The wind was colder than the previous days.
Outside the tent, it was quiet. Not empty, but—silent. No one speaking, no one walking, even the horses' breathing seemed to be choked off by something.
I lifted the corner of the curtain and looked out.
Two men stood not far away. They weren't talking, not moving, not even shifting their gaze. Like two stones standing in the wind. They wore fur clothes similar to the others in the camp, with knives at their waists, but something was different—I couldn't say what.
But I knew they were looking at me.
Not with Ah Gu-da's scrutiny of "you shouldn't be here," but something else. Quiet. Impassive. Like a knife in its sheath.
I let the curtain fall.
Wind poured in through the seams, my fingers were already losing the sensation of temperature.
When the servant brought in the water bowl, my fingers were still stiff.
Not from cold—well, partly. But mostly because of those two standing outside. I didn't know who they were, but my body judged faster than my brain: Danger.
The servant placed the water bowl on the low table. His fingers were shaking too, worse than mine. He glanced at me quickly—not at me, but at outside the tent—then turned to leave.
His steps were too fast. As if he wanted to get away from this place as soon as possible.
His foot caught on the threshold.
The water bowl slipped from his hand and fell. The sound of the clay bowl shattering was particularly harsh in the quiet camp, shards splashing, water spilling everywhere.
In that instant, the air changed.
Those two men who hadn't moved looked up almost simultaneously. Their movements were so synchronized they looked like one person. Their gaze fell on the servant, expressionless, without hesitation.
The next moment, one of them was already behind the servant. Too fast. I didn't see how he moved. Just now ten paces away, in a blink he was at the front. His hand pressed on the servant's shoulder, five fingers tightening, the force so great the servant sank down a notch.
The servant didn't even have time to beg for mercy. His face turned pale, lips trembling, but not a word came out.
I subconsciously took a step back.
"He just slipped—" I started.
"No."
The voice came from behind me.
I turned my head.
He stood at the tent entrance, backlit. The eleven-year-old youth, wearing fur clothes, hair not yet tied up, cascading over his shoulders. He held no knife. But his gaze passed over me, landing on those two men.
"Wolf Guards don't catch the wrong person," he said.
Wolf Guards.
When these two words came from his mouth, the two men's expressions didn't change. But the servant's face turned paler—pale as a corpse.
"What did he do?" I asked.
Li Yuanhao didn't look at me. He looked at the servant, his eyes holding something I couldn't name—not anger, not judgment, but indifference. Like looking at a broken thing.
"Last night," he said, "he stayed outside your tent for a long time."
I paused.
"He—"
"Someone told him to watch you." Li Yuanhao's voice was flat. "He watched."
The servant finally made a sound. Not a plea, but a short, squeezed-out whimper from his throat. Like a mouse with its tail stepped on.
I looked at him. Seventeen or eighteen years old, a head taller than Li Yuanhao, but now kneeling on the ground, shoulders pressed by that "Wolf Guard," shrinking into a ball.
"He couldn't refuse," I said.
Li Yuanhao turned to look at me.
"Someone told him to watch, he had to watch," I said. "In this place, can a servant say no?"
"He could have not looked," Li Yuanhao said.
"The people under you," I said, "how many choices do they have?"
He didn't answer.
The tent was quiet for a long time. Long enough to hear the servant's breathing—rapid, broken, like a leaking bellows.
"Let him go," Li Yuanhao said.
Voice very light. As if saying something trivial.
The two "Wolf Guards" let go simultaneously. No hesitation, no questioning. Like machines receiving a command, stopping instantly.
The servant collapsed on the ground, gasping.
"Get out," Li Yuanhao said.
The servant scrambled away.
The tent was left with just us two. And those two "Wolf Guards"—they retreated outside, but I knew they were still there. Like shadows.
"Who are they?" I asked.
"Wolf Guards."
"I know they're called Wolf Guards. I mean—who are they?"
Li Yuanhao walked behind the low table and sat down. Picked up the charcoal, scratched a line on the board. Not writing, just scratching.
"My father's people," he said. "Followed him since childhood."
"To do what?"
"Kill people."
Two words. Clean and sharp.
I looked at him. He didn't look up. Continued scratching that line, over and over, until a deep groove appeared on the board.
"They don't speak," I said. "Don't explain. Movements are clean, no emotional fluctuation."
He stopped, looking up at me.
"Like they've been trained," I said. "Only execute orders, don't judge right from wrong."
His gaze changed. Not the previous scrutiny, but something I couldn't quite read.
"How do you know?" he asked.
"I studied it," I said. "At my school."
He stared at me for three seconds.
"That school of yours," he said, "teaches weird things."
"Mm."
"Teaches everything?"
"Pretty much."
"Teaches killing?"
"No."
"Then what does it teach?"
"Teaches why people kill."
His charcoal stopped on the board.
That question seemed no one had asked him. Or rather, no one had ever answered him this way.
He lowered his head, continued scratching that line.
"You're soft-hearted," he said suddenly.
"What?"
"Just now. That servant. You were soft-hearted."
I looked at him.
"You're too ruthless," I said.
His fingers paused.
"If not ruthless, can't survive," he said. Voice very light. As if stating something he accepted long ago.
The tent was quiet again.
I walked to the opposite side of the table and sat down.
"What are we learning today?" I asked.
He looked up at me.
That look—like a wolf cub discovering for the first time that someone isn't afraid of his fangs, nor his wounds.
"Write your name," he said.
"Wrote it yesterday."
"Write it again."
I picked up the charcoal and wrote three characters on the board.
Jiang. Jin. Yue.
He looked down for a long time.
Then he picked up the charcoal and wrote beside it.
Not "Jiang", not "Jin".
It was "Moon" (月).
He wrote very slowly. Strokes heavy, like carving into paper. The horizontal-fold-hook was crooked, the two horizontal strokes inside squeezed together, but he finished.
When the last stroke landed, he looked up at me.
"This character," he said, "is you?"
I nodded.
He looked at the two characters for a while—"Moon" and "Moon" side by side on the board, one written by me, one by him. His was crooked, like a bug that couldn't stand steady.
"Hard to remember," he said.
I didn't speak.
The next moment, he peeled that paper off the board, folded it twice, and stuffed it into his chest.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Keeping it."
"Keeping it for what?"
He didn't answer. Picked up the charcoal and continued writing on the board.
"Moon (月)."
Second time. Third time. Fourth time.
By the fifth time, he suddenly stopped.
"That servant," he said, "won't watch you again."
I paused.
"Why?"
"Because he knows you spoke for him."
"Does that make a difference?"
"Yes." He lowered his head, continued writing. "No one here speaks for others."
His brush paused.
"You're the first."
I looked at him. Eleven years old. Hand injured. People around him either fear him or want something from him. He's seen people cry, seen people kneel, seen people do anything to live. But he hasn't seen—someone speak for another.
"It's not that big a deal," I said.
"Here, it is." He looked up at me. "So you'll die faster."
He said it so calmly. Not threatening, not scaring, stating a fact.
"Unless," he said, "you are my person."
Outside the tent, the wind stopped.
Quiet enough to hear charcoal ash falling on the board. Quiet enough to hear my own heartbeat.
"I am your teacher," I said.
"Same."
"Not same."
"Here, same." He looked at me. "Here, 'my person' is 'my person'. No other meaning."
He paused.
"No other meaning."
He said this twice. As if convincing me, also convincing himself.
I didn't respond.
He lowered his head, continued writing.
"Moon (月)."
Sixth time. Seventh time.
"Tomorrow," he said, "teach me to write 'Jiang'."
"Okay."
"And 'Jin'."
"Okay."
He put down the charcoal, looking at the row of crooked "Moon" characters on the board.
"That school of yours," he said suddenly, "what was it called again?"
"UCLA."
"U...C...L...A." He recited it character by character, stumbling, like chewing on a bone he couldn't swallow.
"Stop it," I said.
"Why?"
"You don't pronounce it well."
He stared at me for three seconds.
Then he recited it again.
"UCLA."
Better than before. But still hard to listen to.
I sighed.
The corner of his mouth curved up. Very shallow. Very short. Like wind blowing across the grassland.
"Tomorrow," he stood up, "you come."
Not a command. A statement.
"Okay," I said.
He turned to walk out. Reaching the curtain, he stopped.
"Jiang Jinyue."
"Mm?"
He didn't look back.
"That servant thing," he said, "won't happen again."
He lifted the curtain and walked out.
I sat behind the low table, looking at the row of "Moon" characters he wrote. Crooked, each one a bit better than the last.
I reached out and touched where he peeled the paper off. There were still charcoal traces on the board, blurry, like an unfinished sentence.
Wind from outside blew in.
Those two called "Wolf Guards" were gone. But I knew they were still there. Like shadows. Like knives in sheaths.
And what bothered me more was—
When he wrote that "Moon" character just now, the charcoal force was heavier than any other time.
That mark on the board didn't look like practice writing.
I took a deep breath, stood up, and walked out.
Sunlight shone on my face, warm. But my back was still cold.
The shadow of that tent behind me fell on my back, long.
I didn't look back.
But I knew that shadow wouldn't disappear.
Inside the tent, the youth sat on the pile of furs.
He took that paper out from his chest, unfolded it.
Two characters side by side. One good, one ugly.
He looked for a long time.
Then he folded the paper back up, stuffed it back into his chest. Against his heart.
Someone told the servant to watch her.
Not because she was dangerous. Because she was useful—useful to others.
He stared in the direction of the tent for a while.
He didn't know why, but that thought made him irritable.
"UCLA." He recited it.
This time it was much smoother.
He stood up, walked out of the tent.
Two Wolf Guards stood at the door, like two stone statues.
"That servant today," he said, "who told him to watch?"
Silence.
"Check," he said. "Before tomorrow."
He walked out. Sunlight shone on his back, stretching his shadow long.
When she asked "how many choices do the people under you have," she didn't lower her head, didn't dodge.
He had seen many people ask him questions. When they asked, their eyes always looked elsewhere.
She didn't.
He didn't know why he remembered this.
He walked fast. As if rushing to go somewhere.
But he didn't know where that place was.
He only knew—
Her hands were cold. Yesterday when she changed his bandage, her fingers touched his palm, cold.
He held his right hand up before his eyes, looking at that wound.
Didn't hurt much anymore.
He clenched his fist, then opened it.
Then he continued walking.
End of Chapter 5