That evening, the wind stopped.
Sunsets on the grassland were always long. The red on the horizon burned too deep, like something that wouldn't burn out. I stood outside the tent waiting for the servant to bring food—waited for half an hour, no one came.
The camp was quieter than usual.
Not the "being watched" quiet of the morning, but something else. Everyone was in their places, but no one was doing anything. They stood, sat, squatted, eyes all looking in the same direction.
I looked in that direction. It was the east side of the camp, where there was a row of shadows I couldn't see clearly.
Then I saw him.
He was walking from that direction. Not alone—two people followed behind him. Wolf Guards.
The sunset was behind him, I couldn't see his face clearly against the light. But his gait was different from usual. Not lazy, nor that deliberately suppressed, wolf-like alertness. It was exhaustion. Not physical exhaustion, but something else.
He got closer.
I saw his hands.
Covered in blood.
Not the blood from the small wound on his web. It was his whole hand. From fingertips to wrist, red, wet, still dripping. His cuffs were stained too, invisible on the dark fur clothes, but blood trickled down his hand, leaving a trail of dark dots on the sand.
He saw me.
His steps didn't stop. Passing me, his gaze didn't even linger on my face. As if he didn't see me. As if he couldn't see anything.
He said something to the Wolf Guard behind him, I didn't understand. Then he lifted the curtain and entered his tent.
The Wolf Guards stayed outside.
I stood outside the tent, watching the curtain fall behind him. The wind blew, carrying a metallic stench.
I stood there for a long time. Long enough for the deep red on the horizon to turn deep purple, long enough for the first star to appear.
There was no sound inside the tent.
I lifted the curtain.
The tent wasn't lit. Dark enough to only see outlines. He sat on the pile of furs, same posture as the first time I saw him—one leg extended, one bent, arm resting on his knee.
But he wasn't spinning a knife.
His two hands hung on either side of his knees, palms up, open. As if waiting for something to fall.
The blood had dried. Forming a dark red crust on his hand, still wet between fingers, sticky, gleaming faintly in the dark.
I walked over.
He didn't look up.
I sat down opposite him. The fur was soft, making a light sound when I sat.
"Your hand," I said.
He didn't move.
"Li Yuanhao."
He looked up.
In the dark, I couldn't see his expression clearly. But his eyes—those eyes were different from usual. Not sharp, not probing, not that "judging if you're worth it" scrutiny.
They were empty. Like the grassland after being burned before winter—nothing left, not even ash.
"Your hand," I said again.
He looked down at his hand. The movement was slow. Like looking at something that didn't belong to him.
"It's not my blood," he said.
Voice very flat. Flat like saying "the weather is nice today".
I didn't speak.
I stood up, walked to the tent corner, found the clay jar. Shook it—still had water. Found a piece of cloth. Clean, left over from last time.
I squatted in front of him.
"Hand."
He didn't move.
I reached out and pulled his right hand over. He didn't resist, nor cooperate. Like a powerless wolf cub, letting me pull his paw over.
I dipped the cloth in water and started wiping.
The blood was dry, hard to wipe. Had to soak with water, wait for it to soften, then wipe off bit by bit. I wiped slowly. Palm, back of hand, between fingers, under nails.
He didn't speak. Didn't look at me.
His gaze landed somewhere I didn't know. A corner of the tent, or somewhere further. Somewhere I couldn't reach.
I wiped the right hand clean. Changed cloth, pulled over his left hand.
The left hand had more blood than the right. A long streak of blood on the wrist, extending into the sleeve. I pushed his sleeve up a bit.
His wrist was thin. An eleven-year-old boy, wrist thin like it could snap at any moment. But there were already calluses on the back of his hand—worn from holding a knife.
I wiped the left hand clean too.
Two wounds. Both on knuckles, not deep, but split open. Not new wounds from today, but old wounds that split open again in whatever happened just now that I didn't know about.
I took clean cloth strips to bandage him. Wrapped two fingers, wrapped the palm once.
He didn't flinch. Didn't stiffen.
The first time I bandaged him, his fingers twitched, like a wolf cub touched on the paw. The second time, he obediently placed his hand on the table, didn't move. This time—
This time, his hand was cold.
As cold as my hand.
I finished the last wrap, tucked the strip in. Didn't look up.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
Voice very light. Like asking something he already knew the answer to.
"Afraid," I said.
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid you won't bring cloth back next time. Cloth will run out."
He was silent for a while.
Then he suddenly laughed. Not a cold laugh, not a mocking laugh. A very short puff of air squeezed from his throat. Like it leaked out accidentally.
"You really have a screw loose," he said.
"I know."
The tent was quiet for a while. His hand was still in my palm, I didn't let go, he didn't pull away.
"You don't ask what happened?" he said.
"Do you want to say?"
He didn't answer.
"If you don't want to say, don't," I said. "But be careful with your hand next time. Always splitting open, will leave scars."
"So what if it leaves scars?"
"Not good looking."
"I don't need to be good looking."
"Then what do you need?"
He didn't answer.
His hand moved in my palm. Not pulling away, but turning over. Palm up.
His palm was very cool. Many calluses, thickest at the web. And a scar not fully healed—the wound from the first meeting.
His fingers curled slightly, touching my palm.
Very light. Like wind brushing past.
"Your hand," he said, "is very cold."
"Mm. Cold."
"Isn't Jiangnan not cold?"
"Jiangnan is cold too. But the cold is different."
"How is it different?"
"Jiangnan's cold is wet. Here the cold is dry."
He was silent for a while.
"That place of yours," he said, "do you still want to go back?"
I thought about it. Thought of Shaoxing, thought of UCLA, thought of my dad's braised pork, thought of that palm tree outside the window when the professor lectured on "Trauma Child Intervention".
"Yes," I said.
He didn't speak.
"But thinking is useless," I said.
He lowered his head, looking at my hand. My fingers were thinner than his, whiter than his, nails cut short. His hand was bigger than mine—eleven years old, already bigger than my hand.
"Here," he said, "are you used to it?"
"No."
"You will get used to it."
"No."
He looked up at me.
"Some things," I said, "you don't get used to."
He looked at me. That look—I didn't know how to describe it. Not empty, not probing, not sharp. Something I couldn't quite read.
But better than before.
"You don't ask," he said, "who I killed today?"
My fingers moved slightly. A small movement, but he felt it. His eyes moved.
"You don't want to know?" he asked.
"Do you want me to know?"
He looked at me.
"No," he said.
"Then I won't ask."
His fingers moved again. This time not touching, but holding. Gently, like afraid of crushing something.
"You're not afraid of me?" he asked.
"Afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid you'll get hurt next time and not tell me."
He stared at me for three seconds.
Then he let go of my hand.
"You really have a screw loose," he said.
"You've said that many times too."
"Because it's important."
"What's important?"
"That you have a screw loose."
I looked at him. In the dark, his outline was blurry. But I could see his eyes—no longer empty. Something came back. Not sharp, not probing, something I couldn't describe.
But better than before.
"Tomorrow," he said, "teach me to write 'Jiang'."
"Okay."
"And 'Jin'."
"Okay."
He stood up. Movements much sharper than before.
"You should go," he said.
I stood up. Knees a bit numb.
"Tomorrow," I said.
He didn't answer.
I turned to walk out. Reaching the curtain, I heard a voice from behind.
"Jiang Jinyue."
I stopped.
"Your hand," he said, "wear more tomorrow. Cold."
I didn't look back. But the corner of my mouth curved up.
"Okay," I said.
I lifted the curtain and walked out. Night wind rushed in, making me shiver. The moon had risen, hanging over the camp, plating all tents with a layer of silvery-white frost.
Those two Wolf Guards were still standing outside. They didn't look at me.
I walked back to my tent.
Sitting down, I looked down at my hand.
Palm still had the temperature of his hand. Cool. But a bit warmer than before.
I pressed my hand to my cheek.
Still cool.
But I felt, not that cold anymore.
Inside the tent, the youth sat on the pile of furs.
He looked down at his bandaged hand. Two fingers wrapped in cloth strips, palm wrapped once. The knot was different from last time, this time on the side, wouldn't dig into the palm.
He turned his hand over, looked at his palm.
Her hand was very cold. Colder than last time.
He clenched his fist, then opened it. The cloth strip was a bit tight, pressing on the wound, a slight pain.
He turned over, pressing his right hand on his chest.
There was a piece of paper there. She didn't find it.
He didn't move it.
Someone told his people to watch her. That person, today, was no longer a problem. But he didn't want her to know this. He couldn't say why.
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, but this was hard for him to forget.
He closed his eyes.
"Afraid you'll get hurt next time and not tell me."
When she said this, her voice was steady.
Not unafraid. It was—
He couldn't describe it.
He only knew, no one had ever said this kind of thing to him.
Outside the tent, the moon slowly sank westward.
The wind on the grassland stopped.
End of Chapter 6