The dawn brought a muted light over the foothills of the Cangyun Mountains, painting the mist in shades of silver and rose. Li Rong had spent the night preparing a small, sheltered area near his hut where Wen could rest. Straw and blankets lined the uneven floor of a corner sheltered by low mud walls, while a small fire pit flickered, filling the air with faint smoke and warmth.
Li Rong moved with careful precision, fetching water from the nearby stream, crushing a few wild herbs with a flat stone, and preparing a rudimentary poultice for Wen's bruised and torn muscles. Each movement was measured, the rhythm almost meditative. Healing is not just about medicine; it is about observation, patience, and understanding the body as a whole.
As he approached Wen, Li Rong's gaze lingered on the man's form. Scars marred his shoulders and forearms, faint silver lines contrasting with pale, bruised skin. Each mark spoke of battles fought silently, of endurance tested, of dangers faced alone. Some were deep, angry cuts; others were long, thin streaks, faded yet stubbornly persistent — evidence of survival, discipline, and hardship. Li Rong's chest tightened slightly. Each scar is a story. Each one a quiet testament to the weight this man carries.
Wen lay quietly on the straw, his head turned slightly, one eye watching Li Rong's hands. Every gesture, every small action was cataloged: the careful mixing of herbs, the deliberate pressure on inflamed muscles, the precision in wrapping torn skin. Wen noted the absence of hesitation, the quiet confidence, and the intelligence behind each movement. This is no ordinary person. They think like a strategist, move like someone who has lived beyond these mountains.
Li Rong carefully cleaned the wounds, applied poultices, and tied bandages. As he worked, his fingers brushed over some of the scars, smoothing over the raised skin and feeling the memory of each injury beneath his touch. He wondered silently: How much pain has he endured alone? How many nights did he spend in darkness, fighting the world and himself? Each scar deepened his empathy, yet also stirred curiosity, a desire to understand the man beyond the surface.
Hours passed. Li Rong boiled wild roots to prepare a simple, nourishing gruel, feeding Wen slowly, letting him sip between cautious glances. The physical injuries were visible, but Li Rong sensed the hidden weight: the unspoken burdens, the disciplined restraint, the quiet loneliness. Touching the scars, tending to them, he felt an unspoken dialogue forming — acknowledgment of suffering, and the first steps toward trust.
From a distance, Wen could not help but notice. The way Li Rong's eyes softened over each mark, the care in his fingers, and the deliberate, thoughtful manner in which he treated him — it was unlike anything he had experienced. He allowed himself a rare thought: Perhaps this one sees more than the surface. Perhaps they see me.
By mid-afternoon, Li Rong guided Wen through gentle movements, testing mobility and endurance, each touch deliberate and protective. Wen resisted at first, but Li Rong's steady hands and quiet authority won compliance. Each scar, each bruise, seemed to inform Li Rong's approach: he adjusted pressure, angle, and motion to avoid pain while encouraging recovery. Every mark has a story. Every one deserves respect.
As the sun set, Li Rong cleaned the space, tending the fire and preparing herbs for sleep. He glanced once more at the scars etched across Wen's shoulders and arms, a silent acknowledgment passing through his mind: The body remembers. So does the soul. And perhaps, in time, so will trust.
Paths had intertwined, not just by chance, but through deliberate choice. Li Rong's courage, skill, and empathy had bridged the gap between stranger and companion. Wen's cautious acceptance transformed observation into collaboration. And in the quiet glow of the fire, both recognized the fragile beginnings of something deeper — trust, understanding, and the first threads of connection.