It was still far from dawn.
The sky remained sealed in darkness, and not a single bird had yet remembered how to sing.
Inside the small room, Zhao Ren slept on the narrow bed, his breathing deep and even. On the floor beside him, Han Bo lay on a thin mat, equally lost to sleep. The night wrapped them both in silence.
Then—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A fist slammed against the door.
The sudden noise shattered the stillness.
Han Bo jerked awake at once, his heart racing. Zhao Ren stirred, the sound reaching him only faintly through the fog of sleep. He let out an irritated, half-conscious sound—more a growl than a word—and turned slightly, his brow tightening.
Outside, the pounding continued, louder and more impatient.
Han Bo recognized the voice immediately.
Guo Sheng.
He rushed to the door and pulled it open.
The moment it opened, Guo Sheng's voice exploded into the room.
"So this is how you work?" he shouted. "I've been calling for ages! Are you dead inside there?"
Han Bo bowed slightly, forcing his tone to remain polite.
"Yes? What is it? Why are you shouting at this hour?"
"This hour?" Guo Sheng barked. "You call this night?"
At that very moment, Zhao Ren—still half-asleep—spoke coldly from the bed.
"Who dares to shout in front of me?"
The words were low, sharp, and instinctive.
Han Bo's face drained of color.
Both he and Guo Sheng turned at once to look at Zhao Ren.
Han Bo reacted instantly.
"Brother," he said quickly, forcing a nervous laugh, "this is Elder Guo Sheng. We are here to work. You must be dreaming."
The words finally reached Zhao Ren's mind.
His eyes opened.
Fully awake now, he realized what he had said—and to whom.
Guo Sheng sneered.
"Wake up properly and come work," he said harshly. Then, muttering loudly enough to be heard, he added, "Lazy trash. I don't know what the master saw in them."
He did not bother to lower his voice.
Zhao Ren and Han Bo heard every word.
Han Bo clenched his fists, anger burning in his chest. But Zhao Ren's thoughts had already moved elsewhere.
Why work at a time like this?
Guo Sheng thrust two wooden buckets into Han Bo's hands.
"There's a pond nearby," he said. "Go fetch water. Twenty buckets. Count them properly."
Han Bo stared.
"Twenty? Where do we even put that much water?"
"No need to store it," Guo Sheng replied smugly. "Pour it into the mango grove. The trees bore plenty of fruit this year. The master and I both enjoy mangoes."
As he spoke of mangoes, a satisfied smile crept onto his face.
"I wanted to do it myself," he added, sighing theatrically, "but I'm old now. These bones aren't what they used to be. This kind of work suits strong young men like you."
Han Bo glanced at Zhao Ren.
Zhao Ren gave a subtle nod—do as he says.
He knew Han Bo was a soldier. Carrying water was nothing.
Han Bo turned and left for the pond.
It was farther than it sounded.
Meanwhile, Guo Sheng led Zhao Ren into another room.
The moment Zhao Ren stepped inside, his eyes narrowed.
Herbs were scattered everywhere.
Dried roots, leaves, bark, and stems lay mixed together across the floor in careless piles. Angelica root tangled with astragalus, dried tangerine peel mixed with licorice slices, mugwort leaves crushed beneath patches of ginseng fiber. It looked less like an accident and more like deliberate chaos.
Guo Sheng sighed loudly.
"I was preparing medicine last night," he said, rubbing his wrist. "But my hands tremble now that I'm old. Whatever herb I picked up slipped right through my fingers."
His voice rose and fell dramatically, as if performing on a stage.
"I thought I would sort them later," he continued, pressing a hand to his chest, "but my body isn't well. You'll have to separate them and place them back into their containers."
Zhao Ren stared at the mess.
Some of these herbs were small, similar in color and texture. Sorting them would require patience, knowledge, and hours of careful work.
He opened his mouth to speak—
"My head is spinning," Guo Sheng suddenly exclaimed.
He swayed exaggeratedly, grabbing the doorframe as if the world were spinning around him. His breathing became shallow, his face twisted in false distress.
"I—I can't stand any longer…"
And with that, he turned and left, leaving Zhao Ren alone with the mess.
The door closed.
The room fell silent.
Elsewhere, Han Bo hauled bucket after bucket from the pond. Sweat soaked through his clothes. By the time the last bucket was poured into the grove, his arms burned—but the sky was already lightening.
It was still early morning when he returned.
Zhao Ren was still working.
By the light of an oil lamp, he knelt on the floor, carefully separating each herb with steady fingers. His expression was calm, focused, uncomplaining.
Han Bo stared for a moment, then silently joined him.
They worked together until dawn passed into full morning.
Only then did they return toward their room, exhaustion weighing on their bodies.
That was when Guo Sheng appeared again.
"Oh?" he said, feigning surprise. "Finished already?"
He nodded approvingly.
"I knew it. The master never keeps lazy men. Anyone he accepts can handle any task."
Zhao Ren and Han Bo forced smiles onto their faces.
Inside, anger simmered.
"Come," Guo Sheng said. "I'll show you your next task."
He led Han Bo away, stopping at a place where large logs were stacked high.
"Cut these into firewood," Guo Sheng ordered.
Han Bo's jaw tightened.
Then Guo Sheng turned to Zhao Ren and led him into the kitchen.
Without another word, he dumped a pile of vegetables onto the wooden table—cabbage, onions, carrots—and pointed at them curtly.
"Cut these," he said.
Then he turned and left, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
Zhao Ren stood there for a moment, staring at the vegetables as if they were enemy weapons.
He had never cut vegetables before.
But he had seen soldiers do it—rough hands, quick movements, clean results.
How hard can it be?
He picked up the knife.
First came the cabbage. Awkward, but manageable. He chopped it into uneven pieces, telling himself that no one had asked for perfection.
Then he reached for the onions.
The moment the blade pierced the skin, a sharp sting rose into his eyes. He frowned, continuing stubbornly, but within seconds his vision blurred. Tears spilled uncontrollably.
His eyes burned.
When he instinctively raised his hand to wipe them, the onion juice on his fingers rubbed straight into his eyes.
The pain doubled.
Zhao Ren sucked in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly, but his eyes refused to open. Tears streamed down his face now, his composure completely shattered.
At that moment, footsteps entered the kitchen.
Liang Yu paused when she saw him.
"What happened?" she asked, alarmed.
Zhao Ren couldn't even open his eyes properly.
"It's nothing," he said, his voice strained. "I was cutting onions."
Liang Yu noticed immediately—he was trying to wipe his eyes again with onion-stained hands.
"Don't—!"
She stepped forward at once and gently caught both of his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face.
"Not like that," she said quickly. "You'll make it worse."
Zhao Ren froze.
"I'll blow on your eyes," she said softly.
He couldn't see her, but he could feel her close—too close. A faint movement of air brushed against his eyelids as she leaned in and gently blew, again and again.
"Who told you to cut onions?" Liang Yu asked.
"Guo Sheng," Zhao Ren replied.
She paused.
"He did?"
Slowly, the burning eased. Zhao Ren blinked and finally managed to open his eyes.
Liang Yu was right in front of him.
Too close.
She was still lightly blowing, her expression focused and serious, as if nothing else existed in that moment.
"Are you better now?" she asked.
Zhao Ren nodded.
"Yes."
But his gaze didn't move away.
Only then did he notice—she was still holding his hands.
Liang Yu followed his gaze downward.
Realization hit her all at once.
She released him immediately and took a step back, turning away a little too quickly. To hide her sudden nervousness, she grabbed a carrot and began slicing it with unnecessary concentration.
Zhao Ren noticed.
"Liang Yu…" he said.
It was the first time he had ever called her by name.
She looked up.
"You're very kind," Zhao Ren continued. "You help everyone. You don't even know me, and still you helped."
Liang Yu smiled faintly, then asked gently, "Who takes care of your mother when you're away?"
"My aunt," Zhao Ren replied.
Then he asked, "What about your mother?"
Liang Yu's hands slowed.
"She died when I was born," she said quietly. "I've never seen her."
For a moment, her gaze drifted, distant and unfocused.
Zhao Ren noticed at once.
Trying to change the mood, he said, "Your father is a good man. He must have taken very good care of you."
Liang Yu smiled again—this time a little warmer.
"Yes," she said softly.
They continued working side by side.
As Liang Yu chopped vegetables, she began talking about her childhood—small, ordinary stories. Zhao Ren didn't interrupt. He simply listened, watching her as if the world outside the kitchen no longer mattered.
When she reached for the onions, Zhao Ren suddenly spoke.
"Wait—your eyes will burn!"
The concern on his face was so obvious that Liang Yu burst out laughing.
Then Zhao Ren hesitated before asking, "Are you really going to the market with Su Yan?"
She looked surprised.
"Yes," she said. "Why?"
"I don't think he's trustworthy," Zhao Ren replied. "You don't know anything about him."
"He's a merchant," Liang Yu said calmly. "He's staying here for a few days. I think he's a good person."
"Still," Zhao Ren said, frowning, "you shouldn't trust someone so easily. You never know how much of what he says is true. You can't trust men—especially unfamiliar ones."
Liang Yu raised an eyebrow.
"And you are saying this?"
Zhao Ren fell silent.
After a moment, he said quietly, "I also need to buy some things from the market. Can I go with you?"
Liang Yu thought for a second.
Then she nodded.
"Alright."
Outside the kitchen, the day moved on.
And without realizing it, something gentle—and dangerous—had begun to grow.