Ji Anning

The mountain hollow gaped like a monstrous maw in the night, its sheer, chiseled rock walls gleaming with a cold bronze light. The north wind swept over the ridge with a mournful howl, while clusters of ghostly flames flickered among the scattered rocks, draping this desolate valley in an eerie green veil.

Zhang Xuan and his two companions sat on the ground around a campfire.

The fire licked at the cold night, sparks fluttering like golden moths.

Ji Anning crouched beside the fire, deftly preparing the rabbit and fish. The dagger he used to gut the fish was the one Meng Changxi had carried at the mountain god's temple, lent to him by Zhang Xuan.

The monk kept rummaging through his large cloth sack, which clinked and jingled.

Zhang Xuan did nothing. He leaned against the gnarled roots of an old tree, half his face steeped in shadow. The dancing flames cast shifting flecks of light deep within his eyes, and there was no telling what he was thinking.

When the monk pulled a large pot from his sack and set it over the fire, Zhang Xuan could not help growing curious. "Monk, that sack of yours really does contain everything under the sun. You even have a pot."

The monk raised his thick, rugged brows, looking rather pleased with himself. "When you're traveling, being well equipped means suffering a little less."

Looking at the monk's ragged robes, Zhang Xuan laughed despite himself. "I thought you were an ascetic."

The monk shook his head. "Though I practice 'mad Zen,' the 'mad' doesn't mean I'm mad for self-torment."

Zhang Xuan's interest stirred. Seeing the monk pull an indigo bronze teapot from his sack, its glazed surface rippling with dark blue patterns, he asked curiously, "What do you use that teapot for?"

With the pot already in place, shouldn't the first thing to do be fetching water? Why had the monk started fiddling with a teapot instead?

Surprised, the monk pointed at the teapot in his hand. "My lord, have you never seen one of these?"

Zhang Xuan arched a brow. "Monk, you're getting better at insulting people. It's only a teapot. Why wouldn't I have seen one?"

The monk waved a hand with a rueful smile. "That isn't what I meant."

With that, he carried the teapot over to the campfire, aimed its spout at the large iron pot below, and gently rubbed its body with his right hand...

The next instant, clear spring water poured from the spout like a ribbon of silk, its tinkling sound unusually crisp in the deathly still hollow. The water in the iron pot rose steadily, yet the stream showed no sign of dwindling.

"Huh? That teapot is only the size of a palm. How can it pour out so much water?"

Zhang Xuan frowned and stood, a dim light flickering in his left eye...

[Name: Reservoir Teapot (crude)]

[Category: Magical implement]

[Quality: White iron]

[Threat level: White]

[Description: Designed and produced by the Teapot Daoist in his early years, sold by the Fate-Command Palace. In theory, it can hold a thousand jin of lake water, but... as a water-storage implement of the lowest quality, it has no "Light Feather Charm" inscribed on it. Dear customer, if you can lift it... give it a try.]

"The Teapot Daoist?" Zhang Xuan murmured, finding the name inexplicably peculiar.

The monk raised his coarse brows, a thoughtful look entering his large, bell-like eyes. This Daoist has heard of the Teapot Daoist? But if he knows that name, why doesn't he recognize this most commonplace Reservoir Teapot?

Though puzzled, the monk did not ask. Easygoing by nature, he had never been one to pry into other people's private affairs.

"This is a Reservoir Teapot. It can hold a great deal of clean water. Traveling merchants generally carry one. A merchant I once rescued at the border gave this to me."

Curious, Zhang Xuan came over to inspect it.

When Zhang Xuan reached out, the monk hesitated and did not hand over the pale blue teapot.

Seeing the monk actually draw back the hand holding it, Zhang Xuan was both annoyed and amused. "I'm not taking it from you. I just want a look."

"It's too heavy, my lord. You won't be able to lift it."

Zhang Xuan glanced at the monk's hand. His movements were effortless, as though the teapot weighed nothing. Remembering that the monk normally carried it around in his sack, he figured it could not contain much water, and a little competitive spirit rose in him...

Rather than back down, Zhang Xuan held out both hands. "I'm certainly no match for you in strength, but I'm still a full-grown man. With both hands, surely I can manage to lift—"

"—it???"

The last word had barely left his mouth when Zhang Xuan felt a thousand jin press down on his hands, pitching him violently toward the ground.

The next instant, a broad, warm hand like a palm-leaf fan slipped beneath the teapot, helping him regain his balance.

Without making a fuss, the monk took the teapot from Zhang Xuan's hands and smiled gently. "You certainly can lift it, my lord. I underestimated you."

The corners of Zhang Xuan's mouth twitched. Lowering his head, he rubbed the numb webs between his thumbs and forefingers and cursed inwardly. I can lift it? That damned teapot was lifting me! Had the monk not intervened in time, he would have fallen flat on his face in this mountain wilderness.

By the time that little incident was over, Ji Anning had finished preparing the game.

The monk found a few clean branches, rinsed them with water, then deftly skewered the rabbit and fish and set them over the campfire to roast.

Flames licked at the meat, and dripping fat sizzled as its aroma slowly spread. The monk took several ears of corn and pieces of dried meat from his sack and shared them with Zhang Xuan and Ji Anning.

Ji Anning accepted the food and murmured a respectful word of thanks, then huddled to one side, quietly gnawing on the dried meat. The firelight made his youthful face look even paler. Blood still seeped from the wound at his temple, but he seemed oblivious to the pain, merely chewing mechanically.

The monk glanced at him and frowned slightly, then took a purple porcelain bottle from his sack and walked toward him. "Young benefactor, you're covered in wounds. Let me tend to them."

Yet Ji Anning's reaction made both the monk and Zhang Xuan freeze.

The boy had not uttered a sound even when Zhao Wu's brass-headed pipe had battered his head bloody. Now, like a startled little beast, he wore a rare look of panic.

The food in his hands dropped into the charcoal ash beside the fire with a soft patter. Ji Anning clasped both hands tightly over his chest and scrabbled backward in panic, his feet pushing against the ground...

The monk and Zhang Xuan exchanged a glance, each seeing surprise in the other's eyes.

Zhang Xuan reacted first. Cursing inwardly, he said, "Why are you being so nice to him? Give him the medicine bottle and tell him to get off to one side and apply it himself."

Ji Anning also realized how strange his behavior had been. He hurriedly crawled back to the campfire and used a stick to retrieve the ash-covered corn. With his head bowed, he spoke in a trembling voice. "M-my lord is right. I can tend to myself. Sorry for the trouble, Master."

The monk gave him a long look, then handed him the porcelain bottle along with a freshly laundered cloth. "Sprinkle the powder over your wounds. It's for external use only."

Ji Anning accepted the bottle and cloth, clutching them tightly to his chest as he quietly thanked the monk. Then he stole a cautious glance at Zhang Xuan beside the fire, his eyes uneasy, unsure whether his lord had discovered the secret he was keeping.

Zhang Xuan waved a hand. "Find somewhere secluded to clean yourself up. Don't sully our eyes and spoil our meal."

Those words eased the tightness in Ji Anning's chest a little. In truth, he did not mind the two lords seeing through his identity. He was willing to give up even his life for revenge, so why would he care about that?

What he feared was their disdain, feared becoming a burden.

He never wanted to... be abandoned again.