off a bit of dust.
Xi Yu did not look back.
Behind him were the low city walls of Liangzhou and the morning cooking smoke rising from chimneys. Ahead was the Northern Steppe grassland. And he was walking into a painting he had never truly reached, no matter how many times he had worn out those old books.
—
The farther west they went, the deeper the grass grew.
No longer the sparse turf hugging the ground outside Liangzhou—this was real pasture, rising to the camels’ knees, swaying wildly in the wind, revealing tiny scattered wildflowers beneath the stalks.
For the first time, Xi Yu saw blue flowers. They grew along a stream, low to the ground, five-petaled, blue as fragments of a shattered sky scattered among gray-green stems.
He swung down from his camel, crouched, and reached a hand toward the nearest bloom—stopping just short of picking it. He only looked up at Que Zhi—his eyes bright, his lips parting and closing again.
These were the blue flowers he had spoken of.
Back then, he had said he would only look, never pick.
Que Zhi tied the camel’s reins to a crooked poplar by the stream, walked over, and crouched beside him. He unstrapped his waterskin from his waist, pulled out the stopper, and poured a small handful of water over the base of the flower.
The thin stream trickled from the spout, seeped into the dry sandy soil, and was absorbed in an instant.
He plugged the waterskin again, rinsed his hands in the stream, and said: “Watering a flower for a departed friend. An old custom of the Shuo lands.”
“Which departed friend?”
“A man who taught me how to read the road. Used to lead people through the Gobi—when he was thirsty, he’d hold back, save the water for others.” He relayed it flatly, with neither nostalgia nor sorrow—as if describing a season: which way the wind blows, which way the grass bends.
Que Zhi wiped his hands and stood up. “Behind this slope is a small market. We’ll rest there at noon.”
—
At noon, they stopped to rest at that market—a temporary gathering of herders upstream. It wasn’t much of a market, really—just a few felt tents and ox carts forming a small open space. They sold homemade cheese and dried meat, and there were craftsmen squatting under the carts, hammering away at boot repairs and saddle mending.
Coarse wool felt was spread over the grass, piled high with dried wildflowers and medicinal herbs. Several women in headscarves sat nearby, nursing their babies and chatting, while children chased each other through the thickets.
A newborn lamb, pure white, its hooves still untouched by mud, was tethered to a cart wheel. When it saw Xi Yu approaching, it bleated and rubbed against his leg.
Xi Yu crouched down and reached out to stroke the top of the lamb’s head.
The lamb’s wool was fine and soft, warm to the touch. The little creature pushed its head into his palm, its wet nose brushing against his wrist. Xi Yu laughed and looked back at Que Zhi, wanting to call him over to see—but found Que Zhi leaning against a poplar trunk two paces away, arms crossed, curved knife hanging at his waist, the wrist guard still snug around his left tiger’s mouth. That face, which Xi Yu had unilaterally labeled “expressionless,” showed nothing—except for a faint, nearly imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth.
He wasn’t laughing out loud, but he was smiling.
Not mocking him—it was that quiet kind of smile, the sort you only noticed after looking long enough, like a blade of grass tilting slightly in the wind.
“You really won’t touch it? It’s so soft.” Xi Yu crouched on the ground, looking up at him, his fingers still buried in the lamb’s fleece.
“Won’t touch. Then you’d say, ‘See, it likes me more.’”
Que Zhi walked over, pulled Xi Yu up from the ground, and brushed the bits of grass from his cuffs. “There’s flatbread over there. Weren’t you hungry?”
They walked deeper into the market, when Xi Yu suddenly grabbed his wrist guard and yanked him to a stop in front of a stall selling dried meat and honey. He pointed at a clay jar, asked the price, and bought a tiny pot of honey. Using a wooden spoon, he smeared some onto a freshly baked flatbread and handed it over. “Take a bite. The honey’s on me.”
Que Zhi lowered his head and bit into the flatbread Xi Yu had offered him. A tiny speck of honey from the smearing had splattered onto his fingertip.
He didn’t say anything, but Xi Yu saw him turn the bread around afterward, offering the unbitten side back to his lips.
Xi Yu held his wrist and took a small bite from where he had bitten.
The honey was sweet, the bread crisp, his wrist steady.
—
After eating, they continued west. The grass grew deeper, and the path carved by camel caravans was nearly swallowed by new growth. They could only navigate by following the stream’s current and the increasingly clear mountain ridges in the distance.
Xi Yu rode his camel, chewing on raisins he’d bought that morning, counting wildflowers in the grass as he chewed. He’d already reached the eleventh color.
“I have something to announce.” Xi Yu turned to look at Que Zhi, lifting his chin slightly, his brows curving, his voice unable to hide his delight—clear, sweet, and pure.
Que Zhi tilted his head, waiting for the announcement.
Xi Yu finished chewing the raisins in his mouth and said, solemnly: “Liangzhou melons are the best melons in the world. From now on, I’m going to eat one every summer. You’re in charge of picking the melons, and I’ll pay.”
He paused, popped another raisin into his mouth, and added, “But these raisins here really are better than the ones in that little town. And the honey’s very sweet.”
He tossed out words like “from now on” and “every year” along with the raisins, chewing them up without a second thought, completely unaware of what he’d just said.
“Alright.”
Que Zhi turned his face away, adjusting the leather cord on his wrist guard atop his camel, switching the reins to his other hand.
His tiger’s mouth, gripping the rough cord, felt as though it were holding something fragile as jade—he dared not squeeze too hard.
—
At dusk, they made camp on a gentle slope.
After eating their dry rations, Xi Yu leaned back against the saddle, half-reclining, and took out his blue robe—now with only one sleeve—folding it over his knees. By the firelight, he stitched a few seams.
Originally, Que Zhi had offered to sew it, but Xi Yu insisted on doing it himself. In the end, Que Zhi had no choice but to relent.
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