On the northwestern shore of Lixin Lake lay a silent, desolate stretch of riverbank.
This had once been the bed of an ancient river that had flowed for a thousand years. Now, as over a hundred upstream tributaries gradually diverted into the Daixiao River, the ancient waters had withered. At its deepest, the water barely reached the knees; in the shallows, the current was sluggish and murky. Even the villagers of nearby Xiagukou no longer came here to wash clothes or draw water. Over time, the area became overgrown with reeds. Come summer, they formed a thick, suffocating green carpet where mosquitoes, snakes, and ants swarmed, ensuring no local would ever venture near.
Whenever the sun dipped low, the fiery sunset dyed the fragmented reflections on the water a pale crimson, making the surrounding reeds appear as if they were catching fire.
Few knew that in this place buried by wild grass, the most magnificent moment occurred when the sun touched the mountains. It remained unknown because almost no one ever set foot here.
Today, however, amidst the layered shadows of dusk, the faint sound of splashing water drifted through the air.
A gentle breeze blew, parting the reeds for a moment to reveal a figure standing in the water.
It was a youth, bare-chested, his hair cascading loosely over his shoulders as he bathed. The river water swirled around the crooks of his knees, carrying away a faint tint of red as it flowed downstream.
Li Qiao cupped the river water in both hands and poured it slowly over his head.
Bloody water ran into his eyes, the stinging sensation spreading like an unquenchable fire deep into his pupils.
The slaughter, having been forcibly suppressed, remained unsatisfied. This left the blood boiling throughout his body unable to settle; his five senses remained in a state of hyper-excitement. He could hear the wriggling of larvae in the water and the sound of termites gnawing on rotting wood in the shadows. He could feel every slight tremor in his field of vision. Even a light breeze felt like the wind and snow of midwinter wrapping around his body.
The wind and snow of midwinter were very cold—he knew this better than anyone.
He still remembered the day he returned to report after his first mission, and how the gatekeeper who answered the door had sized him up.
The main gates of a great household in the capital were wide enough for two carriages to pass side-by-side, yet at that moment, they were opened only a palm’s width for him. The gatekeeper, clutching a hand-warmer, hid behind that crack, revealing only a single eye.
That eye stared at him unblinkingly for a long time before shifting its gaze to the ground behind him.
"Aren't you specifically made for this kind of work? Yet you still need others to wipe your tail. Move quickly. If someone sees, who knows what tales they'll spin about the Master..."
The man’s voice was low and hurried, his breath vanishing instantly in the cold air.
He had returned only after completing his mission, yet the man didn't even intend to let him inside. He stood there in a daze, not understanding why this was happening.
After a long pause, seeing that the gatekeeper had no intention of relenting, he had no choice but to move his frozen, stiff limbs and look back.
There was a line of crooked footprints on the snow. In the city, the roads were covered in wheel ruts and pedestrian tracks; his own footprints should have been unremarkable. But because of the snow, that trail of footprints revealed a faint, pale red hue—a sight that grew more chilling the longer one looked.
In that instant, he finally understood the hidden meaning in the gatekeeper's words.
How could a killer drenched in blood walk openly through the gates of an innocent, respectable household?
Recalling his journey there, he understood a bit more, and his body stiffened as he backed away several steps.
To catch the accountant who had stolen the ledgers, he had run for a day and a night without rest. To take a shortcut, he had waded through countless icy rivers, and his fire-starter had long since been soaked through. Before setting off to return after finishing the job, chilblains had broken out on his hands and on his feet, which had been soaked in boots that repeatedly froze and thawed. He had endured the itching pain to wash his hands and face by the river, but he had neglected his blood-soaked feet.
The streets of the capital were long, lined with vendors doing business. He was cold; the bitter wind and snow had turned his damp hair into icicles, yet no one would sell him a piece of charcoal. He was thirsty; he had traveled through the night to report back as quickly as possible, and the cold wind had cracked his lips, yet no one would spare him a sip of water.
And now, he finally understood the reason behind it all.
It was because the substance called snow was too white; in an instant, it had forced him to reveal his true form.
No matter how obedient, how humble, or how carefully he hid his fangs—no matter how hard he tried to maintain his human skin—it took only a single glance downward for that trail of footprints to distinguish him from everyone else.
Those were the footprints of a monster.
A blood-stained monster returning from a hunt. Did a man-eating monster truly expect a piece of charcoal, a sip of water, or a kind look? A monster should come alone in the wind and snow and depart alone in the wind and snow, until one day, it died in a corner known to no one.
That was better for everyone.
Perhaps the gatekeeper’s voice had disturbed others within the high walls, for soon, a flurry of light footsteps sounded from behind the gate.
He turned his aching neck and looked up. He saw the gatekeeper’s young son, dressed in a clean padded jacket, standing behind his father. The boy peeked out with half his head, his gaze like one watching a red cricket, a three-legged toad, or some strange object.
"You child, why have you run out in this cold?"
The gatekeeper’s voice was low; though he sounded reproachful, there was a smile in his tone.
Snow fell on the youth's eyelashes, melting into water before freezing again into white flakes, yet he forgot to blink.
He thought of many things—for instance, how the people behind this gate called the gatekeeper’s son "child," while they referred to him only as "him." Not just the gatekeeper; everyone behind this gate seemed to be the same.
Why didn't they call him "child"? Was it because he was already grown? But he wasn't many years older than the gatekeeper’s son.
Perhaps it was because he came from *that* place.
*Clack.*
The cautious gatekeeper threw out a broom and shut the gate tight. Even through the thick wooden panels, his trained, sensitive ears could still hear the gatekeeper’s voice. It had become very gentle as he ushered his child back into the house, personally going to fetch a freshly lit charcoal brazier, fearing that a moment’s chill might make the boy ill.
The youth slowly reached out his hand, as if he could feel the warmth of that brazier through the door.
He wanted to say that he had walked a very long way to return here. It was because he wanted to get inside to warm up and have a drink of water that he had knocked so urgently. It wouldn't happen next time.
He wanted to say that he had completed his task well. It was only because he had lost his fire-starter and had walked so long in the dark that he was delayed until now. It wouldn't happen next time.
He wanted to say that it never snowed in the place where he grew up, so he didn't know that after killing someone on a snowy day, one had to wipe the blood from the soles of their feet. It wouldn't happen next time.
But he said nothing. He only stared at the vermilion gate, raised a hand to wipe his cracked lips, turned to walk down the stone steps, and picked up the broom. Then, he took off his snow-soaked shoes and, barefoot, began to clear those dark red blood footprints.
As the broom swept over them, the bloody prints merged completely with the snowy ground. It became impossible to distinguish black from white, or clean from foul.
Finally, he stopped, staring blankly at the very last blood footprint on the ground.
He thought: *I will remember this moment forever.*
Be careful. Be even more careful.
But sometimes, no matter how clean and tidy he made himself, in the eyes of those people, he was always a blood-stained person who could never be washed clean.
Now, he would never leave blood footprints again.
Yet some colors and scents never seemed to disappear. That red seeped into every pore and under every fingernail; that scent of blood hid in his hair and within every breath. Only he could see it; only he could smell it.
Be cleaner. Be even cleaner.
The sound of water continued. Icy river water, carrying a hint of dark red, slid down his cheek. He raised a hand to wipe the corner of his mouth, and that dark red stained his lips.
It was Yu Xiao’s blood; he should have felt disgusted. But as that hint of metallic tang spread in his mouth, it transformed into a different flavor. Sweet, intense, addictive. He closed his eyes, and another face surfaced in his mind. The cold river water sliding down his face felt like falling rain, and he recalled the night in the darkness when he had bitten into her neck...
Suddenly, something scurried through the reeds not far away.
Li Qiao opened his eyes and snapped his head up. The long blade standing vertically in the river leaped out instantly. In the next moment, the reeds that had made the sound were sliced clean through in a wide arc.
Shredded leaves flew in all directions. With a dull *thump*, a thin, small figure tumbled out.
It was a young boy, not even as tall as a table, clutching a dirty wooden kite.
That strike had just grazed the top of his head. Had he eaten a few more grains of rice last month and grown half an inch taller, he would have lost his skull just now.
He was clearly stunned. After staring blankly for a long time, he finally noticed the youth standing in the middle of the river.
The youth’s skin was as white as snow, and his features were handsome, but the expression on his face held an indescribable horror.
He didn't speak or move, but in the next moment, the child sitting in the reeds began to wail loudly. Crying and screaming, the boy scrambled to his feet and ran toward the distant village.
The nearest village was Xiagukou. It wasn't too far from Dingweng Village; many families in the two villages were related by marriage and visited each other during festivals. Naturally, some would travel to Guoran Ju to save a few copper coins on medicine. If they happened to chat and mention recent events...
In his momentary distraction, the boy with the wooden kite had already run a dozen paces.
Li Qiao slowly tightened his grip on his blade. His knees bent slightly, and he leaped from the river, chasing after the path the boy had trampled through the reeds.
The child’s ragged breathing sounded like the bleating of prey; the frantic footsteps seemed to urge him on. They urged him to reveal his instincts, to bare his fangs, to extend his claws, and to deliver the fatal blow to this sudden hunt.
With a *thud*, the moment the child burst out of the reeds, he tripped over his own belt and fell face-first onto the ground.
During his days at Guoran Ju, he spent every day with Situ Jinbao. Perhaps having seen so many stupid and clumsy things, he had gained a bit more patience and composure.
Thus, he did not strike immediately. Instead, he walked toward the boy step by step, observing him as he went, as if trying to find something worth savoring in that meager, clumsy body.
The child on the ground clearly felt something. Trembling, he didn't dare look back. He just sat there paralyzed, clutching his scraped knee like a terrified mouse, listening as the cat's footsteps drew closer and closer...
Suddenly, a figure rushed out from the end of the winding dirt road nearby.
It was a girl, equally small and thin. She carried a basket nearly half her height on her back. Calling the boy’s name, she ran from the end of the road, a sickle for cutting grass in her hand.
She saw the boy on the ground first and hurried over. Just as she reached him, she realized something and looked back toward the water.
The bare-chested youth was stepping out from the reeds. He held a rusted blade, and water droplets rolled off his body, leaving a dark trail of moisture on the ground that stretched from the riverbank to the path.
He was very fair and handsome, yet he possessed an indescribable danger.
The blade in his hand didn't look sharp, yet it radiated an invisible, intangible scent of blood.
The boy with the scraped knee began to sob again. The girl gripped her sickle tightly, using her small body to shield him. She looked up at the youth standing a dozen paces away.
The moment their eyes met, Li Qiao suddenly felt the surrounding scenery shatter and dissolve like ashes after a fire. Nothing remained but those eyes looking at him.
Those eyes didn't look like *her* eyes, but the light within them was very similar.
A firm, fearless, magnificent light that made him, huddled in the darkness, dare not look directly, dare not approach, and dare not desecrate. She clearly held no sword, yet he was defeated the moment before the battle even began.
He stared into those eyes, standing frozen in place, his left hand on the hilt of his blade unable to move an inch.
After a moment, seeing that he made no further move, the girl finally withdrew her gaze. She grabbed the boy’s hand, turned, and ran away quickly.
A long time passed before the youth finally lowered his blade. He walked back to the riverbank step by step, knelt down, and stared fixedly at his reflection in the water.
Water droplets fell from his wet hair, fracturing the reflection of his pale face. Those light brown eyes were hollow—the gaze of someone who had not yet emerged from the slaughter. Forget a child; even an ordinary person would instinctively back away upon seeing it.
He paused for a moment, then quickly scooped up river water, fiercely scrubbing at the non-existent blood on his face. Ripples rose and smoothed, rose and smoothed again. There was no trace of blood on his face, yet he did not stop until the setting sun had almost entirely vanished below the horizon, and not a hint of red could be seen in the shallows before him.
The river gradually returned to stillness. He curved his lips and narrowed his eyes, and finally, the water reflected a face he knew all too well.
Over the past seven years, he had used such a face to wade through dark undercurrents and tread upon human hearts. He didn't like the expression on that face, but many people did. He didn't understand their thoughts, nor did he want to. All he cared about was how to use such a face to gain convenience and avoid trouble.
Everyone liked such an obedient and docile face; no one wanted to probe for his true self.
Was she the same?
If he revealed even a slight flaw, would she be like the child with the wooden kite, screaming and running away, falling clumsily to the ground? Or would she be like the girl who came searching, looking at him with eyes full of hostility while gripping a sickle?
In truth, it was nothing; it wasn't the first time he had encountered such a situation.
But for some reason, he suddenly realized that no matter which expression it was, he could not bear to see it on her face.
Anyone could treat him that way, but she... she could not.
He was afraid of her disappointment, her distance, her resentment, or even her loathing. Even a momentary distraction to consider such a possibility made him feel as if he were submerged in the boiling thermal waters of Qionghu Island—every moment filled with burning and torment.
No, he must never let her see this face of his.
Not before, not now, and not in the future.
Ideally, never.
***
**Glossary**
Chinese | English | Notes/Explanation
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下古口村 | Xiagukou Village | A village near the desolate riverbank.
黛绡河 | Daixiao River | A river that diverted water away from the ancient riverbed.
木鸢 | Wooden kite | A traditional Chinese toy, often shaped like a bird.
果然居 | Guoran Ju | The pharmacy/clinic where Li Qiao and Qin Wan work.
司徒金宝 | Situ Jinbao | A character who works at or frequents Guoran Ju.
琼壶岛 | Qionghu Island | Mentioned in the context of hot springs; likely a place from Li Qiao's past.
