Chen Wuya's footsteps fell upon the mountain path, steady yet light. The hoe on his shoulder swayed faintly with each step, its wooden handle brushing against his arm with a soft rasp. Bai Zhi walked half a step behind and to the side, her hands empty, yet still habitually curled at her waist—where her sword had once hung. The sword was still with her now, but it had been stowed in her pack, wrapped in three layers of coarse cloth.
They crossed the last low ridge. The woods thinned, and the wind opened up around them.
Before them lay a sunlit gentle slope, level in terrain, backed by a rock wall weathered over countless years. A shallow stream ran in front, its water murmuring in fine, unhurried notes. Several old pines grew slantwise along the edge of the slope, their branches twisted but unbroken, as though bearing the marks of years spent fighting the mountain winds.
Chen Wuya stopped and gently leaned his hoe against a bluish stone. He walked a few steps ahead, drew a circle in the dirt with his toe, then turned back. "Here."
Bai Zhi did not answer at once. Instead, she slowly surveyed the surroundings. She studied the lay of the slope, then looked up at the sun's position. Only after a moment did she nod. "South-facing, sheltered from the wind, with a water source. We can live here."
He grinned, a dimple appearing in his left cheek, then bent to set down the patch-covered pack on his back. The cloth straps rustled softly as he untied them. Inside were only a roll of tightly wrapped sheepskin, a change of clothes, a short dagger, and a pair of old cloth shoes—stuffed in by Old Wu Tou when they parted, before he had a chance to