Xi Yu had already lingered quietly in this desolate frontier town for a full seven days.
Not because he couldn’t leave—the innkeeper reminded him daily that caravans heading west set out every three days, with sturdy camels and safe roads. If he truly wished to depart, he could have mounted a camel at dawn the day before yesterday and ridden into the endless yellow sand with the great convoy.
But he was in no hurry. Not a trace of urgency stirred in him.
What was there to rush for?
Eighteen years in the deep palace prison—long enough to wear down one’s spirit, exhaust all hope, and freeze the vibrant years of youth inch by inch in that cold, silent Cold Palace courtyard.
In those years, time was not his own. Fate was not his own. Every advance and retreat, every choice of life and death, honor and disgrace—all were clutched in the palms of others.
Now that he had finally broken free from the layers of palace walls, the world stretched vast before him—mountains and rivers spanning ten thousand li. For the first time, the power of choice rested wholly in his own hands.
Xi Yu could walk slowly. Look slowly. Savor, at his own pace, all the years and days that had been stolen from him.
West was a direction, not a destination. The place he wanted to go was called “elsewhere”—as long as it lay beyond the palace walls, anywhere would do.
So Xi Yu slept until the sun was high each day, then dragged a rickety bamboo chair to the inn’s entrance and watched the street.
He watched caravans come and go, the bronze bells on the camels’ necks ringing from one end of the street to the other. He watched the old flatbread seller across the way slap his dough with a loud thwack. He watched a pack of bare-bottomed children chase a lame dog down the yellow-earth road.
Sometimes he held a pot of cold tea in his hands; sometimes he held nothing at all, just rested his hands on his knees, like a cat finally basking in the sun, squinting lazily.
Xi Yu gradually realized that he was utterly greedy for this—watching people, watching the human world.
In the deep palace years, living people had been the rarest sight—and the coldest barrier.
The vast Cold Palace courtyard had lain barren and desolate year-round, overgrown with weeds. Apart from Old Zhou, who had served him since childhood, he saw almost no one.
The palace maids occasionally sent to deliver meals would always walk quickly, heads bowed, eyes averted, not daring to let even a glance fall on him—as if this abandoned prince of the Cold Palace were a tainted thing, unlucky and not to be approached.
Through those long years, only cold wind, lonely moons, withered flowers, and endless solitude had kept him company. The warmth of human connection, the noise of life—all had been distant, unattainable luxuries.
But here, the streets were full of people.
Haggling merchants, bartering Central Asian women, couriers leading horses past—every face told a different story.
Xi Yu looked at each one in turn and wove stories for them in his mind.
That man carrying furs was heading to the capital to make his fortune. That woman holding a child was waiting for her husband to come home. That old man dozing in the corner of the wall had probably been a soldier in his youth.
Xi Yu gave them all backgrounds, temperaments, causes and consequences—then tucked these stories away in his heart, telling no one.
This was his own private festival of liveliness.
But he didn’t just watch others. He also watched himself.
The innkeeper kept a palm-sized bronze mirror behind the counter—not very polished, so everything reflected in it looked as if veiled in yellow gauze.
Xi Yu would steal a glance at it whenever he passed by.
In the mirror, he saw a figure in a faded blue robe, long hair tied back with a plain cloth band, a few stray strands falling by his cheeks, dried slightly by the frontier wind.
His complexion was still pale, but there was more color in it now than in the Cold Palace. His lips were no longer that sickly, bloodless shade.
His improved color made his features even harder to hide.
Those naturally peach-blossom eyes curved upward at the corners—even when he wasn’t smiling, they seemed to smile. And that small tear-shaped mole beneath his right eye stood out against his near-translucent pale skin, like a grain of black sand on a field of snow.
He studied himself in the mirror for a moment, then set his old bamboo hat on his head.
The hat was a bit too large; with the brim pulled down, it could hide half his face.
He pulled the cloth at his collar up further, covering his chin.
After doing all that, he looked in the mirror again.
Only his eyes were visible now—but those upturned outer corners and that tear-shaped mole still lingered faintly in the shadows.
Xi Yu had hidden his face for eighteen years in the Cold Palace. He was used to hiding it.
Now that he’d left the palace, that very face had become his most conspicuous feature.
He wasn’t afraid of being seen—but he remembered what the old eunuch had said: being too good-looking is a sin. And being too good-looking in the eyes of those with ulterior motives is a sin upon a sin.
Traveling alone, without power, without influence, without backing—a striking face wasn’t a blessing. It was trouble.
So he continued watching the street from beneath the hat’s brim. Through that thin layer of shadow, he felt safe.
It was also on the evening of the seventh day that Xi Yu first noticed the blacksmith’s hammering.
To be precise, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it—that hammering had been there since his very first day at the inn, clanging away from morning till night.
But he hadn’t paid it much attention before, taking it as just another background sound of this frontier town, mingling with the camel bells and street vendors’ cries—nothing remarkable.
It wasn’t until this evening, as he sat at the entrance finishing the last of his cold tea, that he suddenly sensed something off.
When other blacksmiths worked, their hammering had rhythm.
Ding-ding-ding, ding-ding-ding—light and heavy alternating, like an old tune that had been played for centuries.
But the blacksmith next door was different—clang, clang, clang. Each strike landed heavy and deep, evenly spaced, uniformly forceful, as if pounding at some stubborn fixed point.
Other blacksmiths tired over the day—heavy in the morning, lighter in the afternoon. This one’s hammering never let up a single beat from dawn to dusk.
That wasn’t the rhythm of forging metal. That was the rhythm of some kind of training.
Xi Yu set down his teacup and tilted his head slightly.
The hat’s brim obscured most of his face, revealing only the lean line of his jaw and his slightly pressed lips.
He listened for a long while, then let out a soft, quiet chuckle.
The innkeeper had come out to collect the chili peppers drying in the sun. Hearing him laugh alone at the door, she asked with puzzlement: “Scholar, what are you laughing at?”
He said: “The blacksmith next door is interesting.”
The innkeeper rolled her eyes toward the sky. “Interesting? He’s smashed two anvils! Is that blacksmithing? That’s demolition!”
She carried her basket of peppers back inside, still muttering under her breath.
“Some barbarian from who knows where—calls it blacksmithing, but from the sound of it, he might as well be fighting a war…”
Xi Yu didn’t respond.
He listened to the hammering a while longer, then stood up and carried his bamboo chair back inside.
The sun was sinking low, bathing the entire yellow-earth street in a deep orange-red—as if someone had splashed a whole pot of cinnabar across the edge of the sky.
He leaned against the doorframe and looked toward the blacksmith’s shop through the shadow of his hat’s brim.
Piles of broken iron tools and rubble sat at the shop’s entrance. The door curtain was half-rolled, revealing a dark interior where no figure could be made out.
Xi Yu stood there for a moment, then withdrew his gaze and returned to his room.
That night, he made a decision—he’d stay a few more days. No rush to find a camel, no hurry to follow a caravan.
He was curious about that blacksmith.
When you’re traveling alone, spending time on interesting people isn’t a waste of time.
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