Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Lodging for the Night

Thin curls of cooking smoke rose near the end of the path.

In the fields, exhausted figures gathered their tools and headed home, one by one.

Qian Jia Village received two travelers with striking faces.

One walked ahead on foot. The other rode a snow-white mule nearly as tall as a man.

The mule was almost too pretty to be real—pure white, not a single stray hair. A red-gold bell hung at its neck, and every step brought a crisp jingle.

They drew eyes the moment they appeared.

The older traveler wore a dark-blue long robe, a cloth headwrap, and wooden clogs. He was lean, and at his waist hung a literary heart signature seal. He looked like a young scholar traveling abroad.

The younger one was eleven or twelve, good-looking in a way that made people stare twice—red lips, white teeth, deep-set features. There was a sharp, foreign cast to the face, like some distant outsider blood ran in the line.

At first glance, the child could pass for a bright young lady. Only when the older traveler addressed the child did people realize this was a little young lord.

“My home is simple,” the village head said warmly. “I’ll have to trouble the two young lords to make do for one night.”

He led them into a side room.

Qian Jia Village had fewer than a hundred households, and the cleanest, most presentable house belonged to the village head.

Hearing they needed lodging, he insisted they stay with him and had his wife tidy the side room.

Qi Shan paid him with a piece of broken silver. He asked for a few days’ worth of dry rations and a pot of hot water for bathing, and told the village head to keep the rest as thanks.

The village head weighed the silver in his palm, smiled wider, and promised it was no trouble.

Before leaving, he asked if they wanted fresh grass cut for the mule.

At the mention of the mule, Qi Shan’s expression flickered—just for an instant. “No need. That mule isn’t alive. It’s my younger brother’s word-spirit construct.”

The village head understood at once. His attitude grew even more respectful.

Jingle, jingle—the bell approached.

Qi Shan pushed open the window to air out the stale room, and looked up.

Shen Tang was outside, holding the mule’s lead with one hand and a fistful of grass with the other, trying to coax it to eat. He could even hear her muttering.

“Moto, why won’t you eat? Come on, take a bite. I picked it for you…”

Qi Shan closed his eyes for a moment.

Just hearing that name made him feel faint.

No one would have guessed that a strange, unfamiliar word-spirit—“Wind-quick, lightning-fast, Great Luck Moto”—could really condense into a snow-white mule.

Shen Tang had climbed onto its back the moment it appeared, delighted.

“Sir Qi, want to make one too?”

Qi Shan refused instantly.

Even if he could use that word-spirit—and he couldn’t—there was no guarantee the result would match hers.

And most importantly, no matter how handsome it was, it was still a mule.

He was not riding it.

“Then we can ride together,” Shen Tang offered, shading her eyes from the sun.

“No,” Qi Shan said again.

He would rather walk until his legs snapped than sit on that stupid-looking mule.

Shen Tang shrugged, unbothered.

At least her own feet were freed. A low-end sports car was still a car, even if it had hooves.

They passed a plant that looked like a banana tree. Shen Tang leaned sideways from the mule, snapped off two broad leaves, and used one as a sunshade.

The other she tossed toward Qi Shan.

“Sir Qi!”

He turned at her call. The leaf smacked into his hands.

“Catch!”

Qi Shan smiled, helpless. “What kind of man fears this little hardship?”

“I’m not afraid,” Shen Tang said, adjusting her leaf over her shoulder. “But there’s an old saying—fair skin hides a hundred flaws.

“If I tan unevenly, it ruins the aesthetics.”

Qi Shan had no response.

After a few more hours, they finally settled properly in the village. Years of drought and war had hollowed the place out. There were few young faces—mostly elderly folk and little children who didn’t yet understand much.

Two strangers arrived, and news ran from one end of the village to the other. Children kept peeking around the village head’s house.

Qi Shan went out to speak with the village head. When he returned, he heard Shen Tang laughing.

The yard had turned into a battlefield.

One child, wearing clothes washed so often they had faded to white, sat on the snow-white mule and held a dead branch like a spear. He looked fierce. Shen Tang faced him on foot with a stick.

They clashed back and forth, “fighting” so hard it looked like neither side could break away.

The other children served as “soldiers,” watching tensely and bursting into applause every so often, shouting, “General is amazing!”

Qi Shan watched longer than he meant to.

At first he thought Shen Tang was simply indulging her playful side—Young Master Shen was only eleven or twelve, after all. But the child on the mule was interesting, too. There was something sharp in his movements, even through the game.

Qi Shan turned to the village head. “What’s that child’s name? Which family is he from?”

“He’s not from the village,” the village head said, sighing.

“Not?”

“They say he’s from a wealthy household. He’s had a serious illness since he was little, so he’s kept at a nearby manor to ‘recover.’”

The village head’s face tightened. “They call it recovery, but he’s been abandoned. The servants don’t care for him properly. It’s pitiful. He often sneaks out to play with the village kids. Usually he stays until dark, then the manor servants come to take him back.”

Qi Shan’s curiosity sharpened. “What illness?”

The village head hesitated, then pointed carefully to his own head. “They say it’s a brain illness.”

A fool, in plain words.

Qi Shan was about to speak when the children exploded into cheers.

The child on the mule feinted with his “spear,” tricked Shen Tang, then stabbed the “lord” she was protecting—cleanly, right between the brows.

By the rules of the game, he won.

Shen Tang looked at the “dead” lord, sighed dramatically, and tossed her stick aside in surrender.

“Fine. I lose.”

The winner claimed spoils.

Shen Tang opened her pouch and pulled out a handful of thumb-sized taffy she’d made out of boredom. She gave one to each child as a “reward for the three armies.”

The “commanding general”—the boy who sat steady on the mule and wielded his branch with real style—received three.

The other children immediately popped the taffy into their mouths.

Only that boy didn’t. He just stared down at it, blank and uncertain, like he couldn’t quite connect desire to action.

“Not eating?” Shen Tang asked, squatting in front of him.

The boy shook his head, hesitated, then offered one piece to Shen Tang instead. His eyes were bright, intent, as if waiting to see what she’d do.

“You want to feed me?”

“Mm. Eat,” the boy said.

Shen Tang didn’t flinch from his dirty little hands. She opened her mouth and took the taffy, smiling as she chewed.

“Wow. Sweet. Want to try it?”

Only then did he put another piece into his own mouth.

The last piece went into the faded pouch at his waist.

The pouch hung heavy.

From her angle, Shen Tang caught a glimpse inside: an exquisite tiger-head jade bi disc, carved with tiny seal script.

The other children scattered home, satisfied. The boy in faded clothes stayed behind, led by the village head to wait in the main house.

Summer skies turned on a knife edge.

Not long after darkness fell, rain crashed down. Thunder rolled. Wind howled.

Inside, Shen Tang sat under lamplight, reading and copying word-spirit at a frantic pace.

Then someone slammed on the front gate—hard, urgent, again and again.