Morning came gently to Zhuyin Village. Mist lingered low over the fields, curling around the wooden fences and thatched rooftops. The bamboo forest still hummed faintly with the memory of the night, yet the village had already woken to the rhythm of daily life.
Merchants spread their cloths on the packed earth of the market square, arranging vegetables in neat piles. Children chased one another between stalls, their laughter spilling louder than the vendors' calls. At the well near the centre, women gathered with buckets, their chatter weaving threads of gossip as steady as the creak of the rope.
Shen Qiyao walked among them in silence. His figure stood out too easily—taller, straighter, his robes cleaner than the villagers', his steps measured like someone who had spent years learning discipline. Some turned to stare. Others quickly lowered their gaze. Wherever he passed, conversations hushed, then returned, always with his name folded in whispers.
At the well, an old woman struggled with her bucket. Her back was bent with years, her hands thin as dry roots, and the rope cut harshly against her palms. The bucket swayed half-submerged, refusing to rise.
She braced her foot against the stone edge and pulled again. The rope trembled, water sloshed, but her strength faltered.
Qiyao's steps slowed. For a moment he simply watched, unreadable. Then, without a word, he moved forward.
His hand closed around the rope, steady and unhurried. With one pull, the bucket rose smoothly, water spilling over the rim. He set it down beside her, droplets scattering across the dust.
The old woman blinked up at him, startled. "Ah—thank you, young master," she said, voice cracked but warm.
Qiyao gave a faint nod. His expression did not soften, but he did not leave immediately either.
By then, others at the well had noticed. Their eyes flicked to the pale jade pendant at his waist, catching the morning light. Whispers rippled like quickened wind:
"Did you see it? That carving—"
"…not something for a common traveller…"
"…a man with jade like that, staying in our little Zhuyin?"
Qiyao heard them. His gaze did not move, yet the air seemed to still around him. The whispers faded quickly, as though the villagers suddenly remembered their place.
The old woman's voice broke the silence, soft and warm, carrying a smile that had weathered many winters.
"Young master, are you new to this village? I haven't seen you here before."
Qiyao did not answer with words at first—only a slight nod, his hand steady on the bucket he carried.
"Ah," she chuckled gently, "thank you for lending me your strength. My house isn't far, just by the shrine. Let me show you the way."
Qiyao's reply was no more than a low "Mm," barely more than breath, yet it was enough. He followed without complaint, his tall figure shadowing her small steps.
The path curved gently uphill, weaving past moss- covered stones and weathered wooden fences. The villagers had long since disappeared from sight, their chatter fading into hum of cicadas. Here. Near the edge of Zhuyin, the air grew quieter, touched by the faint incense drifting form the shrine.
The old woman's steps were slow but steady her straw sandals brushing the dirt with soft sounds. Every now and then, she glanced at the tall figure beside her- so straight backed, so silent, his presence more imposing than any guard.
"Young master", she said lightly, as though speaking to herself, "your hands don't seem like those of a farmer. Too clean too refined. And that jade at your side too…. It carries weights".
Qiyao's lashed lowered slightly. he did not answer, through his hand brushed against the cool pendant at his waist.
The woman only smiled, as if she had expected no reply. "don't mind me. Old eyes see too much sometimes. I've lived near this shrine for fifty years, and people's faces-ah, they tell stories itself " .
They reached her home sooner after – a modest wooden house leaning against the foot of the shrine hill. A paper lantern hung at the door, swaying faintly in the breeze, its light soft and welcoming.
"Come, young master," she said, setting down her bucket at the threshold. "You've walked far with me. Let me at least pour you some tea."
Qiyao hesitated only a breath before stepping inside.
The room smelled faintly of dried herbs and sandalwood. A low table stood near the window, its surface polished smooth with years of use. The old woman busied herself with the kettle, her thin hands steady despite their wrinkles.
"Please, sit," she said warmly. "Not many visitors pass this way anymore."
Qiyao lowered himself onto the mat, his broad frame making the space seem smaller. He said nothing, but his dark gaze followed the woman's every movement—quiet, watchful.
Soon the kettle whistled softly, steam curling into the dim room. She poured the tea into small porcelain cups, sliding one across the table to him.
"Here," she said, her smile gentle. "It may not be fine jade tea, but it will warm the heart."
Qiyao accepted it silently. His fingers brushed the rim, and for a moment, the faint sound of bamboo rustling outside seemed to echo again in his ears.
Qiyao sat on the low stool the old woman had set for him, a steaming cup of tea placed before him. She moved about slowly but with practiced ease, her hands steady despite their wrinkles.
"Young master," she said at last, settling opposite him. "Not many strangers walk into Zhuyin. You don't have the look of a farmer, nor the hands of one. So tell me… what brings you here?"
Her tone wasn't accusing, only curious, like a grandmother asking after a wandering grandson.
Qiyao lifted the cup, letting the warmth touch his palms. He didn't answer immediately. The tea smelled faintly bitter, grounding. "I was looking for a place quiet," he said at last.
"Quiet, eh?" She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Then you've come to the right place. Some say Zhuyin is too quiet. No festivals, no big roads, just bamboo and whispers. Even the young folk run off before long. But you… you chose it."
Her gaze lingered, as though measuring him.
Qiyao didn't return it. His eyes wandered to the window, where sunlight traced faint outlines of bamboo stalks. "The path led me here," he said simply.
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