The first light of morning touched the Cangyun Mountains, spilling over the rooftops of Qinghe Village and falling onto Li Rong's small vegetable plot. Frost lingered stubbornly in the hollows between rows of turnips and cabbage, but the hardiest leaves stood tall against the chill. He knelt among them, pressing a finger to a leaf edge, testing its resilience. It was hardy enough to survive, like him.
From the village, faint voices carried on the wind. Most families labored by hand, hoes scraping the earth, children carrying water or chasing chickens along narrow dirt paths. A few households had oxen to pull small plows, but these were rare. Whenever villagers glimpsed Li Rong, they looked away quickly, whispers trailing behind him: Too tall… outsider blood… best to avoid him.
He did not answer. The hoe in his hands moved in a steady rhythm, the soil beneath his fingers honest and unjudging. The dirt was cold and stubborn, but it yielded to patience. By the time his morning labor was done, he paused, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. His breakfast had been simple: coarse millet porridge mixed with a handful of wild greens. Enough to warm him, nothing more.
Even as he straightened, his gaze drifted toward the ridge of the mountains. A dark figure moved deliberately among the trees, tall and broad-shouldered, a faint metallic glint catching the sun before the figure disappeared behind a rocky outcrop. Li Rong's pulse quickened slightly — not in fear, but in awareness of someone with skill, strength, and intent.
Deciding he needed more sustenance for the week, Li Rong set out toward the mountain periphery, a small woven basket slung over his shoulder, clay jars for water, and a crude knife tied to his belt. The path was narrow and rocky, overgrown in places, the wind biting through layers of cotton. He moved carefully, eyes scanning the underbrush for edible greens, herbs, or roots, drawing on the knowledge he had carried from his previous life.
The mountains were quiet except for distant birds and the rustle of small animals. Li Rong knelt to examine roots and leaves, tasting a few bitter shoots that were safe to eat and pulling herbs that could flavor or supplement his porridge. Each find was small, yet valuable: wild garlic, tender sorrel, and mossy mushrooms hidden among rocks. He paused to note their locations, planning to plant some near his hut if they survived transplantation.
From time to time, the figure on the ridge reappeared, moving with deliberate steps, watching from the shadows of trees. Li Rong's gaze met the spot where the figure had paused once more. The metallic glint, the calm precision, the aura of control — it unsettled him, though he did not know why. To him, it seemed a coincidence; a shadow that moved with the wind.
On the way back, a small incident reminded him of the precariousness of his life. A village boy, chasing a stray chicken, tripped and sent the bird flapping into his cabbage patch. "Get out!" the boy shouted before fleeing. Li Rong sighed, replanting damaged leaves and smoothing the soil over crushed sprouts. Life at the village's edge was neither protected nor entirely free.
By late afternoon, his basket was full: roots, mushrooms, wild greens, and tender shoots. He returned to the hut, carrying his finds with care, and began sorting them. Some went into clay jars for cooking; others he planted near his fence, hoping they would grow for future meals. He paused to lean against the fence, hands dirt-streaked, lungs filled with the crisp mountain air, and allowed himself a rare thought: The world rejects me, yet it provides. The mountains give what the village cannot.
The wind shifted, carrying a faint whistle down from the mountains. Li Rong's eyes flicked to the ridge one last time. The figure had vanished, but the sense of being watched remained. Unknown to him, the figure was not wandering aimlessly — every step along the ridgeline had been deliberate, every pause calculated, every glance toward Li Rong's hut intentional.
The mountains seemed to hold their breath, as if the soil itself were alive, marking him, testing him. He pressed his hands into the earth, letting the cold, rough soil ground him. I am alone, yet not without place. And someone up there knows it.
As the sun dipped behind the peaks, shadows stretched across his small patch of land. Smoke from village chimneys drifted lazily upward, but Li Rong remained at the edge of field and mountain, aware that the quiet of this life was fragile, temporary. Something waited beyond the treeline — neither friend nor foe yet, but a presence that had already taken note of him, calculating, observing, and perhaps preparing for what was to come.