Dawn unfolded with aching slowness over the Ailao Mountains, as if the night clung stubbornly to the peaks like ink bleeding through damp paper. The first light carved valleys from shadow, transforming jagged ridges into gold-edged sculptures while mist pooled in the ravines below. It snaked through dense forests where ancient trees wore beards of moss, veiled waterfalls roared in hidden gorges, and orchids bloomed like crushed amethyst against rotting logs. This was Yunnan's forgotten spine—a realm where roads surrendered to footpaths and cell signals died screaming into the void.
In the cradle of these mountains lay Hongyadi village, a cluster of time-worn wooden houses clinging to terraced slopes that cascaded toward a jade-green river. Rooftops layered like crooked scales on a dragon's back, their weathered planks silvered by decades of rain and sun. The air tasted of wet stone, fermented tea leaves, and woodsmoke from early-risers stoking kitchen fires. Tourists arriving on groaning buses gaped at women winnowing rice in bamboo baskets, water buffalo drinking from stone troughs, and children chasing iridescent butterflies through rows of tea shrubs. Some snapped photos, mistaking poverty for pastoral poetry. Others wrinkled noses at the earthy perfume of animal dung and damp soil.
But down a narrow alley choked with crimson bougainvillea blossoms—where sunlight dappled the cobblestones in trembling gold coins—hushed stillness reigned. Moss crept up stone walls as if devouring them slowly. At its end stood a slate-roofed building with open shutters and a hand-carved sign: 丝雨客栈 (Silk Rain Inn). Here, Li Jian swept the entrance with a bamboo broom, each stroke echoing like a hushed breath in the mountain silence.
Tall and broad-shouldered as the surrounding peaks, he moved with the coiled precision of a predator forced into domesticity. His white cotton shirt stretched across a back honed by combat and labor, sleeves rolled to expose forearms scarred and corded with muscle. But his hands, gripping the broom handle, betrayed the contradiction: knuckles weathered like tree roots, yet fingers shifting with deadly grace when pouring tea. A black apron hung loosely around his waist, stained with coffee grounds and flour. His face was all hard angles that resisted softness—a dagger's edge of jaw, eyes dark and impenetrable as volcanic glass—until he looked inside.
"Bāba!" chirped a voice like wind chimes.
Four-year-old Le Le crouched beneath the café's maplewood counter, a fortress of sacks of roasted coffee beans and ceramic teapots. Her curls, black and unruly as crow feathers, framed a heart-shaped face glowing with mischief. She brandished a violet crayon stub, attacking a discarded receipt with cosmic enthusiasm. "Purple ducks!" she announced, holding up her masterpiece: amoebic blobs with stick legs.
Li Jian paused, gravel-rubble voice softening. "Ducks or demons?"
Le Le giggled. "Hungry ducks! They ate Zhang Bo-shū's turnips!" She scrabbled to her feet, sandals slapping on worn floorboards, and dashed to the café's "Art Gallery"—a section of wall plastered with her chaotic creations. A crude kitten next to Granny Mei's prized chili recipe. A green scribble titled "Bāba's Coffee Storm." She pressed today's work beside it.
Just then, tourists spilled into the alley—two backpackers blinking against the gloom. Li Jian tensed like a bowstring before recognition relaxed him. Not threats. Sheep. The bolder one peered past him. "Wow! Authentic rural China! Is this place… safe?"
Li Jian met the man's gaze. "Coffee?"
"Uh… cappuccino? Extra sugar?"
Le Le popped from behind the counter, waving grubby hands. "Say ni hao and smile! Jīn tiān tiān qì zhēn hǎo!" (Today weather good!)
The tourists chuckled. "Kid's adorable!"
°
Inside, the café exhaled warmth. Sunlight streamed through latticed windows, painting tiger stripes across oak tables and brass espresso machines. Copper teapots gleamed like temple bells above a counter laden with jars of jasmine blooms and dried chrysanthemums. Le Le scrambled onto a stool.
Li Jian moved behind the counter—fluid, economical. He selected beans: Yunnan arabica, roasted hours ago. Ground them in cast iron. The ritual began. Water heated in the kettle, a low hum building to a quiet roar. Tourists murmured at his focus; wrists flicked, a ceramic filter held steady. First pour—swirling caramel foam bloomed under the pressurized stream. His scarred thumb tapped the machine's gauge. Pressure perfect. Temperature exact. He worked like a surgeon restoring order to chaos.
Le Le watched, mesmerized, doodling on a napkin. "Make clouds, Bāba."
Li Jian poured steamed milk into a tulip cup. Milky foam swirled, settling into mist-shrouded peaks.
He served the tourists in silence. They tasted, eyes widening. "God, this is better than Milan."
Suddenly, a tremor—doors banged open. Granny Mei entered, bangled arms clanking, leaning heavily on her dragon-headed cane. At ninety-five, she stood as bent and unbreakable as old bamboo. "Lazy bones!" She thumped the counter. "Oolong, Jian-gē! The kind that bites back!"
Le Le slid down, scampering to her. "Méi pópo! Draw your dragon?" She flexed tiny fingers like claws.
Granny Mei cackled. "Dragon wants almond biscuits!" She leveled a fingernail gnarled like tree root at Li Jian. "Did Little Radish eat breakfast? Or just crayons?"
"Xiaolongbao," Li Jian muttered, sliding a teapot toward her: sun-warmed clay on bamboo tray.
As the tea steeped, Le Le plucked biscuits from a jar, piling them before the old woman. "Big dragon eats ten!"
Outside the window, villagers gathered. Fishermen from the river discussing the morning's meager catch. Teenagers clattering by on rusted bicycles. Plump Auntie Gu, balancing baskets of hairy lychees on her carrying pole, shouted through the window: "Black tea, Li-jie! Quick—or I curse your beans!"
Li Jian produced six ceramic cups, filling them swiftly. His left sleeve rode up as he poured—revealing a pale, puckered scar encircling his wrist. Shackle mark? Knife wound? Auntie Gu caught it, looked down. The village knew not to ask.
°
Later, as the sun climbed higher, Li Jian mopped the floor. Le Le sang nonsense songs beside him, building a tower from coffee scoops and cinnamon sticks. Her laughter echoed tinny and bright. She paused, fingers brushing his trouser leg where another scar lay hidden, raised and knotted beneath the fabric. "Hurting?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "Old story."
But his knuckles whitened on the mop handle. *Seoul. Five years ago. Steaming rubble and crimson spray. The limp weight of a child—*not Le Le yet, just blood and a hush between sniper shots—dragged from an embassy bombing. Her parents' vacant eyes. Combat boots thundering behind him. Shouted commands: "Shadow Master! Move! NOW!"
Le Le tugged his apron. "Baba! Sad?"
He scooped her up roughly—too roughly—then softened instantly. Pressed his forehead to hers. "Never when you're here."
The morning wore on. More villagers, more tourists. Li Jian filtered frustration into precision. A Chicago travel writer demanded "bio-dynamic brew." A climber with blistered heels needed antiseptic and whisky. Through it all, Le Le orbited him: organizing mismatched teaspoons, spilling sugar into haphazard snowdrifts, whispering secrets to a stone frog ornament by the door.
Her energy enthralled customers. "She's fearless!" a woman marveled as Le le chased a trapped cicada around chairs.
Li Jian watched silently.
°
As sunlight shifted toward noon, the kettle began its song again—thin steam feathering from its spout. Le Le drifted toward it, hypnotized by coiled smoke snakes. The kettle's murmur built into a wail. Higher. Shrieking like ricochet off concrete—
Li Jian moved.
He crossed the room like a ricochet himself—five strides vanished in a fractured second. A tourist cried out. Crayons scattered as he snatched Le Le back, arm shielding her as the kettle screamed. Its pitch perfect: the sound of falling shells slow enough to feel them part the air. His other hand seized the handle and whipped the scalding vessel away, silk-quick and brutally precise, slamming it onto a cast-iron pad.
Steam bloomed scalding white.
Le Le trembled against his chest. The café froze.
Light caught the thin scar beneath Li Jian's collar then—pale knife-strike, the same one a Belgrade arms dealer had failed to finish. Granny Mei's cane stopped tapping. The pen dropped from the Chicago writer's hand.
Li Jian's breath roared in his ears, momentarily deafening. Seoul's firestorms. The sucked-in silence before detonation. Blood drumming in shrapnel tunnel-ears. His grip tightened on Le Le—far too tight. She whimpered.
He closed his eyes. Released. Her small hand patted his cheek. "Loud kettle," she said solemnly. He smoothed her hair with fingers clenched to stop them shaking.
The Chicago travel writer slid her phone across the counter, filming the crema swirling atop her espresso like liquid amber. "Unbelievable," she breathed into her livestream, zooming in on the tiger-stripe pattern Li Jian had poured with clinical precision. "This dirt-road Da Vinci makes Italian baristas look like toddlers finger-painting! Smell that?" She thrust the mic toward the cup. "Blood orange. Charred caramel. Wet moss after monsoon. And he doesn't even speak while—"
Li Jian was already pushing through the beaded curtain into the alley, summoned by Old Man Cheng's rasping shout. The fisherman's cart had overturned near the bougainvillea thicket, scattering silvery minnows across cobblestones slick with fish scales and panic. Without a word, Li Jian braced against the cart—back muscles straining against damp cotton—and heaved it upright in one piston-smooth motion. Cheng wheezed thanks, but Li Jian's gaze had already snapped back toward the café.
Through the window, he saw Le Le perched on the counter, nibbling a lychee, utterly alone. Safe. He bent to gather thrashing fish.
Inside, the jade wind chimes rattled—not with mountain breeze, but the entrance of four travelers. Dust streaked their expensive hiking gear, but their posture screamed contradiction: too alert, too coordinated. Like wolves in Patagonia fleece.
First came a woman with raven hair in a ruthless braid, eyes scanning exits before menu. Xia Ma. Behind her, a lanky man adjusted infrared glasses (Zhang Ke), followed by a petite woman brushing terraced soil from her sleeve (Lan Wei), and finally a broad-shouldered figure cracking his neck, gaze jumping from fire extinguisher to ceiling beams (Han Bo).
"Woah, cozy murder hobbit hole," Han Bo muttered in English, earning a sharp elbow from Lan Wei.
Le Le slid off the counter, meeting them barefoot on the worn floorboards. "Huānyíng!" she chirped, wiggling bashful toes. "Bāba's helping Cheng-yé. I'm Le Le! Want cookies before coffee?"
Xia Ma crouched, eye-level. Her tone softened, tactical edge blunted by the child's gravity-defying curls. "Just tea, xiǎo mèi. Wulong?"
As Le Le scurried toward clay canisters, Xia Ma's sharp eyes snagged on the café's "art gallery"—specifically one polaroid pinned beneath Le Le's purple duck masterpiece.
It showed Li Jian shirtless in the river, hefting a laughing Le Le overhead, water sluicing down scar-laced abs. Sunlight caught the knife-slash beneath his collar, the shrapnel pockmarks on his ribs. Unmistakable.
Xia Ma froze. The air thickened. Zhang Ke followed her gaze. His breath caught—"Tiān..." Han Bo stiffened, knuckles whitening on the chair back. Lan Wei whispered, "No. It can't—"
Xia Ma snatched the photo. "Is this your bāba?" The question sliced through the café's calm like glass on stone.
Le Le beamed, oblivious. "Yep! After he saved Cheng-yé's pig! Swear by mooncakes!" She mimed throwing one, tiny palm scrunching.
Xia Ma's finger traced the scar on Li Jian's collarbone through the plastic sleeve—the one she'd stitched with fishing line in a Moldovan garlic cellar in 2018. Her voice turned volcanic gravel. "His name. Tell me his name."
"Li Jian!" Le Le chirped. "He knows plants! Kicks stones wicked far! Makes secret tea!"
Four adult faces turned to ash. Han Bo sank into a chair, scrubbing his face. "Jesus wept. Four years." Zhang Ke's glasses fogged—whether from humidity or tears, he didn't know. Lan Wei pressed trembling fingers to the photo like touching bone shards.
Xia Ma straightened, crystalline purpose hardening her stare. She pulled Le Le close—a shield? A hostage? Her whisper feathered the child's ear, bitter as gunpowder residue. "Where is he right now, xiǎo guāiguāi? We're his... old colleagues."
Outside, the wind funneled down the alley, clawing withered petals from the bougainvillea. It flung crimson blossoms against the café window like warning flares. Li Jian straightened, Old Man Cheng's gratitude a pointless buzz. Through glass smeared with rain and petals, he saw her.
Xia Ma.
One hand resting on Le Le's shoulder. The other clutching the photograph.
His daughter. His ghost. His sin. All fused in one cataclysmic frame. For three excruciating seconds, the god of war ceased breathing. The fish in his hands thrashed—a wet, desperate drum solo against silence.
Then came the kettle's shriek from inside, howling straight into the bone marrow of everyone who'd ever flinched at incoming mortars. It sounded exactly like Shadow Death coming home.