He no longer knew how many times the morning light had shone into this thatched hut; the youth woke as usual.
Nanxi lay on the rough straw mat, his eyes, as always, staring at the blackened thatch overhead.
Beside him came even breathing—Huang Muzhi was still asleep, lying on her side, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder, a wheat-colored arm draped across his chest, heavy.
Her golden-yellow hair scattered on the pillow, tips somewhat dry and split, brushing his neck, ticklish.
Since the two had become intimate, for some reason, they naturally began sleeping together.
It wasn’t moral—they knew—but somehow neither wanted to resist. Perhaps deep down, both wanted to vent their desires on each other.
Nanxi didn’t move; he lay with eyes open, listening to the tide outside.
The tide was distant, coming across the beach and reefs, muffled, like the earth’s heartbeat.
He’d heard this sound for two months—should have been used to it—but today it sounded different.
Not the sound changed; his way of listening had.
He recalled last night’s dream.
The dream had no specific people, no events—just endless gray mist.
He walked in the mist, feet on slippery moss; surroundings invisible, only his breath and heartbeat audible.
Walking on, laughter suddenly came from the mist—light, like wind through bells, or pearls rolling on a jade plate.
He followed the sound, but the mist thickened, so dense he couldn’t see his hand.
Then the laughter stopped, replaced by another sound: a sword drawn from its sheath, slow, clear—the metal’s hiss drawn long, tension gripping the heart.
He woke like that, in the darkest moment before dawn, drenched in cold sweat, left hand instinctively pressing his chest.
For some reason, the youth always felt it empty there, yet he lacked nothing.
Nanxi closed his eyes, took a deep breath—the familiar heat in his chest had receded.
The dragon blood aphrodisiac suppressed, his body calm, but his heart felt weighted by stone, heavy, sinking.
My premonitions never lie.
The voice in his heart suddenly rose, with the lightness and playfulness he’d grown used to.
Nanxi didn’t respond; he opened his eyes again, gently moved Huang Muzhi’s arm, and sat up.
The straw mat rustled faintly; Huang Muzhi frowned in sleep, mumbled something, turned over, and slept on.
Nanxi donned the coarse cloth clothes by the bed—hers, oversized on him to the point of absurdity, sleeves rolled several times, pant legs dragging.
But he had no choice; his white clothes hung drying on the bamboo rack outside.
Nanxi, leaning on his crutch, walked to the door. His left leg’s injury was nearly healed—the bone knit long ago—but muscles still ached, limping, unable to exert full strength.
He figured another month for full recovery.
He pushed open the door.
Sea breeze rushed in, the morning’s crisp scent hitting his face.
The sky just dawning, eastern horizon fish-belly white; clouds tinged faint blue-gray, higher up a shallow orange-red, like the faintest rouge brushed on the sky.
The beach empty, only tracks of early seabirds, dense, extending to the tide line.
Nanxi sat on the threshold, propped his crutch against the wall.
From his bosom, he drew the shell Huang Muzhi gave—white, palm-sized, edges smoothed.
The youth rubbed the shell’s patterns with his thumb—wavy ridges sliding under his pad, rough yet fine; he liked the feel.
“Young Master, up so early?”
Huang Muzhi’s voice came from behind; she’d woken, sitting on the bed rubbing her eyes, hair tousled like a bird’s nest.
Her sleepy look made her seem years younger, somewhat childlike.
“Mm.”
Nanxi responded simply, without turning.
Rustling of dressing, then footsteps; Huang Muzhi sat beside him on the threshold, shoulder to shoulder.
Fresh from sleep, she carried the bed’s warmth, mixed with her sea-salt and sweat scent—not pleasant, not foul—if described, perhaps the taste of a robust life.
“Couldn’t sleep again?”
“Slept enough.”
“Liar.” Huang Muzhi turned to look at him. “Dark circles under your eyes—you definitely didn’t sleep well last night.”
Nanxi didn’t reply; he continued rubbing the shell, gaze on the distant sea.
Tide receding, exposing vast wet sand, gleaming dull gold in morning light; a few small crabs scuttled sideways on the flats, vanishing into holes in a blink.
Huang Muzhi followed his gaze, watched a while, then said.
“Tide’s low today—good for finds. I’ll check the beach later; maybe snag some clams for soup tonight.”
“Mm.”
“Young Master, want to come?”
She asked expectantly.
Nanxi thought, shook his head.
“Leg’s inconvenient; I’d be a burden.”
“How could you be a burden!”
Huang Muzhi refuted immediately, voice rising, then realizing, lowered it.
“Young Master can just sit nearby; I’ll pick and show you—treat it as airing out. Always cooped in the hut’s no good.”
She spoke earnestly, eyes full of hope as she looked at him. Nanxi turned, met her gaze.
The girl had clean eyes—black black, white white; clearly reflecting his shadow.
But beneath that cleanness hid other things: deepening attachment, near-greedy possessiveness, like vines silently twining, tightening.
“Maybe later.”
Nanxi looked away.
Disappointment flashed in Huang Muzhi’s eyes, but she quickly rallied.
“Then what do you want to eat? I’ll make breakfast.”
“Anything.”
“Fish congee then—half the fish left from yesterday. I’ll scrape some meat, simmer with rice till thick—very fragrant.”
Actually, Huang Muzhi’s cooking was average, but Nanxi, to avoid her disturbing his quiet time, had no choice.
She rose to busy herself—efficient: scooping water, lighting fire, rinsing rice, scraping fish—a fluid routine.
Nanxi watched her bustling back, suddenly thought of his master.
His master cooked averagely too, but unlike Huang Muzhi—master was particular; even simplest dishes presented nicely, though average.
Huang Muzhi was practical—big chunks fish, big bowls congee; fullness first, of course average.
Two utterly different people, yet both left marks in his life—he didn’t know what to say.
The stove fire lit, orange glow on Huang Muzhi’s face; she squatted adding wood, profile softened in firelight, lips slightly up, humming tuneless ditty.
A fishing village folk tune; Nanxi couldn’t catch words, just the melody undulating like tides—quite nice.
Congee aroma spread, filling the small hut. Huang Muzhi ladled two bowls—one to Nanxi, one for herself—then sat back on the threshold.
They sat side by side, facing brightening dawn, silently sipping congee.
Congee thick, rice bloomed; fish bits mixed in—each bite fresh and fishy.
For Nanxi, raised in the north, it wasn’t palatable.
Huang Muzhi slurped fast, half bowl in bites.
Nanxi slow, spoonful by spoonful, chewing finely.
“Young Master, you talked in your sleep last night.”
Nanxi’s hand paused, asking puzzled.
“What did I say?”
“Couldn’t hear clear—just words like ‘don’t come over’ or such.”
She set down her bowl, turned seriously to him.
“Did you have a nightmare?”
“…Mm.”
“No wonder poor sleep. My dad used to say nightmares mean something on your mind. Young Master, are you… thinking of your master?”
Nanxi didn’t answer immediately; he scooped congee, watching grains tremble in the spoon.
Did he miss his master?
Of course. But beyond missing, other emotions: worry, guilt, fear.
Worry for master’s safety, guilt for his willfulness, fear of the pursuing Madam Xuanji and that cheap loach.
“Sort of.”
He said finally.
Huang Muzhi fell silent; she bowed sipping congee, slow—one spoonful held long before swallowing.
After a while, she mumbled.
“Young Master, your master… must be a very good person.”
“Why say that?”
“Because when you mention her, your eyes are different.”
Huang Muzhi’s voice light, fearing to startle him.
“I’m dumb, but I can see—your eyes mentioning her differ from others.”
Nanxi’s fingers tightened on the spoon; rough ceramic edge dug into pads, hurting.
“She’s my master.”
He said, voice dry.
“I know, but more than master.”
The question blunt—to the point Nanxi didn’t know how to answer; he opened his mouth, said nothing, just bowed and continued congee.
Congee cooled, texture pasty, but he finished earnestly, bite by bite.
Huang Muzhi didn’t press; finished hers, rose to collect bowls, took to outside vat to wash.
Scrubbing and water sounds came, rustling, mixed with rising tide and voices—village waking.
Nanxi stood with crutch, went to corner bamboo pile—stacked shaved strips. He sat, picked some, began weaving basket.
Fingers touching strips brought odd familiarity.
Strips soaked soft two days ago—perfect pliancy; thumb press bent smooth arcs. He recalled in Huaniang Town, often weaving these to sell, earn bits for household.
Master always griped it wasted practice time, but each finished basket or hamper, master examined long, said woven so nicely.
Those days simple: practice, cook, weave; occasionally play with Zhang Lianwei, handle Zhang Yiwei’s odd demands.
Worries just where to get meat.
Now?
Nanxi’s fingers flew fast; strips shuttled, weaving round base shape.
His moves skilled—barely looking, by feel—but mind elsewhere, drifting far—to master’s possible place, to the inevitable pursuing shadow.
Madam Xuanji.
The name like a thorn, in heart’s softest spot. Peach grove night’s scenes vivid: Ao Xian’s betrayal, Madam Xuanji’s beautiful yet cold face, master’s final hoarse cry.
That night he lost much.
No baseless good in the world; he shattered his own naivety—all kindness might hide schemes, all promises could vanish.
He knew this long ago, but trusted his luck—or rather, the special from his face.
Like Ao Xian, like… Zhang Yiwei.
Nanxi’s hand shook suddenly; strip edge sliced fingertip, shallow cut—blood beaded, leaving dark red on bamboo.
He stared at that red long, then slowly wiped with thumb.
“Young Master!”
Huang Muzhi returned from washing, spotted his finger wound at once.
She rushed over, grabbed his hand to inspect, brows tight.
“How so careless! Wait, I’ll get cloth to wrap.”
She turned rummaging, found cleanish coarse cloth, scooped water to rinse wound. Her moves gentle, careful; Nanxi let her, gaze on her bowed profile.
The girl was truly good to him—but how much pure kindness, how much mixed emotions? He couldn’t say.
Like her unconsciously tightening arm in sleep, her gaze almost devouring him, her unwitting touches—sleeve, hand, anywhere.
She possessed him, her way—and this possession made him grateful, yet somewhat suffocated.
“Done.” Huang Muzhi bandaged, looked up smiling.
“Young Master, be careful next time—bamboo strips are sharp.”
“Mm.”
Nanxi withdrew hand, continued weaving.
Huang Muzhi didn’t leave; sat beside, chin in hand, watching him weave—gaze sticky on his hands, watching slender pale fingers fly amid strips, making clever knots, basket shaping.
Watching, her eyes drifted—as if through these hands, seeing something else.
“Young Master, once your leg fully heals, you’ll leave, right?”
Nanxi’s moves didn’t stop; he responded casually.
“Mm.”
“Then… can you stay a bit longer?”
Her voice light, nearly drowned by outside tide.
“Another month—no, half a month fine. Wait till fully healed; what if it flares on the road?”
Nanxi looked up, met her eyes—full of plea, near-humble, his heart twitching slightly.
“When time to go, must go.”
Nanxi softened his voice as much.
“The longer I stay, the greater danger to you.”
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