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NOTE: Read the Prologue - It's very important!!!
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The village rooster had not yet crowed when Zhì Yuǎn opened his eyes.
The light passing through the bamboo slats was weak, almost gray. He lay still for a few seconds, feeling the weight of his own body against the straw mat. At twenty-two years old, his shoulders were already broad and his chest marked by daily work with wood and stone.
He tried to move his right arm, but could not.
Yù Qíng was lying on top of him. Her leg crossed his hip like a heavy latch, and her left arm clutched his chest tightly, fingers dug into the skin just below his collarbone. Even in sleep, she held him with instinctive need, as if someone might take him away during the night.
Her breath beat warm and constant against his neck.
With slow movements, Zhì Yuǎn began to free himself. He removed her fingers from his collarbone one by one, lifted the leg that pinned him, and placed a pillow in place of his body. Yù Qíng immediately grumbled, hugging the pillow to her chest before even opening her eyes.
"The bed got cold…" she murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.
"I'm going to wash my face and finish the flute," Zhì Yuǎn answered, already rising. He put on a loose gray tunic. "The wood has rested long enough."
Yù Qíng buried her face in the pillow he left behind, eyes still half-closed.
"The stream water is freezing at this hour."
Zhì Yuǎn stopped at the bedroom door and looked back. A small, teasing smile appeared on his face.
"Less freezing than the tea you made yesterday."
Yù Qíng narrowed her eyes. Without warning, she grabbed the pillow and threw it with force at his back. It hit squarely. Zhì Yuǎn laughed quietly as he stepped out onto the back veranda.
The morning air was damp and cold. He took a basin of water from the stream that ran behind the house and washed his face, feeling the icy shock chase away the last traces of sleep. Then he sat on the low wooden bench, picked up his knife and the stalk of black bamboo that had been drying for a week.
The work was methodical. He scraped the dark surface with firm movements, feeling the wood's resistance beneath the blade. For the flute to have a clean sound, the bore had to respect the stalk's natural thickness. He thought of nothing else — the direction of the fibers, the pressure of the knife, the sound the wood would make when wind passed through it.
Shhh. Shhh.
The sound of the blade was the only noise in the yard until the door planks creaked.
He smelled her before he heard her steps. Yù Qíng descended from the veranda barefoot and stopped behind him. The thin nightdress fluttered in the cold wind, but she seemed not to care. Her cold hands slid down his shoulders and she leaned forward, pressing her cheek against the nape of Zhì Yuǎn's neck. She rubbed her face there slowly, inhaling the scent of his skin with quiet, possessive need.
"Keep that," she whispered against his neck. "The sun is about to rise. My father will be in a bad mood today because of the tribute."
Zhì Yuǎn stopped the motion of the knife, tilting his head back to feel her cold face against his warm skin.
"I still have time to finish."
"Not if you stay here until midday," she answered, gripping his shoulders harder. "I don't want to hear him complaining during lunch."
He let out a low laugh, put the knife away, and stood. Yù Qíng did not step back. She simply pressed her body against his for a few more seconds, as if she needed to feel his warmth a little longer before letting him go.
---
The sun was already high when they arrived at the main Yù family house.
The courtyard was filled with stacked jute sacks, all full of coal that would be sent as tribute. The smell of coal mixed with the bone broth cooking in the open kitchen dominated the air. Sū Huì stood with flour-dusted arms, stirring a large pot. When she saw the two arriving, she gave a tired but sincere smile.
"Sit down. Lunch is almost ready," she said. "Méi! Bring the bowls!"
Yù Méi came running from the back of the house, ponytail bouncing. At fourteen, she was a whirlwind of energy. As soon as she saw Zhì Yuǎn, her eyes lit up.
"Brother-in-law! Sister said you finished the black bamboo flute! Will you play for me?"
Before Zhì Yuǎn could answer, Yù Qíng took a step forward and stopped between them. Her smile was gentle, but the grip she gave Yù Méi's shoulder was firm enough to make the girl stop.
"The wood is still sensitive," Yù Qíng said calmly. "And your hands are dirty. Go get the bowls."
Yù Méi pouted but obeyed. Yù Qíng passed her hand slowly across Zhì Yuǎn's back before sitting beside him.
Lunch was simple. Yù Chéng arrived shortly after, hands calloused and face marked by fatigue. He spoke of the war in the north, of the imperial inspectors who would arrive the next day, and of the need to weigh every sack with precision. No one argued. They simply ate.
When the clay plates began to be cleared, Yù Méi rested her elbows on the table and looked at Zhì Yuǎn expectantly.
"Now can you play?"
Zhì Yuǎn was about to answer when Yù Chéng rose from the head of the table. The man picked up the record board resting on the chair beside him and passed a hand over his face, tired.
"The music can wait a little," the father-in-law said. "The men finished tying the sacks this morning. I need you to take a look at them before the inspector arrives tomorrow. The intendant does not forgive weight errors."
Zhì Yuǎn nodded without complaint and rose from the table. Yù Qíng did the same, passing a hand across his back in an automatic gesture before stepping away.
They left the dining area and walked to the porch overlooking the courtyard. The afternoon sun was already lower, and the hundreds of jute sacks were stacked outside, forming high rows. Zhì Yuǎn sat on the wooden edge of the porch, legs dangling. Yù Méi sat on the ground right in front of him, crossing her legs and resting her chin on her hands. Yù Qíng leaned her shoulder against the wooden pillar just behind her husband, arms crossed.
Zhì Yuǎn took the black bamboo flute he had brought and began to play.
The melody was simple and ancient, made in the first months after their marriage. He did not put exaggerated emotion into it — he was only testing the sound of the new wood, feeling how the air passed through the bore he had made. Yù Méi stayed completely still, listening with attention. Yù Qíng remained silent, watching her husband's broad back.
When the last note died, Yù Méi clapped, excited.
"You should play in the square! Everyone would want to hear!"
"The sound is too low for the square," Yù Qíng answered before Zhì Yuǎn could open his mouth. Her voice was calm but definitive. "It was made for smaller places."
Yù Chéng, who had been standing beside the pillar holding the record board, let out a sigh.
"The music was good," he said. "But work does not wait. Zhì Yuǎn, come with me. I want you to examine the sacks now. The men are waiting."
Zhì Yuǎn put the flute away without argument and stood. Yù Qíng descended from the porch with him, accompanying him for a few steps before releasing him.
---
The afternoon passed slowly beneath the porch.
Zhì Yuǎn walked among the hundreds of coal sacks. Yù Chéng accompanied him with the record board, but Zhì Yuǎn barely looked at it. He touched the ropes, pressed the fabric with his fingers, and observed the behavior of the jute and the coal inside.
"This one is light," he said, stopping in front of the third sack. "And that one in the corner is damp inside."
Yù Chéng frowned.
"They were weighed."
"The scale is rusted at the axle," Zhì Yuǎn answered without emotion. "And the coal in the center of this sack did not dry properly. When it evaporates on the way, the inspector will deduct from the weight."
He continued walking. For hours, he pointed out sacks with poor stitching, wrong weight, coal mixed with dust. He made no mistakes. When he finished, Yù Chéng let out a long sigh and passed a hand over his face.
"You have a good eye," he murmured. "Truly. You could take this over one day."
"I prefer the bamboo grove," Zhì Yuǎn answered.
Yù Chéng shook his head and went to organize the men. Zhì Yuǎn went to the water barrel to wash his hands. That was when the old woman's voice sounded behind him.
"Zhì Yuǎn."
He turned. Yù Lǎo Tàitai was seated in the shaded corner of the veranda, her clouded eyes fixed on him.
He approached and knelt on the earth in front of her. The old woman's wrinkled hand rose and touched his temple.
"You are changing," she said quietly. "Your eyes are different. Deeper. Be careful not to sink so far that you forget how to live up here."
Zhì Yuǎn did not answer. He felt the old woman's words were true, but he did not know what to do with them.
Before he could think, a pale hand landed on his shoulder from behind.
"He does not need to live only on the surface, Grandmother," Yù Qíng said. Her voice was calm, but the grip on his shoulders was firm. "He has our home."
The old woman lowered her hand and did not insist. Yù Qíng intertwined her fingers with Zhì Yuǎn's and pulled.
"Let's go to the peak," she murmured. "You owe me a new song."
---
The trail to Sunset Peak was steep and narrow. Yù Qíng walked ahead, pulling him by the hand. Her grip was constant, as if letting go for even a second would be dangerous.
When they reached the top, the wind was strong. Zhì Yuǎn sat on the edge of the rock, legs swinging over the void. Yù Qíng sat beside him, pressing her shoulder against his to shield herself from the cold.
He took the black bamboo flute and began to play.
The first note came out hoarse, heavy. He was not playing to entertain. He was testing the wood, feeling how the air passed through the bore he had made. The sun was setting. The shadows on the peak grew quickly.
After a few minutes, something changed.
He began paying attention to the way the light receded and the cold advanced. It was a cycle. A rhythm. Without thinking, he adjusted his breathing to match that movement — inhaling when the light diminished, holding when heat and cold met, exhaling when the shadow advanced.
On the fourth cycle, the air around him seemed to grow denser.
Zhì Yuǎn inhaled more deeply.
And something entered.
It was heavy. Cold. It descended through his throat as if it were thick liquid, forcing a path inside his chest. Pain came right after, sharp and deep. His entire body went rigid. The flute slipped from his hand and fell onto the rock with a dry sound.
Yù Qíng opened her eyes at the same instant.
"My love?"
He did not answer. The air that had entered no longer left. It was trapped just below his sternum, occupying a space that had never existed before. His entire body seemed to be being rewritten from the inside. Bones, muscles, even the way blood flowed — everything was changing.
Yù Qíng felt his shoulder go hard as stone. She sat up straight and looked at her husband.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
The man seated beside her was still Zhì Yuǎn, but at the same time he was no longer. There was a weight emanating from him now. A weight that did not belong to the village, nor to the mountain, nor to anything she knew.
The fear that rose in Yù Qíng's chest was primitive and violent.
She grabbed his arm with both hands and dug her nails into his skin with all the strength she had. Blood began to run between her fingers, but she did not let go. On the contrary — she squeezed harder, as if she could physically prevent whatever was happening.
Zhì Yuǎn turned his face slowly, still feeling the strange weight settling inside his chest.
Yù Qíng was pale. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear for herself. It was something older, more possessive. If he left now, she would go with him. Even if she had to break her own fingers to not be left behind