Early the next morning, someone came to fetch me.
It wasn't Ah Gu-da. It was an attendant who looked only a few years older than me. He stood outside the tent and said one word in stiff Chinese: "Go."
I followed him through the camp. The morning grassland was as cold as a knife, sliding into my collar and reaching straight to my chest. I wrapped my thin Han-style clothing tighter, cursing for the nineteenth time in my heart: This rag doesn't even have pockets.
The attendant brought me to a tent. It wasn't the large one from yesterday, but a medium-sized one. Inside, there was a low table, a few fur cushions, and a bronze mirror.
I picked it up for a look.
The person in the mirror had messy hair and dry, peeling lips.
I put the mirror down and smoothed my hair with my hand. It's not like there was Instagram here anyway.
I sat down and waited.
Waited for a quarter of an hour. Two quarters. Half an hour.
Just as I was about to fall asleep on the low table, the tent flap was finally lifted.
He walked in.
The eleven-year-old youth, wearing the same fur clothes as yesterday, his hair in thin braids with turquoise swinging by his ears. His right hand was still wrapped in the bandage I had applied yesterday—he hadn't taken it off.
He glanced at me and sat down opposite the low table.
"You're late," I said.
"I am not late."
"I waited for you for half an hour."
"That's because you arrived too early." He placed a short knife on the table. "Let's start."
I looked at the knife, then at him.
"You brought a knife to class?"
"I always bring a knife."
"Fine." I took out a wooden board and a few pieces of charcoal from the side. "Today we will first learn—"
"Not the ones from yesterday."
I looked up at him.
"Yesterday's were too simple," he said. "Learn something else."
"You can't even write the character 'Person' (人) properly—"
"I said learn something else."
His tone wasn't a suggestion; it was a command. An eleven-year-old kid speaking to people like this—at UCLA, he would have been kicked out by the professor long ago. But this wasn't UCLA.
"Fine," I pushed the wooden board toward him. "What do you want to learn?"
"How do you Han people fight wars?"
"...What?"
"War. Using troops. Your Han books write a lot about it." He looked at me. "Do you know?"
"I study Educational Psychology, not warfare."
His brow furrowed.
"Then what use are you?"
"Teaching you to read."
"What is the use of reading?"
"Reading lets you read books. Reading lets you learn many things."
"Like warfare?"
"...Yes. Like warfare."
He stared at me for three seconds, then lowered his head and wrote a character on the board with charcoal.
"Person (人)."
Pie (撇), Na (捺). A little better than yesterday.
"This character," he said, "I have learned."
"And then?"
"Then learn something else."
I wrote the character "Big" (大) on the board.
"This is pronounced 'da'. It means big. A person standing between heaven and earth, supporting the sky and standing on the earth—that is 'Big'."
He glanced down, picked up the charcoal, and wrote one.
Crooked, the horizontal stroke too long, the pie too short.
"Not good looking," he said.
"For a first time, this is already very good."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying—"
"You're lying." He looked up at me, his eyes holding something I couldn't quite describe—not anger, not impatience, but a test. "You say 'very good', and then you stop teaching. Just like those people."
I paused.
Then I smiled.
"Why are you laughing?" He frowned.
"I was thinking, were you told 'very good' by too many people and then they gave up on you?"
His fingers paused. The charcoal drew a long black line on the board.
"You have a screw loose," he said.
"I know."
He lowered his head and started writing again.
Second time. Third time. Fourth time.
By the sixth time, his writing speed was noticeably faster, the charcoal flying across the board—then stopping abruptly.
"Not writing anymore." He threw the charcoal on the table.
"Why?"
"Boring."
"Learning to read isn't inherently interesting—"
"Then let's do something interesting."
He pushed the charcoal over.
"You write."
"Write what?"
"Your name."
I glanced at him, picked up the charcoal, and wrote three characters on the board.
Jiang. Jin. Yue.
He looked down for a long time.
"Three characters," he said.
"Yes."
"Too many."
"It's okay."
He reached out and pointed to the second character.
"This one. What does it mean?"
"Jin. It means soaking in water."
"Soaking in water." He repeated. "Moon soaking in water."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a while.
"You Han people's names," he said, "are all weird."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I know."
He looked up at me.
"Your father gave you this name?" he asked.
"Mm."
"Is he still alive?"
This question came too suddenly. Not a probe, not a threat, just—curiosity. An eleven-year-old's curiosity about another person.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you miss him?"
I thought about it. Miss my dad? Miss his braised pork? Miss him asking "Do you have enough money?" every video call?
"Yes," I said.
He looked at me, something moving in his eyes. I didn't understand it.
"What about your father?" I asked. "Do you miss him?"
His fingers tightened around the knife hilt. The knuckles were whiter than the leather cord on the handle.
I saw it.
"He is the King of Western Xia," he said. "He is very busy."
"And your mother?"
"She died."
Two words. Clean and sharp, like a knife cutting down.
The tent was quiet for a long time.
Quiet enough for me to hear the sound of charcoal ash falling on the board. Quiet enough to hear someone singing outside the tent in a language I didn't understand.
"Everyone leaves," he said.
His voice was very light. Light as if speaking of something he had accepted a long time ago.
I looked at him.
Eleven years old. Hand injured. Mother dead. Father busy. People around him either feared him or wanted something from him.
"I won't leave," I said.
He looked up.
"You're lying."
"I don't lie."
"You—"
"Li Yuanhao."
I called his name.
He paused. Maybe no one had ever called him that. Not "Prince", not "Your Highness", just his name.
"I won't leave," I said. "Not because you are a Prince, not because your father is the King of Western Xia. It's because—"
I thought for a moment, deciding to tell the truth.
"Because you are my student."
He looked at me.
That look—like a wolf cub whose tail had been stepped on, only to realize the foot wasn't stepping on it, but warming it.
His hand loosened from the knife hilt.
"You really have a screw loose," he said.
"I know."
He lowered his head, picked up the charcoal, and wrote the character "Big" (大) for the seventh time.
Horizontal, pie, na.
Much better than before.
"This character," he said, "what does it mean again?"
"Big. Meaning size. A person standing between heaven and earth, supporting the sky and standing on the earth."
"Supporting the sky and standing on the earth." He recited it. "You Han people always say such big words."
"They're not big words. They're ideals."
"What is an ideal?"
"It's... the person you hope to become."
He was quiet for a while.
"My father said," his voice lowered, "that I will become the King of Western Xia in the future."
"Do you want to?"
He looked up. It seemed no one had ever asked him that question.
"I want to," he said. "I want to be the strongest person. Stronger than the Song, stronger than the Liao, stronger than everyone."
"And then?"
"Then no one can bully Western Xia."
I looked at him. The eleven-year-old child, saying this, had light in his eyes. Not the light of an ambitious schemer, but the light of a child—the light of "I want to protect my home."
"Then you have a lot to learn," I said.
"Like?"
"Like reading. Studying. Learning military strategy. Learning how to govern a country."
"My father will teach me."
"What your father teaches you and what you learn yourself are different."
"How are they different?"
He looked up, as if to refute. But he said nothing.
He was waiting for my answer.
"What your father teaches you is what he knows," I said. "What you learn yourself is what you want."
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he stood up.
He walked around the low table, stopping in front of me.
He didn't speak. He bent down, placing both hands on the fur behind me, boxing me in between him and the table.
His face was very close to mine.
Close enough for me to see the reflection in his eyes—my reflection. Close enough to count his eyelashes. Close enough to—
He reached out and picked up the short knife from the table.
The knife tip pressed against the low table, right next to my right hand.
I didn't move.
He was carving.
The knife tip scraped across the wood, making a harsh sound. Wood chips flew up, landing on the back of my hand.
First stroke. Second. Third.
Three horizontal lines, one vertical.
"King" (王).
Crooked, just like the one he wrote on the board.
After carving, he put the knife away and looked down at me.
His face was still that close. Close enough for me to feel his breath on my forehead.
"You just now," he said, "didn't flinch."
"Why should I?"
"I was carving next to you. With a knife."
"But you weren't carving me."
He stared at me for three seconds.
"You really have a screw loose," he said.
"You've said that four times now."
"Because it's important."
"What's important?"
"That you have a screw loose."
I almost laughed. But I held it back. Because his face was too close, if I laughed, he would feel the change in my breathing.
"Why carve it on the table?" I asked.
"Because..."
He paused.
"You said a King must support the sky and stand on the earth. I carve it here, so you will remember."
"Remember what?"
"That you taught me."
He straightened up, stepped back two paces, and sat back opposite the low table.
The whole process took less than a minute. But I felt like a century had passed.
He picked up the charcoal and continued writing on the board.
"King (王)."
Second time. Third time. Fourth time.
I glanced down at the table.
Right next to my right hand, a "King" was carved. Crooked. Carved with a knife.
An eleven-year-old kid, carving characters on a table with a knife, his face only ten centimeters from mine.
I thought in my heart: Are you trying to be like Lu Xun? Too bad you don't like studying.
But the corner of my mouth curved up.
"You smiled." He didn't look up.
"No."
"You smiled."
"No. You saw wrong."
"You—" He looked up, saw my expression, and paused.
Then his ears turned red.
Not his face. His ears. From the tip down to the lobe, even the turquoise stone looked less green in comparison.
He lowered his head and continued writing.
"King (王)."
Fifth time. Sixth time.
"Just now," he said suddenly, "why didn't you flinch?"
"I told you, you weren't carving me."
"What if I wanted to carve you?"
"Would you?"
He didn't answer.
"You wouldn't," I said.
"How do you know?"
"Because you didn't kill me yesterday. You won't today either."
He looked up at me.
That look—I didn't know how to describe it. Like a wolf cub discovering for the first time that there is someone in this world who isn't afraid of his teeth.
"You really have a screw loose," he said for the seventh time.
"I know."
He lowered his head and continued writing.
Seventh time. Eighth time. Ninth time.
By the tenth time, he put down the charcoal and looked at the character he wrote.
"King (王)." He recited it.
Then he looked up at me.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you come."
Not a command. A statement.
Like stating a fact he had already confirmed.
"Okay," I said.
He stood up, picked up the knife from the table, and turned to walk out of the tent.
Reaching the curtain, he stopped.
"Jiang Jinyue."
"Mm?"
He didn't look back.
"Tomorrow."
He lifted the curtain and walked out.
I sat behind the low table, looking down at the "King" carved next to my right hand.
Crooked. Carved with a knife.
I reached out and touched that carving. The wood was hard, the knife cut deep.
He wasn't carving "King".
He was carving—
"You saw me."
I pulled my hand back, stood up, and walked out of the tent.
Sunlight shone on my face, warm. The wind on the grassland was much lighter than last night, horses were grazing in the distance, and someone was singing.
I took a deep breath.
The air smelled of green grass, of earth.
And—something indescribable.
Like something was beginning.
I didn't know what it was.
But I knew—
Tomorrow, I would come again.
Outside the tent, the youth stood in the sunlight.
Right hand still bandaged, left hand holding the knife.
He looked down at his right hand. She bandaged it. Last night. He hadn't taken it off this morning.
He turned his hand over, looking at his palm. The wound didn't hurt anymore.
He thought of her face just now. So close. Close enough to see the light in her eyes. Not the light of fear, not the light of flattery.
He couldn't describe it.
He only knew he had never seen that light before.
"Jiang Jinyue." He whispered it, testing if the two words rolled smoothly in his mouth.
He paused for a moment before realizing he had spoken aloud.
He didn't look back, continuing to walk forward.
Walked two steps, then stopped.
"Tomorrow," he said to the attendant behind him, "when she comes, no need to announce."
"...Yes."
He continued walking.
Sunlight shone on his back, stretching his shadow long.
He walked fast.
As if rushing to go somewhere.
But he didn't know where that place was.
He only knew—
Tomorrow.
She would come again.
End of Chapter 4