The morning mist lay thick over Lingxi Village, curling between the foothills and draping the small brick-and-mud houses in a ghostly veil. Li Rong stepped barefoot along the soft soil, the dew soaking his ankles, leaving a trail of darkened footprints behind him. He inhaled the crisp mountain air, the faint scent of pine and damp earth filling his lungs. Life here was simple, harsher than in his modern world, yet the quiet rhythm had its own clarity—a sort of discipline that demanded attention to every small detail.
From the doorway of the hut, Wen stirred. His body still ached from wounds old and new. Scarred across his back and forearms, he moved with the careful precision of someone used to danger, muscles taut even in rest. Li Rong noticed, his eyes following the curve of the scars, the slight wince when Wen shifted. He did not know their cause. Perhaps a hunter, perhaps a soldier, perhaps some struggle he could not imagine.
"You've been quiet all morning," Li Rong said softly, setting a small basket of herbs beside him.
Wen's eyes, dark and measuring, scanned the ridge through the veil of mist. "There is always something to notice," he said. His gaze flicked to a shadow that seemed to drift between trees, then back at Li Rong.
Li Rong tilted his head, curious and cautious. "Someone in the forest?"
Wen's hand rested on the stick by his side. He did not answer, only shifted slightly closer. The subtle motion was protective, almost imperceptible, yet Li Rong felt it—a tethering warmth against the cool morning. His modern mind considered it quietly: He doesn't speak of danger, yet he moves as if he knows it is there. Who is he protecting me from?
---
By mid-morning, Li Rong knelt at the edge of his small vegetable plot, tending seedlings with care. Every leaf, every sprout, he examined, pressing water into the furrows with steady hands. Wen lingered near the hut, observing. Every motion, every calculated step of Li Rong's was a small rebellion against the villagers' judgment. Wen admired it, quietly, silently—yet could not help his instinct to circle, to watch, to ensure the boy's safety.
Li Rong felt the eyes without turning. "You watch too much," he said softly, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Wen's dark gaze met his. "Better to watch than to regret," he replied, voice low. No one else would hear it—just a private admission in the misty dawn.
A faint smile tugged at Li Rong's lips. He did not step closer, but his fingers lingered over the soil, brushing away a stone with the same deliberate care he would use to brush away doubt. "Perhaps," he said. "Yet, some things must be learned firsthand."
---
That afternoon, as Li Rong wandered near the forest's edge for wild greens, his basket in hand, he stumbled on a loose stone. The sudden slip drew a breath from him. A snake hissed and slithered away from his path. Li Rong froze, heart racing, unsure if the danger was from the snake or something else—something deliberate in the mist.
Before Wen could react, a subtle movement in the fog caused a branch to snap. Wen's eyes narrowed, body tensing instinctively. His hand brushed Li Rong's shoulder—not harshly, just enough to steady him. The contact was fleeting, yet electric in its restraint. Li Rong felt it, a warmth brushing against his arm, and a shiver of curiosity and trust passed through him.
"You shouldn't be wandering here alone," Wen said quietly. His tone was careful, reserved—but there was an unmistakable weight behind it, a protective gravity.
Li Rong only nodded, gripping the basket tighter. "I know," he said softly. "But the herbs are freshest before the sun rises too high." His gaze lingered on Wen for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and Wen, noticing it, looked away toward the forest.
---
Evening settled with a slow, amber glow. Li Rong prepared a simple meal of boiled roots and foraged greens, the smoke curling in spirals above the fire. Wen remained nearby, leaning on the wall of the hut, eyes tracing Li Rong's movements. Every small act—washing the greens, arranging the firewood, tending the pot—felt intimate, charged by the quiet presence of another.
"You move as though every day is a careful study," Wen murmured.
Li Rong paused, glancing up, cheeks faintly warmed by the firelight. "Even the smallest tasks require attention," he replied. "One misstep, and nothing grows. One mistake, and a life might be wasted." He did not meet Wen's eyes directly, instead focusing on the bowl he set before him.
Wen's gaze softened, lingering longer than he intended. He remembered the battlefield—not the blood, not the noise, but the discipline, the constant calculation of survival. Here, he saw it mirrored in Li Rong's steady hands, careful mind, and quiet resilience. This strength is different, he thought. Silent, patient… yet no less formidable.
---
Night fell. Wen lay on his mat, eyes open, listening to the distant whispers of villagers and the crackle of the fire. Shadows shifted outside; faint footprints marked the dew near the hut. Li Rong slept, curled slightly against the thin blankets, exuding a fragile yet unwavering trust.
Wen's hand hovered briefly near him, protective, tense. His mind, alert, noted the faintest rustle beyond the walls—an intruder, perhaps, or simply a shadow in the mist. His muscles twitched instinctively, old instincts returning. But he did not wake Li Rong. Not yet. Instead, he whispered to the darkness:
If you are ghost, you watch wisely. If you are man… then patience has made you unseen—but I feel you.
And in the mist beyond, the shadow waited. Hidden, silent, patient—a watcher whose loyalty and purpose were yet to be revealed.