The Chashi Sinkhole was Shen Zechuan’s night.
When he had first entered Zhao Zui Temple, the buildings were dilapidated. Broken windows could not keep out the freezing wind. Ji Gang had given him the only sheltered spot to sleep. Resting his head on his arm, Shen Zechuan did not dare tell his master that he could not sleep.
Back then, he could still clearly remember Ji Mu’s face. His elder brother bore traces of Hua Pinqing’s beauty—handsome and refined. When he was still at home, matchmakers had nearly worn down the threshold.
“I’m thinking about getting promoted,” Ji Mu said, squatting in the yard, eating dumplings. “Once I get promoted, we’ll move to the east side.”
Shen Zechuan mimicked him, stuffing dumplings into his mouth until his cheeks puffed out, nodding vaguely. “I’ll keep an eye on sister-in-law for you.”
Ji Mu had a childhood sweetheart who used to live next door, later moving east. Her father was a sycophant, always trying to push his daughter into an official household. Ji Mu had enlisted to prove himself, working desperately every day, just to marry her before she was given away.
Ji Gang did not earn much, and the family was not wealthy. Hua Pinqing raised two sons, saving her dowry bit by bit for their future marriages. Seeing Ji Mu growing older, she had begun discussing arrangements with Ji Gang, planning to ask a matchmaker.
Winters in Duanzhou were vast and empty. To the east lay the Chashi River. When they were younger, they would go onto the frozen surface to drag sleds. Shen Zechuan was clever—he always tricked the younger children into playing the horses while he acted as the master, sitting on the sled and directing them wildly.
Even then, Ji Mu had told Ji Gang, “My little brother will definitely make something of himself.”
Hua Pinqing treated Shen Zechuan like her own son, and Ji Mu treated him like a real younger brother. While Xiao Chiye and Xiao Jiming were riding and practicing archery in Libei, Ji Mu was running across the hills with Shen Zechuan. Before Shen Zechuan turned fifteen, his Ji family boxing was sloppy, and Ji Mu always covered for him, never letting Hua Pinqing scold him.
In the third year of Xiande, Ji Mu was promoted to squad leader. The whole family rejoiced. Hua Pinqing organized a celebration, counting their savings over and over, preparing to formally propose to the girl in the east.
At that time, Ji Mu was on duty. Shen Zechuan brought the food Hua Pinqing had packed and went to the garrison camp to deliver it. That night was the last time he saw her. His teacher’s wife stood at the gate, fastening his coat, tying his wind collar snugly, wrapping him tightly, reminding him to “go early and come back soon.”
Ji Mu secretly let Shen Zechuan drink alcohol. Shen Zechuan dipped his chopsticks into it to taste, sitting among a row of burly soldiers like a bundled green radish. When the snow began to fall, those rough men said that a timely snowfall promised a good harvest—the next year in Duanzhou would be prosperous.
Ji Mu tapped his porcelain bowl with chopsticks and sang a Qing Ping Tune. He was only twenty then, about to bring home his bride. The brothers were close, their parents were healthy, and life was in its finest moment.
Whenever Shen Zechuan thought back to that night, tears would stream down his face. In Zhao Zui Temple, he lost the courage to revisit those memories. He could no longer dream of those days. In seven years of nightmares, Ji Mu had turned into a faceless skeleton. Shen Zechuan forgot what his brother looked like—he could not even remember their final conversation.
Why hadn’t he pulled Ji Mu back?
Shen Zechuan climbed out, only to fall back in. In the first few years, he would lie there and cry uncontrollably. “Shen Zechuan” had been left behind here. When he stood up, he saw the snow bury him.
Boots stepped softly on the snow.
Shen Zechuan turned back indifferently—and saw Ji Mu, travel-worn, standing in the snow. Tonight, Ji Mu was clean, uninjured. Holding the hilt of his blade, he walked toward Shen Zechuan.
Seven years had passed, yet Ji Mu had not changed. His cheeks were slightly red from the cold, breath fogging as he walked. The ferocity that once struggled in a sea of blood was gone. Shen Zechuan looked at him and remembered the Qing Ping Tune he had sung before leaving.
Shen Zechuan was now as tall as Ji Mu. Exhausted, he said, “Brother.”
Ji Mu stopped in front of him. The wind and snow stirred his disheveled hair. “Why haven’t you come home?”
“The snow’s too heavy,” Shen Zechuan replied. “I forgot the way.”
Ji Mu smiled. “Silly kid. Mother is looking for you.”
Shen Zechuan turned and saw Hua Pinqing in the distance. She stood in the snow holding a lantern, her skirt swaying in the wind. As he watched, tears burst from his eyes.
He remembered everything—and because of that, he wanted to forget everything.
Ji Mu adjusted his blade and walked past Shen Zechuan toward Hua Pinqing.
Suddenly, Shen Zechuan cried out uncontrollably, “Brother!”
His voice trembled with tears as he reached for Ji Mu. But Ji Mu did not turn back. Shen Zechuan chased after him, but with every step, the blood beneath his feet rose higher. He struggled, unable to break free, until he fell into the pool of blood, tangled among corpses, screaming hoarsely:
“Come back!”
Ji Mu was already fading into the snow.
Shen Zechuan grasped nothing, swallowed by blood in the collapsing sinkhole. The terror of drowning surged over him. He could not breathe, could only struggle as the faint light disappeared before his eyes.
“Shen Lanzhou—!”
Xiao Chiye pulled him up. Those broad shoulders could withstand a storm. Like blazing sunlight, he swept away the darkness with fierce wind, scattering the blizzard. He burned so fiercely that nothing else could exist around Shen Zechuan.
Shen Zechuan jolted awake, drenched. Xiao Chiye held his face, their noses touching in the dark, soothing him with gentle kisses. Shen Zechuan was still breathing hard. He wrapped his arms around Xiao Chiye’s neck, his eyes wet as he leaned into him.
“Lanzhou, come back,” Xiao Chiye coaxed softly. “Come back to me.”
Shen Zechuan nodded shakily, their foreheads touching. His eyes were filled with lingering fear. Xiao Chiye wiped the corners of his eyes with his thumb, rubbing his cheek.
“It’s alright,” Xiao Chiye murmured, kissing him again and again. “Let me hold you.”
The tent was newly set up, the brazier long gone cold in the middle of the night. They lay on a crude wooden bed, a thin mattress beneath them, cloaks covering them. Xiao Chiye feared Lanzhou would fall ill, so he took his cold hands and tucked them inside his clothes, pressing them against his chest.
Shen Zechuan steadied his breathing, clutching Xiao Chiye’s clothing. Xiao Chiye never loosened his hold, wrapping the cloak over them as they spoke softly beneath it.
“Cold?” Xiao Chiye asked.
Shen Zechuan buried his face in his neck. “Cold.”
Xiao Chiye held him tighter, resting his chin against his hair. “Stay closer. Then you won’t be.”
They were like two young beasts relying on each other for warmth. Shen Zechuan reached out and touched Xiao Chiye’s back. The cold made Xiao Chiye inhale sharply. Feeling that wolf beneath his palm, Shen Zechuan relaxed, tracing it slowly as if stroking fur.
Xiao Chiye’s muscles tensed under his touch. It tickled, leaving him nowhere to hide. He tilted his head back slightly, enduring it, a tingling spreading along his lower back. At last, he could not take it anymore—he grabbed Shen Zechuan’s wrist, flipped him over, and pinned him beneath, his breath heavy as he held still above him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be holding me?” Shen Zechuan said, half-annoyed.
“That’s what you call holding?” Xiao Chiye pressed closer, voice low. “That’s holding?”
Shen Zechuan looked at him, like he wanted to argue but held back.
Xiao Chiye released his wrist and slid his hand down along Shen Zechuan’s waist, making his face flush from the ticklish sensation. At first, he held it in, but Xiao Chiye pressed him down with his chest, teasing him until his eyes grew damp again. Laughing breathlessly, he tilted his head back.
Xiao Chiye loved that laugh—his eyes half-lidded, shimmering, reflecting only him.
Sweat dampened Shen Zechuan’s neck, his clothes clinging to his back. Exhausted, he slowed his breathing, receiving Xiao Chiye’s kiss. Beneath the cloak, it was warm enough to make him forget the storm outside.
Xiao Chiye knew Lanzhou could not sleep well—but tonight, he was here.
And he was greedy—he wanted every dream Shen Zechuan had from now on to be of him.