The morning mist dispersed quickly. After a gust of mountain wind, several drag marks appeared in the clearing among the trees. The soil had been churned up, grass roots torn apart, as though someone had been forcibly dragged away, leaving crooked tracks across the ground.
Chen Wuya stood where he was, the hoe at his feet still half-buried in the dirt. He did not straighten it, nor did he look again toward the distant hillside. What had just happened was already over—the reinforcements had arrived swiftly and left in a hurry. Before even catching their breath, they had hoisted up their companion and staggered down the slope.
He withdrew his gaze, loosened his grip on the short staff, and slowly wiped his palm against the hem of his clothes. There was blood there—not his, but blood that had spattered from the spy's slashed face. It had already begun to turn sticky, carrying a faint, warm stench. He did not look at it further. He merely leaned the staff lightly against the doorframe, his movements steady, as if putting away an everyday tool.
The wooden door was ajar, and the room within was quiet. He knew Bai Zhi was inside, perhaps leaning against the bedside, one hand resting over her lower abdomen as she listened to the sounds outside. She had not made a sound or pushed open the door. It was trust, and it was understanding.
He reached out and pushed open the wooden door. In the dust beneath the threshold remained the dents left when that man had dropped to his knees. Stepping over them, he said quietly, "Zhi'er, it's all right now."
A soft response came from inside. "Mm."
Her voice was faint, yet it made his shoulders loosen slightly.
He entered, casually took an old rag from