The mocking laughter echoed off the wooden beams of the wine shop, coarse and ugly.
Shen Qiyao remained perfectly still, his long black hair catching the lantern light like polished obsidian.
The spilled rice wine soaked into the hem of his robes, but he paid it no mind.
His dark eyes rested on the two burly men with a calm that was far more unsettling than rage.
The bigger man grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "What's the matter, scholar? Cat got your tongue? Or are you just—"
He never finished.
Qiyao moved.
There was no shout, no dramatic stance. Only a quiet step forward and a fluid motion of his sleeve. His palm connected lightly with the man's shoulder — almost gentle — yet the force sent the burly villager stumbling back three full steps until he crashed into a table, knocking over several empty jars with a loud clatter.
The second man's eyes widened. He lunged forward with a drunken roar, throwing a heavy fist.
Qiyao turned slightly, caught the man's wrist with effortless precision, and twisted. Not enough to break bone, but enough to make the bully drop to one knee with a sharp gasp of pain.
In the same smooth motion, Qiyao's other hand pressed against the man's chest and pushed. The villager toppled backward, landing hard on the floorboards.
Both men stared up at him in stunned silence.
Shen Qiyao's voice remained low, almost soft, yet every word carried winter frost.
"I said… you should learn to control your hands."
The shop fell deathly quiet. The old wine shop owner stood frozen behind the counter, mouth slightly open. A few other customers had pressed themselves against the walls, wide-eyed.
The young stranger who had caused the initial trouble now stood just behind Qiyao, staring at his back with open astonishment. The lively spark in his eyes had shifted into something brighter — surprise mixed with sudden respect.
The bigger man pushed himself up, face flushed with humiliation and lingering drink. "You… you dare—"
He charged again.
Qiyao exhaled once, softly. This time his movements were faster, cleaner. A precise strike to the pressure point beneath the man's arm, followed by a sweep of his leg.
The burly villager crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, groaning. His companion, still on his knees, wisely chose not to rise again.
Shen Qiyao stood motionless in the center of the chaos, sleeves settling back into place as though nothing had happened. His breathing remained even.
His expression had not changed. Only the faintest trace of cold displeasure lingered in his eyes.
He glanced once at the broken jar on the floor, then turned slightly toward the young man behind him.
"Are you hurt?" he asked quietly.
Before the young stranger could answer, the bigger villager spat from the floor, voice hoarse with anger and disbelief:
"You think this is over, pretty boy? Just wait till—"
The shop door suddenly creaked.
Heavy footsteps approached from outside.
The wooden door of the wine shop creaked open wider, letting in a cool draft of night air that stirred the red lanterns overhead. Two more sturdy figures stepped inside, their shadows stretching long across the floorboards.
They wore the rough clothing of villagers who worked the fields by day and drank by night. Their eyes quickly swept over the scene — the two burly men still on the ground, the spilled wine, the broken jar, and the tall, slender figure standing calm in the middle of it all.
The shop grew even quieter.
Shen Qiyao did not turn to look at the newcomers immediately. His gaze remained steady, his long black hair falling like a dark curtain over one shoulder.
He stood with the same quiet composure he carried in the bamboo grove, as though the small chaos around him was no more than wind passing through leaves.
The young stranger remained just behind him, slightly to the side. From where Qiyao stood, he could only see the edge of a grey robe and a pair of hands clenched loosely at the stranger's sides.
No clear face. No name. Only the faint sound of slightly quickened breathing.
One of the new arrivals grunted. "What happened here?"
The bigger man on the floor wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and pointed a thick finger at Qiyao. "This bastard scholar attacked us! For no reason! We were just having words with that loud-mouthed brat and he—"
He stopped when Qiyao's eyes finally shifted toward him. The cold, quiet look was enough to silence the rest of the sentence.
The old wine shop owner behind the counter finally found his voice, though it trembled slightly. "It… it was these two who started it. They shoved the young man into this young master.
Broke his jar. The scholar only… defended himself."
The two newcomers exchanged glances. The tension in the room thickened like incense smoke.
Shen Qiyao lowered his hands completely, sleeves falling back into their elegant lines. He spoke once more, voice soft yet carrying clearly through the shop.
"I have no wish for further trouble tonight."
He bent slightly, retrieved the few unbroken coins that had scattered from his sleeve when the jar fell, and placed them quietly on the counter — more than enough to cover the spilled wine and any damage.
Then he turned toward the doorway.
As he moved, the young stranger shifted as well, still half-hidden in Qiyao's shadow. Qiyao caught only the briefest impression of movement — the hem of a robe, a flash of dark hair — nothing more. He did not look directly. There was no need yet.
Outside, the night air felt cooler against his skin. The bamboo grove waited in the distance, silent under the rising moon.
Behind him, the footsteps of the young stranger followed quietly.
The heavy silence of the wine shop lingered at their backs like unspoken questions.
The night air outside the wine shop felt cooler and cleaner after the stale warmth inside. Shen Qiyao stepped onto the dusty path, his long sleeves swaying gently with each measured stride. B
behind him, soft footsteps followed — light, quick, and persistent.
Only after they had walked some distance from the shop, beneath the soft glow of hanging lanterns and the silver light of the rising moon, did the voice finally reach him.
"Wait— hey, wait a moment!"
The voice was bright, warm, and carried a hint of breathless laughter.
Shen Qiyao slowed to a stop.
The young man caught up and came to stand beside him, finally stepping fully into view.
He was a few years younger than Qiyao, with lively dark eyes that sparkled with mischief and starlight. His hair was tied in a slightly messy topknot, a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead.
When he grinned — wide and unapologetic — a flash of white teeth showed, the canines on both sides subtly pointed like delicate fangs.
Three small moles adorned his face: one just beneath his lower lip, visible only when he smiled, one above his left eye under the sharp line of his brow, and another at the corner of his left mouth, accenting every expression.
His face was handsome in an open, expressive way — quick to shift, impossible to ignore.
He Qing grinned even wider, completely at ease.
"That was incredible!" he said, voice full of genuine delight. "I thought I was about to get my face rearranged, and then you just… handled them like folding paper. So calm, too. Are all scholars from big cities secretly martial masters now?"
He tilted his head, studying Qiyao with open curiosity, as if they were already old friends.
Shen Qiyao regarded him quietly for a moment. The young man's energy felt almost jarring after the long silence of his days at the shrine, yet it was not unpleasant. Only… new.
"I am not a master," Qiyao replied softly, his tone even and polite. "They were simply rude. And clumsy."
He Qing laughed — a light, ringing sound that seemed to chase away some of the night's tension. The mole beneath his lip danced with the movement.
"Rude and clumsy, yes. That's putting it kindly." He scratched the back of his neck, still smiling. "I owe you for the wine jar. And probably for saving my ribs. My name's He Qing. Just arrived in Zhuyin a few days ago. Still learning which villagers to avoid when they're drunk."
He took a small step closer, completely comfortable in Qiyao's space.
"And you… you must be the one living at the old shrine by the bamboo grove, right? The villagers talk about you sometimes. They say you're quiet. They didn't mention you could fight like that."
Qiyao gave a small nod, neither confirming nor denying.
The path ahead stretched toward the grove, dark and peaceful under the moon.
He Qing showed no sign of leaving. Instead, he fell into step beside Qiyao naturally, hands clasped behind his back, still radiating that warm, lively energy.
"So… where are we going now, scholar?"