Morning descended softly upon Lingxi Village, the mountains veiled in a silvery mist that seemed to blur the line between earth and sky. Dew clung to the grass like a scattering of fragile glass pearls, catching the hesitant light of dawn. Beneath Li Rong's bare feet, the soil breathed cool and damp, rich with the scent of life waiting to be coaxed from its depths.
Kneeling at the edge of his small plot, Li Rong pressed his palm to the earth, feeling its uneven pulse—too parched near the stones, swollen where the night's water had gathered. With bamboo and sharpened stick, he carved new furrows, coaxing the trickle of water into balanced channels.
Even here, survival begins with balance, he thought, tracing the damp soil. Too much or too little, and all growth falters.
Above him, voices splintered the stillness.
"Look at him—pretending at farming again."
"As if dirt will ever obey the hands of someone like that."
"Better he hides in the hut than curse the fields with his shadow."
Li Rong did not lift his head. His hand pressed harder into the soil, grounding himself. The weight of their words pressed against his back, sharp as stones, but he let them fall where they might. Roots, after all, do not rise to chase the wind.
Yet he was not without defiance. Later that morning, when a young farmer asked how best to keep his seedlings alive through the heat, Li Rong answered quietly, "Deepen the furrows here, so the water rests longer."
The farmer hesitated, torn by the eyes watching him.
A scoff rang out: "Advice from a Ger? Next, he'll teach us to plow with silk sleeves."
Another voice sneered, "Strange body, strange mind—best not to listen."
Silence trembled in the air. Li Rong's gaze met the farmer's, steady and unflinching.
"The roots thirst the same," he said softly, "no matter who carries the water."
The farmer's eyes flickered with shame, but he did not walk away. That small act of hesitation, fragile as it was, felt like a ripple in still water.
---
Inside the hut, Wen stirred. His body still bore the marks of battle—long scars that twisted across his back like rivers carved into stone. They ached in the damp, yet here, away from the battlefield, the pain had softened into memory. When Li Rong returned with herbs and warm broth, Wen watched him quietly.
"You work harder than the rest," Wen said at last, voice low.
Li Rong smiled faintly, not looking up from arranging the steaming bowl. "I only work as one who has no choice. The world gives me little else."
Wen's eyes lingered on him—his calm defiance, his quiet strength. In the army, strength had always been loud: shouted orders, steel clashing, the bloodied roar of survival. But here, strength was silent, patient, rooted. It unsettled him. It moved him.
Why should his hands be mocked for tilling the earth? Wen thought. If he were a man with a blade, the same mouths would call him noble.
---
That evening, as villagers passed by the hut, their words floated through the thin walls like smoke.
"Why waste food on him? Both of them are burdens."
"Better to drive them out before misfortune spreads."
Wen's hand clenched around the bedding. Old instincts stirred—the urge to rise, to fight, to silence such voices with steel. But his body betrayed him, and instead, he turned his gaze to Li Rong.
Li Rong did not answer the taunts. He simply placed another log on the fire, its flames leaping like quiet defiance. Wen understood, then, that silence could be sharper than swords.
---
That night, Wen drifted into uneasy sleep. His dreams came in fragments: comrades falling without sound, banners burning in crimson skies, and always, a shadow lingering at the ridge.
Outside, the mist coiled thicker, draping the village in a restless veil. On the distant slope, a solitary figure stood motionless, his outline wavering in and out of the fog like a half-formed memory. He neither advanced nor retreated, but remained—a thorn hidden in silk, unseen until it pierced.
Within the hut, the fire crackled softly. Li Rong turned in his sleep, peaceful in his quiet resistance. Wen's hand, though still trembling, found its way to the stick beside his bed. He did not wake fully, yet instinct whispered through him like a blade unsheathed:
The storm has not passed. It only crouches in the mist, waiting.