The third time was the last day.
Xi Yu had finally found a caravan heading west.
The leader was a dark-skinned middle-aged man who said the camels wouldn’t be ready until the day after tomorrow—he’d have to wait one more day.
This day was his last in the frontier town.
That evening, Xi Yu sat at the inn’s entrance as usual.
The setting sun had spread a layer of gold across the entire yellow-earth street. Cooking smoke rose from the chimneys of every household, curling upward in crooked plumes before being scattered by the wind.
Xi Yu held half a flatbread in his hands, chewing slowly, his eyes fixed on the blacksmith’s shop across the street.
The hammering had stopped.
The curtain parted, and Que Zhi stepped out.
This time, he didn’t toss anything into Xi Yu’s lap, nor did he go to the well to cool off.
He walked straight up to Xi Yu and sat down on the step beside him.
He sat neither too close nor too far—leaving the space of one person between them. Close enough not to feel intrusive, yet near enough to read each other’s expressions.
A jug of wine rested on Que Zhi’s knee. He hadn’t drunk from it—just set it there.
The setting sun slanted in from the side, casting two parallel shadows on the ground before them—one proper and slender, the other tall and relaxed, both with legs stretched out, both with hands resting on their knees.
Xi Yu turned his head and glanced at him.
This man had changed into a robe today—neater than the coarse short jacket of previous days, but still worn and old. His collar remained open, and the diagonal old scar beneath his collarbone was gilded into a pale gold line by the evening light.
Que Zhi wasn’t looking at Xi Yu. His gaze rested on the street, watching the last few camels amble past, their bells jingling, carried far off by the evening breeze.
Que Zhi spoke suddenly: “The west isn’t peaceful.”
Xi Yu had been about to take another bite of his flatbread. He paused, looking at him.
Que Zhi didn’t turn his head. Instead, he reached into his waistband and pulled something out, casually placing it on the armrest of Xi Yu’s bamboo chair.
The motion was light—as if setting down a fallen leaf.
It was a dagger. The leather sheath was old, its edges polished smooth with use. The handle was wrapped in dark red cord, tied tightly, in that method of repeated untying and retying.
“Take it,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but his tone left no room for negotiation.
Xi Yu picked up the dagger and drew it out for a look.
The blade was honed extremely thin, catching the last sliver of dusk light in a cold gleam that made the lashes of his eyes stand out in sharp relief.
With a soft snap, he closed the dagger and held it back out: “I don’t need this.”
Que Zhi didn’t take it.
He raised his wine jug and took a sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing once. Then he turned his head and looked at Xi Yu.
This was the first time in three days that he’d faced him directly—not the accidental glimpse by the well, not the towering overlook from across the street, but a seated, eye-level, serious look.
“The west isn’t peaceful. Take it.”
He repeated himself, word for word.
His tone hadn’t hardened; his expression hadn’t changed. But those amber eyes fixed unwaveringly on Xi Yu’s face, their pupils deepening in the backlight.
Xi Yu felt his fingertips tighten slightly under that gaze.
That scrutinizing sensation was back—but it was different from that night by the well.
That night, he’d been caught off guard, his back turned. Now, he was face to face, holding the other man’s dagger in his hand. The shadow of his hat brim hid his brows, but it couldn’t hide the other’s stubborn, unyielding gaze.
He was silent for a moment, then tucked the dagger into his sleeve. It was his last day here—no point arguing.
Que Zhi watched him put the dagger away, and something in his pupils shifted—as if some taut string had suddenly relaxed.
He turned back, resumed drinking, resumed watching the street, as if that look just now had been nothing but Xi Yu’s imagination.
“Where are you headed?” he asked, his tone much more casual now.
“West.”
“Specifically?”
Xi Yu leaned back against the bamboo chair, gazing at the last sliver of sunset on the earthen city wall in the distance.
Dusk was closing in, the bustle on the street fading away. Inside the inn, the innkeeper was lighting lamps one by one; warm yellow light seeped through the door cracks, spilling onto the yellow earth at their feet.
He was quiet for a moment, then said: “No specific place. One step at a time—wherever the road takes me.”
He paused, his voice softening, almost to himself: “As long as it’s not behind walls, anywhere will do.”
Que Zhi’s hand, holding the wine jug, paused slightly.
He didn’t ask what “behind walls” meant. But he turned his eyes and let them rest on Xi Yu’s profile for two or three seconds.
The shadow of the hat brim hid his eyes—only a sliver of nose bridge, slightly pressed lips, and the faint warmth of the sunset tinging the tip of his chin were visible.
Lamplight leaked from inside the inn, catching his profile. The shadow beneath his hat brim was torn open by the light.
That tear-shaped mole emerged from the darkness, like a single grain of fine sand resting on the rim of a white porcelain bowl—quiet, still, almost beckoning to be brushed away.
Que Zhi looked away and set his wine jug on the step, his fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of the mouth.
He didn’t speak, but a voice broke through the soil of his heart—clear and abrupt: This person should not have been locked up.
“I’m not a blacksmith.”
He said this without looking at Xi Yu.
His tone was flat, as if stating something not worth hiding. Then he turned his face and looked at Xi Yu steadily: “My name is Que Zhi. I’m not from the Central Plains.”
This was the first time he’d given his real name to anyone.
Not a disguised identity. Not a made-up alias. Que Zhi.
He offered only his name and origin—no status, no purpose.
He left those two sentences there, then stood up and looked down at Xi Yu.
“Leaving tomorrow?” he asked.
“The day after.”
“Good.” Neither said it clearly, but both understood what that unspoken exchange meant.
Que Zhi left his wine jug on the step—the very one his fingers had been tracing all along. He didn’t take it with him.
Then he turned and walked toward the blacksmith’s shop.
After a few steps, he stopped again. Without turning around, he tilted his face slightly, half his jaw visible in the dim lantern light beneath the eaves.
“Xi Yu.”
“My name is Xi Yu.”
Xi Yu lowered his gaze. This was the first time he had spoken his own name to another person.
“I know,” Que Zhi nodded. “Xi Yu.” His voice was even lower than usual, like a rough stone being forcibly pressed into cotton.
With that, he lifted the curtain and disappeared into the blacksmith’s shop. No hammering followed—the shop fell completely silent.
The wine jug remained on the step, a faint ring of moisture at its rim—the damp trace of his palm, left behind from unconsciously rubbing it again and again.
Xi Yu sat alone at the inn’s entrance, lamplight spilling from behind him, casting his long shadow across the yellow-earth street.
After a long while, he pulled the dagger from his sleeve and turned it over in his hands.
On the leather sheath, there was a shallow carved mark he hadn’t noticed before—a foreign Western Regions script he couldn’t read.
The strokes were rough, but the carving was deep, as if each line had been etched with the tip of a blade, stroke by careful stroke.
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