Morning light had just climbed over the courtyard wall when Chen Wuya's hand still rested on the pile of firewood by the stove. He had shoved that chipped dagger deep inside, leaving only half its hilt exposed, wrapped in a strip of red cloth like an old bone buried in the earth.
He straightened up, rubbed the rough charcoal dust from his fingertips, and walked to the wooden sign by the door. Dew had soaked the four words, "No Heroes Here," blurring the ink as though someone had traced over them with a brush, then tried to wipe them away. He stared at it for a long while before turning back inside to fetch a piece of charcoal.
When Bai Zhi came out carrying porridge, she saw him adding words beside the sign. She did not approach, merely stood beneath the eaves as steam rising from the bowl brushed across her fingers.
"May all of you strengthen yourselves; only then can there be true heroes." He read it softly, sounding less as though he were writing a notice than swearing an oath to himself.
Bai Zhi walked over and handed him the porridge. He shook his head, one hand braced against the doorframe, his knuckles white.
"That child last night..." He paused. "They weren't asking me to teach them martial arts. They wanted me to live in their stead. To avenge their dead fathers, to demand justice for the hunters who were swallowed up, to shoulder the calamities of the whole town. But I'm not anyone's substitute."
"So what you fear isn't saving people," Bai Zhi said quietly. "It's being treated as a tool."
He abruptly lifted his head to look at her.
"That palm strike in the demon den was to save the villagers. But what these people want