Warmth Along a Wandering Trail

The days by Falling Star Lake were like lake water rippled by a spring breeze, spreading ring after ring of tranquil waves.

Ever since he had rescued Little Stone, the child who had fallen into the water that day, Chen Qing's life in the fishing village had quietly changed.

The reverent gazes remained, but there was now an added sense of simple closeness. "Water-Treading Flying Swallow Chen Qing!"—this name, brimming with goodwill, became the mark of his identity in this tiny village.

The superficial wound on his shoulder had long since healed, and even the scar had faded until it was almost invisible.

Chen Qing had gradually grown accustomed to the burn mark in his palm as well. It no longer brought that strange sense of extension. Only when the moonlight was at its fullest did it occasionally give off a gentle glow, warm as jade, as though a sleeping star were breathing.

Chen Qing tried guiding the strange aura within him that originated from the Star Mark—he preferred to call it "Starforce," though it differed vastly from the "inner force" cultivated by the martial artists the villagers spoke of—and found that it was becoming ever more smooth and pliant, as obedient as an arm or a finger.

This power was calm and gentle within him, yet it held immeasurable strength beneath the surface.

He still went out onto the lake with Uncle Po. The oars cut across the water, making rhythmic splashing sounds.

Chen Qing sat cross-legged at the bow, closed his eyes, and focused his mind, his awareness sinking into the lake like threads of silk.

That wondrous sensation surfaced again. He could clearly "sense" everything within several yards beneath the water: the swaying water weeds, the fleeting paths of schools of fish, even a smooth pebble buried in the mud at the bottom of the lake.

This perception was not sight. It was more like an all-encompassing, three-dimensional "touch."

"Front left, three yards out, beneath the mouth of the net. The fish are about to slip through." Chen Qing spoke suddenly without opening his eyes.

Uncle Po froze for a moment, then instinctively swept the blocking net in his hands hard toward the front left. Splash! Water sprayed in all directions as several crucian carp thrashed wildly in the net.

"Heh! That's incredible!" Uncle Po said, both startled and delighted, grinning broadly. "Boy Chen, your ears are sharper than a water rat's! You really are worthy of being a martial man!"

Chen Qing opened his eyes and smiled without explaining. He simply enjoyed this peace, this marvelous bond he was gradually forming with this unfamiliar world and this mysterious lake.

The power no longer felt like a burden. Instead, it brought the composure of belonging and exploration.

As the days passed, Chen Qing truly became part of life in the fishing village.

He helped the family in the east repair their leaking roof, then used several strips of tough bark and clever knotting techniques to secure the rafters, drawing endless clicks of amazement from the old carpenter.

The plow ox of the family in the west fell ill. Drawing on the vague knowledge left in his mind from his previous life, combined with his perception of the flow of aura within the ox, he somehow managed to concoct an effective herbal brew by sheer chance and saved the old yellow ox.

The villagers' gazes toward him slowly changed from reverence to trust, even carrying a touch of the fondness elders showed toward a capable junior.

Yet amid this increasingly warm atmosphere of daily life, there was always one lonely figure that seemed out of place.

It was that mute girl.

Chen Qing later learned that everyone in the village called her A Ning. No one knew her surname, and her origins were unknown.

She lived in the abandoned Land God Temple at the end of the village, surviving on scraps and leftovers, along with the occasional charity of the villagers.

She always wore that same old outfit, washed until it had faded white and patched all over, her thin little frame seeming as though a gust of wind could blow her away.

Most of the time, she curled up in a corner of the ruined temple or beneath the shadow of the old locust tree at the village entrance. Like a silent, easily startled little beast, she watched this noisy world that had nothing to do with her through eyes so black and white, so excessively still.

Chen Qing noticed her because she was always watching him.

Whether he was practicing that set of Tai Chi he remembered for strengthening the body by the lakeshore, helping people write letters home at the market, or sitting on a lakeside reef at dusk and staring blankly at the shimmering water, that quiet gaze always followed him like a shadow.

There was none of a child's curiosity in that gaze, nor the villagers' probing interest. There was only an unfathomable stillness, and a trace of... indescribable focus, as though it had pierced through time itself.

He tried to approach her.

The first time, he offered her a freshly roasted sweet potato, fragrant with the scent of wheat. A Ning shrank back into the depths of the ruined temple like a startled rabbit, leaving only a pair of wary eyes glimmering in the darkness.

The second time, he "found" a little grass-woven cricket she had dropped beneath the old locust tree. It had been clumsily woven and crooked, yet it carried a clumsy vitality.

Holding the cricket, he sat on a rock not far from her and began weaving another, more exquisite one as though no one else were there. When he finished, he gently placed it on the ground within her line of sight.

A Ning stared at the two grass crickets for a very, very long time. Only when the sun sank in the west did she suddenly stretch out her hand, seize both of them, and clutch them tightly.

The third time was at Widow Wang's house in the east of the village. Widow Wang's son ran boats in the city, so she lived alone. Her temperament was fiery, but she had a kind heart.

Seeing how pitiful A Ning was, she sometimes slipped the girl something to eat. That day, Widow Wang stood at her doorway with her hands on her hips, cursing up a storm. A jar of salted fish she had just pickled was missing. Several mischievous children laughed and pointed toward A Ning, who was hiding behind a stack of firewood.

"Mute girl! Did you steal it?!" Widow Wang stormed toward her.

A Ning hugged her knees and curled into a ball, her little face white as paper. She only shook her head desperately, making short, meaningless "huh-huh" sounds in her throat, her eyes filled with helpless terror.

"Auntie Wang," Chen Qing said as he happened to pass by, stopping her. "That jar of salted fish—I think I saw a wildcat knock it over yesterday. It fell into the back ditch. It was probably washed away, wasn't it?"

Widow Wang looked suspiciously at Chen Qing, then at the terrified A Ning. In the end, she believed Chen Qing's words and returned indoors while muttering curses. Chen Qing said nothing. He merely walked over, crouched beside the woodpile, and offered A Ning a warm steamed corn bun wrapped in a clean lotus leaf.

A Ning raised her head. Chen Qing's calm face was reflected in her pitch-black eyes. This time, she did not shy away. Slowly, she reached out and accepted the bun, her fingertips icy cold and faintly trembling.

She did not eat it. She only held it tightly, like a lonely, wounded kitten.

That evening, when Chen Qing returned to Uncle Po's little courtyard, he found the lotus-leaf-wrapped bun resting quietly at the entrance. Beside it lay another crooked grass cricket.

A subtle ache rose in Chen Qing's heart.

This child was like a silent block of ice, refusing the warmth of the outside world, yet instinctively grasping at the slightest kindness, edging closer with utmost care, then "repaying" it with equal care.

The turning point came on a drizzly afternoon. Chen Qing was practicing water control by the lake, guiding the current with his fingertips until a small, crystal-clear sphere of water swirled in his palm, as though he were cradling a flowing star.

He was absorbed in controlling this power, utterly unaware that beneath the old locust tree not far behind him, A Ning was watching in rapt fascination. For the first time, the glow of that swirling water sphere was clearly reflected in her dark eyes.

Just then, a burst of shrill crying shattered the peace by the lake! It was Er Gouzi, the most unruly boy in the village. Along with several half-grown children, he had surrounded A Ning, shoving her around and laughing as they tried to snatch away the tattered cloth bundle she hugged tightly against her chest.

The bundle was torn open, and the few shriveled wild fruits inside, along with the grass cricket, scattered across the ground.

"Mute stole something!"

"Wild child! Get out of our village!"

As Er Gouzi cursed, he deliberately raised his foot to stomp on the grass cricket.

Like an enraged little beast, A Ning suddenly lunged at Er Gouzi and rammed her head hard into his stomach. Er Gouzi cried out in pain, then flew into a rage from humiliation and raised his hand to strike her!

A figure moved faster than his palm!

Chen Qing had not even seen clearly how he moved before he slipped among the children like a ghost.

With one hand, he lightly deflected Er Gouzi's descending slap. With the other, he steadily caught A Ning as she staggered from being shoved. His movements were effortless, yet carried a strength that brooked no doubt.

"What kind of skill is bullying the weak?" Chen Qing's voice was not loud, yet it carried an inexplicable chill.

His gaze swept over Er Gouzi and the others. Startled by his eyes, the half-grown children immediately fell silent as cicadas in winter. Remembering the rumors about a master of Swallow Gate, they scattered in panic.

Chen Qing paid them no mind and lowered his head to look at A Ning in his arms. The girl's frail body was taut, trembling faintly.

She bit her lower lip hard enough that a trace of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. There were no tears in those large eyes, only the emptiness left after devastation and a deep sorrow that did not belong to a child.

She crouched down and, with trembling hands, picked up the wild fruits one by one from the mud, along with the grass cricket that had been flattened beneath a foot.

It felt as though something had fiercely clenched Chen Qing's heart.

He silently crouched down and helped her gather them. When he placed the cricket, smeared with mud and broken grass blades, into her small palm, A Ning's body suddenly trembled.

She looked up at Chen Qing. Her lips moved soundlessly, and for the first time, a thin sheen of moisture clearly welled up in those still eyes.

Without hesitation, Chen Qing reached out and gently wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth with his sleeve. Then, as naturally as could be, he carefully lifted her cold, tiny body into his arms.

A Ning's body instantly stiffened, but she did not struggle. Her small head burrowed into the hollow of Chen Qing's shoulder. Her body remained taut, yet like a little boat that had finally found shelter from the wind, she no longer drifted with the waves.

"Come home with me, A Ning." Chen Qing's voice was soft, as though afraid of disturbing something.

Holding her, he walked one step at a time across the muddy ground, past the misty, rain-draped lakeshore, toward that little lakeside courtyard carrying the warmth of cooking smoke.

Uncle Po stood leaning against the doorway, watching this scene. A complicated light flashed through his clouded old eyes before finally turning into a long sigh. He stepped aside and opened the way.

Inside the little courtyard, Uncle Po silently boiled water.

Awkwardly but gently, Chen Qing used a warm cloth to wipe the mud from A Ning's face and hands, then changed her into an old child's shirt Uncle Po had dug out. It was worn, but cleanly washed.

A Ning was unusually quiet throughout. She did not struggle and allowed Chen Qing to arrange her as he pleased. Only those eyes followed his every movement.

Dinner was simple fish soup and steamed corn buns.

Chen Qing picked out the most tender piece of fish and placed it in A Ning's bowl. A Ning stared at the fish for a long time, then looked up at Chen Qing, and then at Uncle Po, who silently drank his soup beside them.

At last, she picked up her chopsticks and began eating in tiny bites, exceedingly slowly. Her movements were unpracticed, yet they carried a peace she had not known for a long time.

Late that night, Chen Qing let A Ning sleep in the bed while he made himself a nest in a corner of the main room with dry grass and an old quilt.

A Ning curled up on the bed beneath a quilt that smelled of sunlight, with only her eyes exposed. In the darkness, she quietly watched Chen Qing sitting by the table, reading a tattered medical book beneath the oil lamp.

The dim halo of the oil lamp illuminated Chen Qing's profile, and between his brows was a temperament that seemed utterly out of place in this world.

A Ning's gaze lingered for a long while on Chen Qing's palm, then slowly moved to his calm brows and eyes. Within the warm bedding, her little body gradually relaxed.

Outside the window, the night wind from Falling Star Lake swept over the water, carrying a faint chill of moisture.

The little courtyard was peaceful, with only the occasional soft crackle of the lamp wick bursting.

In this world tossed by wind and rain, one lamp, one temporary nest, two equally lonely souls—within this small lakeside courtyard, they had temporarily found an anchorage called "home."

Yet this hard-won peace was like starlight reflected upon the lake's surface: beautiful, but fragile. Far to the north, a long-brewing cold wave was quietly drawing near this land still steeped in the warmth of early spring.