The sun rose slowly over the Cangyun Mountains, spilling gold across Li Rong's small hut. Mist lingered in the hollows of the ridge, curling around pine trunks and wild herbs, and the air carried the faint scent of dew and damp earth. Li Rong moved quietly, tending to Wen's needs before the day grew too bright. The previous week of subtle observation had culminated in the first true connection, but both knew trust would not come easily.
Li Rong crouched beside Wen, brushing a hand over the arm that had been injured the day before. "The swelling has reduced," he said softly, pressing gently to test mobility. Wen winced slightly, but did not pull away. Li Rong's eyes flicked to the scars lining his shoulders and forearms — long, pale streaks of past battles. Each mark is a story… each one a testament to endurance. How much pain has he borne alone?
Wen's eyes followed the motion, sharp and calculating. He notices everything. Not just the injuries, the bruises, the scars — but the rhythm, the patience, the thought behind each movement. Intelligence… and courage. He allowed himself a flicker of amusement. And he dares touch me, despite every rule of this place.
Outside the hut, the village stirred. Early risers whispered from their windows and doorways. "Did you see that? The outcast Ger, tending to a man like he's… he's a healer or some kind of fool." One woman shook her head. "Touching a man? That's unnatural. Who knows what kind of influence he'll bring?" A man, leaning on his cane, muttered, "And he hides him here. What is he planning? Danger follows outsiders."
Inside, Li Rong poured a small mixture of crushed herbs into warm water, letting Wen sip slowly. "Drink," he said. "It will help with pain and prevent infection." His hands moved with confidence, guided by a blend of modern knowledge and careful observation of Wen's reactions. Each touch was deliberate, measured, protective. The unspoken defiance of social norms — of tending to a man, of helping one so strong and so dangerous — weighed on him, but he ignored it. Compassion outweighed fear, and survival outweighed custom.
Wen shifted slightly, testing Li Rong's reactions. Does he flinch? Hesitate? No. Every movement was confident, calm, precise. This one is deliberate… capable… principled. He allowed himself to relax slightly, studying the faint frown lines on Li Rong's forehead, the careful attention to detail, and the subtle pauses as he assessed pain or weakness. Perhaps I can trust him — but not yet fully.
Through the thin mud walls, villagers' voices drifted, hushed and judgmental. Li Rong paused, listening to their whispers, and felt the familiar tension of being an outcast press against him. They will not understand. They do not know the world beyond these mountains. They cannot see that compassion is strength, that knowledge is survival. He turned back to Wen, whose eyes met his with a quiet acknowledgment. The silent bond deepened with each shared glance, each careful gesture, each touch that crossed convention.
Li Rong guided Wen to sit upright on the straw, supporting his weight carefully. He handed him a small bowl of porridge, watching closely for weakness or imbalance. Wen took it slowly, eyeing Li Rong with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. He observes. He measures. He adapts.
The morning stretched into noon, sunlight growing stronger, casting long shadows across the floor. Li Rong cleaned the area, tended to herbs, and collected water for Wen's next dose of crushed medicinal roots. Each motion carried thought and care, yet also defiance: caring for a man openly, in view of the mountains, in sight of those who would judge.
From the ridge, Wen's sharp eyes noted the subtle strategies in Li Rong's movements — careful assessment of his strength, choice of herbs, timing of meals, and precise support during stretches. Every action told a story of intelligence, patience, and a cautious moral code. He is principled, capable, and yet… daring. I could learn to rely on him — cautiously.
Villagers passing the path below the hut paused to whisper again. "The outcast hides someone here. I saw movement. Did he speak to him? Touch him?" A young man leaned closer, voice low. "I don't like it. Something unnatural is happening." Yet none dared approach. The combination of Li Rong's isolation and his quiet confidence made intrusion dangerous.
As evening settled, Li Rong helped Wen lie back on the straw, adjusting blankets, checking bandages, and preparing a small bundle of herbs for sleep. His hands brushed over the scars once more — evidence of past battles, endurance, and hidden pain. These marks… they are part of him. They deserve respect. And perhaps, someday, understanding.
Wen allowed a faint sigh to escape, testing Li Rong's patience and observation. He notices. He sees me completely. Not just the body, not just the scars, but the caution, the calculation, the humanity beneath. The silent acknowledgment passed between them: trust was building, fragile but deliberate.
Paths had intertwined further, threads of connection weaving between them: compassion, intelligence, courage, and quiet defiance of social norms. Outside, villagers continued to whisper, unaware that the most important bond forming in the mountains was not one of gossip or judgment, but of survival, understanding, and the tentative beginnings of something far deeper.