Chapter 19: The Merchant Who Expected Excuses
Morning arrived gently over the cliff, the kind of slow, unhurried arrival that did not demand attention but quietly settled into place, as if the mountain itself had decided that there was no reason to begin the day with anything more dramatic than light and wind moving exactly as they always did.
The first sunlight stretched across the courtyard of the bamboo cottage, catching along the edges of the stone path where thin lines of moss had gathered between the slabs, and the air carried that familiar mixture of damp leaves, faint mineral water, and the lingering scent of plant dye that never fully disappeared from the workspace, no matter how clean everything appeared.
Khun Ming stepped outside and paused, not out of hesitation, but out of habit, his gaze moving naturally toward the drying rack where the five bolts of marigold-dyed cloth hung in quiet alignment, their surfaces fully settled after the night, their color no longer shifting but resting in that warm, balanced tone that came only after the fibers had accepted the pigment completely.
He walked closer and reached out, lifting the edge of one bolt between his fingers, rubbing the fabric lightly as he felt the texture respond, smooth and even, without the slight roughness that sometimes appeared when dyeing was rushed or uneven.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, his voice carrying that calm tone that never seemed to change regardless of the situation, "that color held exactly as expected, which confirms that the mordant and tannin layers bonded properly during the dye process."
The golden dog sat nearby, watching him with quiet interest, its tail resting against the ground as it listened.
Khun Ming shifted the cloth slightly, allowing the sunlight to pass across its surface at a different angle.
"The pigment penetration is consistent," he continued, speaking as if explaining the result to an attentive apprentice rather than a dog that clearly had no intention of replicating the process. "There are no visible streaks or dull areas, which means the temperature remained stable and the circulation in the dye bath was maintained correctly."
The dog wagged its tail once.
"Yes, I am aware that you were not directly involved in the stirring process," Khun Ming added, glancing down briefly. "However, since you remained present during most of the work, it seems reasonable that you should also hear the evaluation."
Inside the cottage, Hu Xinyan slowly opened her eyes.
The difference in her body was immediate and unmistakable.
The sharp, burning pain left by the tribulation lightning had faded into a dull, manageable ache, and the instability that once disrupted her meridians had settled into something that no longer interfered with her ability to think clearly or move with control.
She lifted her head slightly and looked toward the doorway, her gaze following the sound of Khun Ming's voice.
Outside, he released the cloth and let it fall back into place among the others, the five bolts moving gently in the breeze, their colors aligned in a way that felt intentional rather than coincidental.
"Yes," he said quietly, nodding to himself. "These are ready."
He turned back toward the cottage.
"Which means I should prepare breakfast before leaving," he added, his tone shifting naturally from evaluation to planning without any sense of transition, "because carrying ten kilograms of cloth down a mountain path without eating first would be an unnecessarily inefficient decision."
The golden dog stood and followed him inside.
Hu Xinyan watched as he moved toward the small kitchen area, his steps steady, his movements efficient without appearing hurried, as if every action had already been measured and adjusted through repetition.
He selected a clay bowl, measured rice into it, and rinsed the grains with careful, practiced motions, swirling them through water until the surface turned slightly cloudy before draining it away.
"You may have noticed," he said while working, "that I tend to begin the day with something simple."
The dog sat beside the stove.
Khun Ming poured milk into a small pot and added the rice, setting it over a low flame.
"Milk porridge is reliable," he continued, stirring gently. "It provides enough energy for physical work without making the body feel heavy, which is useful when walking long distances."
Hu Xinyan blinked slowly.
He explained everything.
Even this.
Steam rose gradually from the pot, carrying a soft, warm scent that spread through the room, blending with the faint herbal traces that lingered from the previous days of treatment and dye preparation.
Khun Ming adjusted the flame slightly.
Then he glanced toward her.
"I see you are awake," he said.
Hu Xinyan's ears twitched faintly.
"That is good," he continued. "Your breathing sounds much more stable today, which suggests that the shock from the lightning has mostly passed."
She held his gaze.
Khun Ming stirred the porridge again.
"Once I deliver the cloth to the merchant," he added, as if continuing a conversation that had not been interrupted, "I should purchase additional yarn and undyed fabric, because if the color meets expectations, there will likely be more orders."
The dog wagged its tail.
"Yes," Khun Ming said, glancing down at it. "I understand that you will not be participating in textile production, but since you accompany me during most tasks, you will inevitably hear about it."
Hu Xinyan's tail flicked slightly.
The porridge thickened.
Khun Ming scooped it into a bowl and stepped outside, sitting on the wooden step where the sunlight had begun to warm the surface.
He ate slowly, not rushing, each motion steady, the quiet of the morning continuing around him without interruption.
Hu Xinyan stood.
This time, the movement required no hesitation.
She walked toward the doorway, her steps controlled, her balance stable, the strength in her limbs returning enough that the act of walking no longer required constant attention.
She reached the threshold and stepped into the courtyard.
The wind brushed lightly against her fur.
The air felt… calm.
Khun Ming glanced up mid-bite.
"Oh," he said mildly, as if noting something expected rather than surprising. "You walked outside again."
Hu Xinyan blinked.
"That indicates your recovery is progressing well," he continued, setting the bowl aside. "However, I would still recommend avoiding sudden exertion for another day or two, because your nervous system is likely not fully stabilized."
The dog wagged its tail.
Khun Ming finished his porridge and stood, brushing his hands together lightly.
"Well," he said, "since breakfast is complete, I should prepare the delivery."
He walked toward the rack and began folding the cloth, each movement precise, aligning edges carefully, ensuring that the folds remained even so the fabric would not crease improperly during transport.
"All five bolts together should weigh approximately ten kilograms," he said thoughtfully while tying the bundle with rope. "Manageable, but heavy enough to require attention while walking."
The dog stepped closer and sniffed the bundle.
"Yes," Khun Ming said calmly, "I am aware that it smells interesting, but I would prefer that it remains intact until it reaches the customer."
The dog wagged its tail and stepped back.
Khun Ming lifted the bundle onto his shoulder and adjusted its position slightly, ensuring the weight was balanced.
Then he paused.
"Oh," he said.
"I should wash before going into town."
He set the bundle down again and walked toward the path leading to the stream, the golden dog following him without hesitation.
Hu Xinyan watched from the courtyard as they disappeared briefly through the bamboo.
At the stream, Khun Ming knelt and washed his hands and face, the cold water clearing away any remaining traces of dye and ash, and he took a moment longer than necessary, not out of indulgence, but because beginning a journey clean felt appropriate.
"The water is slightly colder than yesterday," he said while splashing his face. "That suggests a change in overnight temperature, which may affect drying conditions later."
The dog stepped into the shallow edge, as if confirming the observation.
Khun Ming dried his hands, stood, and returned to the cottage, lifting the bundle once more and settling it securely on his shoulder.
Then he looked at the dog.
"You should remain here," he said calmly. "Someone needs to supervise our recovering patient, and you appear to be the most suitable candidate."
The dog wagged its tail once.
Khun Ming nodded.
"Good," he said. "I will return before evening."
He adjusted the bundle slightly and began walking down the mountain path, his steps steady, his pace unhurried, the weight balanced comfortably as he moved through the forest trail.
Hu Xinyan stood in the courtyard and watched him go, her gaze following his figure until it disappeared between the trees, the sound of his footsteps fading gradually into the background of wind and water.
The courtyard grew quiet again.
The bamboo leaves shifted softly.
Cherry petals drifted across the stone.
The dye vats sat still, their surfaces calm.
And for a moment, nothing moved except the natural rhythm of the place itself, as if the cottage had simply returned to waiting, steady and unchanged, for the next cycle of work to begin.
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The town appeared through the trees about half an hour later, first as a suggestion of structure between branches, then gradually resolving into stone walls, tiled roofs, and wooden storefronts that carried the quiet rhythm of morning trade, where nothing felt rushed yet everything moved with purpose, as if the entire place had already agreed on how the day would proceed before anyone had stepped outside.
Khun Ming walked along the main street without hesitation, his pace steady, the bundle of cloth resting against his shoulder with balanced weight, and the few people who passed him gave brief glances not because he stood out dramatically, but because a man carrying five neatly tied bolts of cloth down from the mountain always suggested either determination or very poor planning, and in his case, it was clearly the former.
He reached the textile shop and stepped inside.
The merchant looked up from behind the counter, his expression shifting from mild boredom into faint surprise, the kind that appears when someone returns sooner than expected, like a shopkeeper in a C-drama who had mentally scheduled disappointment for the afternoon but was suddenly forced to rearrange his emotions before lunch.
"You came back already?"
Khun Ming nodded and set the bundle on the counter with a soft, controlled motion that suggested both familiarity with weight and a refusal to make unnecessary noise.
"Yes," he said calmly. "The dyeing process finished yesterday evening and the cloth dried overnight."
The merchant frowned slightly, leaning forward with the cautious skepticism of someone who had already prepared a polite speech about failure and was now unsure whether it would still be needed.
"You finished five bolts?"
"Yes."
The merchant's expression shifted again, narrowing slightly, like a side character in a drama who suspects the protagonist has just done something unreasonable but has not yet confirmed it.
"I expected you to come here and explain why natural dyes are unpredictable," he said slowly, "and why the cloth turned green instead of yellow."
Khun Ming untied the rope.
"That would only happen if the dye bath were poorly prepared."
He unfolded the first bolt.
The marigold yellow spread across the counter in a smooth, even layer, the color catching the light without harshness, warm rather than bright, stable rather than showy.
The merchant froze.
Not dramatically.
But in that very specific way where his body leaned forward half an inch and then stopped, as if his mind had briefly disconnected from his expectations and needed a moment to catch up.
He reached out and touched the cloth.
Then he unfolded the second bolt.
Then the third.
Then the fourth.
Then the fifth.
The counter filled gradually, the yellow extending across the wooden surface until there was no empty space left, and the merchant's expression shifted again, this time into something that looked suspiciously like the moment in a K-drama where a side character realizes the quiet person in front of them might actually be the hidden expert they underestimated five scenes ago.
"No streaking," he muttered.
He rubbed the fabric between his fingers, testing it with more attention now, his movements slower, more deliberate.
"…and no clumping."
He lifted one edge toward the light, his eyes narrowing slightly as he checked for inconsistencies that did not exist.
"…You actually did it."
Khun Ming nodded.
"Yes, I did."
The merchant leaned back slightly, then let out a short laugh, the kind that carried equal parts surprise and reluctant respect.
"Well," he said, shaking his head once, "I will admit that I did not expect that outcome."
He opened a drawer and began counting silver coins onto the counter, each one placed with the steady rhythm of someone who had already accepted the result and moved on to the next practical step.
"This is the payment we agreed on."
Khun Ming nodded.
"Thank you."
The merchant leaned back again, though this time his posture had changed, no longer skeptical, but attentive, like someone who had just updated their internal ranking of a person without announcing it directly.
"If you can produce this color again," he said, "there will be customers who want it."
Khun Ming considered that, not as an opportunity, but as a variable.
"That depends on the availability of dye materials and preparation time."
The merchant smiled slightly.
"I will remember that."
Khun Ming then turned his attention to the shelves, selecting several skeins of yarn, his fingers moving across the fibers with quiet precision, testing texture, weight, and consistency without needing to explain the process aloud this time.
He paused briefly at a stack of undyed cloth.
"I would also like these two bolts," he said thoughtfully. "They will be useful for testing additional colors, because once a dyer confirms that a yellow bath works properly, the next logical step is to explore how other plant materials interact with the same fiber under controlled conditions."
The merchant raised an eyebrow.
"You mean more natural dyes?"
"Yes," Khun Ming replied calmly. "Marigold produces a stable yellow, but other materials such as turmeric, bark tannins, and certain roots can produce different tones depending on preparation and mordant balance."
The merchant folded the cloth and handed it over.
"Well," he said with a small laugh, "as long as your experiments look like what you just showed me, I have no objections."
Khun Ming nodded.
Then he reached into his sleeve, took out a small slip of paper, and began writing his address.
The moment itself carried an odd contrast, because his expression remained completely neutral, his posture relaxed, his movements unhurried, yet the act of writing that address somehow carried the same quiet confidence as a chaebol heir in a K-drama sliding a business card across a table after solving a crisis no one else could handle, except in this case there was no background music, no dramatic lighting, and no awareness from Khun Ming that this action might be interpreted as anything significant.
He finished writing and handed the paper over.
"If you need additional dye work," he said calmly, "this is where I live."
The merchant took the paper and looked at it.
For a brief moment, his expression shifted again, this time into something that resembled mild confusion mixed with curiosity, like a supporting character realizing that the person who just delivered perfect results apparently lived somewhere inconvenient on purpose.
"You are working up on the cliff road?" he asked.
"Yes, I am."
The merchant let out a short chuckle, shaking his head slightly.
"That explains the walking."
Khun Ming considered that for a moment.
"Yes," he said. "I have a dog and a large injured animal at home, and purchasing a horse for short-distance travel would not be particularly efficient."
The merchant blinked once, as if deciding not to ask further questions about that statement.
Khun Ming gathered his purchases, adjusted the weight in his hands, and stepped out of the shop, his departure as quiet as his arrival, without any sense of conclusion or emphasis.
The merchant remained behind the counter, still holding the small slip of paper.
He looked at it again.
Then toward the doorway where Khun Ming had just left.
Then back at the yellow cloth still spread across the counter.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Not because there was nothing to say.
But because he had not yet decided how to categorize what he had just seen.
Outside, the market continued its steady rhythm, unchanged, while Khun Ming walked through it with the same calm pace as before, already thinking about materials, temperatures, and the next color that might quietly emerge from a pot of boiling plants, as if the entire exchange had simply been another step in a process that never needed to announce itself.
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After leaving the shop, Khun Ming walked through the market at the same steady pace he used for everything else, neither hurried nor slow, as if the entire concept of rushing had never been particularly relevant to his daily routine.
The morning crowd had grown slightly thicker, though it never reached the level of chaos seen in larger cities, and the movement of people felt more like a flowing current than a collision of intentions, merchants arranging goods, customers bargaining quietly, and the occasional cultivator passing through with the kind of presence that made others step aside without needing to be asked.
Khun Ming moved through it without interruption, his attention focused on practical necessities rather than observation, though his eyes still registered details automatically, the freshness of vegetables, the dryness of stored grain, the color of roots and bark that might or might not be useful later depending on how they reacted to water and heat.
He stopped at a spice stall first.
Bundles of turmeric roots lay piled in a woven basket, their surfaces rough, their color a deep, earthy orange that stained the fingers even before processing.
Khun Ming picked one up and examined it briefly, turning it between his fingers.
"This should work," he murmured to himself, more as a note than a conclusion.
Turmeric was not unfamiliar to him, but the quality varied depending on soil and drying conditions, and he selected several pieces carefully, choosing those that felt firm without being overly dry.
The vendor watched him with mild curiosity, as if trying to determine whether this was a normal purchase or the beginning of something unnecessarily complicated.
Khun Ming paid, placed the roots into his bag, and moved on without further comment.
Next came vegetables, then grain, then oil, each selected with the same quiet efficiency, his decisions based on use rather than preference, though there was a subtle consistency in the way he chose items that suggested long habit rather than spontaneous thought.
By the time he reached the butcher stall, both of his hands were already occupied, though he shifted the weight slightly to free one arm.
"I would like several cuts of beef," he said.
The butcher looked up, glanced at the amount Khun Ming was already carrying, and then raised an eyebrow in a way that suggested either concern or interest, depending on interpretation.
"That much meat?"
Khun Ming nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said. "If possible, I would like approximately six to seven kilograms of beef, preferably cut into thick steaks about the size of my palm, because I currently have two rather large animals recovering from injuries, and it would be inefficient to provide insufficient portions during the healing process."
The butcher paused for a moment, then let out a short laugh, the kind that came from hearing something technically reasonable but framed in a way that made it sound like a logistical report rather than a personal situation.
"Well," he said while reaching for the knife, "those must be some very well-fed animals."
Khun Ming considered that briefly.
"Yes," he replied. "They are currently on a recovery diet."
The butcher began cutting the meat, each slice clean and deliberate, the sound of the blade against the board steady and rhythmic.
Nearby, another customer glanced over, clearly trying to imagine what kind of household required that amount of food, and then quietly decided not to ask.
Khun Ming waited patiently, adjusting the bundle in his arms as the weight shifted slightly, the balance changing with each added purchase.
From an outside perspective, he looked less like someone running errands and more like a delivery worker halfway through an overambitious order, except there was no employer, no deadline, and no sense of urgency—just a man calmly preparing supplies for a household that included one dog and one tiger, which, in most contexts, would have required further explanation.
The butcher wrapped the steaks and handed them over.
Khun Ming accepted them and added them to his load, the total weight increasing to the point where a less organized person might have reconsidered their purchasing strategy.
He did not.
He simply adjusted his grip.
Then added chicken.
Then additional cuts of meat, because the first amount, while sufficient, could be made more efficient if extended over several days.
When he finished, both arms were full, the weight distributed as evenly as possible, though still heavy enough that most people would have considered making two trips.
Khun Ming shifted slightly, testing the balance.
"That should be sufficient," he said to himself, his tone carrying quiet approval rather than relief.
Somewhere far above the mountain, a large injured tiger—who was absolutely not present to hear this—paused mid-breath and sneezed once without any clear reason, then slowly narrowed her eyes in the vague direction of the town, as if her instincts had just received a very specific and mildly suspicious update.
Back in the market, Khun Ming turned and began walking toward the mountain road.
The weight in his arms settled into a steady rhythm with his steps, not comfortable, but manageable, the kind of burden that became easier once the body accepted it as part of the task rather than something to resist.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, more as a conclusion than a statement, "that should be enough food for several days."
A passerby glanced at him, then at the amount of supplies he was carrying, then continued walking with the quiet decision that whatever situation required that level of preparation was not something they needed to understand today.
Khun Ming left the market behind and stepped onto the path leading back toward the mountain, the sounds of trade and conversation gradually fading as the forest began to reclaim the space with wind, leaves, and distant water.
The climb ahead was long.
The load was heavy.
And yet his pace remained exactly the same, steady and unhurried, as if returning home with enough food to feed a recovering tiger and a very calm dog was simply another ordinary part of the day, which, for him, it was.
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The cliff grew quiet after Khun Ming left, though the quiet did not feel empty or abandoned, and instead settled naturally into place as if the courtyard had simply returned to its usual rhythm once the only person who insisted on stirring things every few minutes walked away.
The sound of his footsteps faded along the forest path, gradually blending into the steady background of wind through bamboo and the distant, consistent flow of the waterfall below the cliff, and the empty drying rack stood quietly in the courtyard where five bolts of yellow cloth had been hanging not long ago, their absence noticeable in the same way a kitchen feels slightly different after all the dishes have been put away.
Hu Xinyan sat near the doorway, her posture relaxed but alert, her golden eyes following the path he had taken until there was nothing left to follow, and only after that did she shift her attention inward, slowly closing her eyes as she drew in a steady breath.
The air here remained calm.
Not dense.
Not rich.
Just balanced in a way that made everything easier.
Her spiritual energy moved smoothly through her meridians, no longer colliding with chaotic resistance, and although the damage from the tribulation had not completely disappeared, it had retreated far enough that she could guide the flow without bracing herself for pain each time it passed through a damaged channel.
She began circulating her qi again.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The process felt less like forcing energy through broken paths and more like walking along a road that had already been repaired overnight without informing the traveler.
Minutes passed.
Then a voice spoke from nearby.
"You are stabilizing faster today."
Hu Xinyan's eyes opened immediately, her head turning toward the source without hesitation.
The golden dog sat beside the fence, its posture relaxed, its tail resting calmly against the stone, though the expression in its eyes had shifted just enough that pretending it was an ordinary animal would now require a level of denial she was no longer interested in maintaining.
"You can speak," she said.
The dog tilted its head slightly, as if considering whether that was the most important detail to focus on.
"Yes," it replied. "I just usually don't, because expectations become complicated once conversations start."
Hu Xinyan studied him for a moment, her gaze steady.
"I suspected as much," she said.
The dog wagged its tail once, a casual motion that somehow made the entire situation feel less dramatic than it should have been.
"That is good," it said. "It saves time."
Hu Xinyan shifted slightly, adjusting her posture.
"You speak differently now," she observed.
The dog gave a small, almost amused look.
"That is because I am not pretending to be entirely ordinary at the moment," he said. "Although I still intend to keep things simple, because overly serious conversations tend to ruin otherwise peaceful mornings."
Hu Xinyan's ears twitched faintly.
"That sounds like something an elder would say," she replied.
The dog wagged its tail again.
"I prefer to think of it as something an older brother might say," he said. "Less pressure, fewer expectations, and no need to sit on a high chair while explaining things that could be said more comfortably."
Hu Xinyan let out a quiet breath, something close to a faint laugh that she did not fully commit to.
She turned her gaze toward the dyeing station.
"It has been three days," she said slowly. "Since I arrived here."
The dog nodded.
"Yes," he replied. "You were unconscious for most of the first day, complained internally during the second, and started behaving like a reasonable patient today."
Hu Xinyan narrowed her eyes slightly.
"I did not complain."
The dog tilted his head.
"You did," he said calmly. "Just not out loud."
Hu Xinyan decided not to argue that point.
Her gaze shifted toward the interior of the cottage, where the sword rested quietly against the wall.
"That blade," she said.
The dog followed her line of sight.
"Ah," he said. "You noticed that as well."
Hu Xinyan's tail moved slowly behind her.
"It does not behave like an ordinary weapon," she said. "Even in a sealed state, the presence inside it feels… layered."
The dog wagged his tail once, a small acknowledgment.
"That is a good way to describe it," he said. "It contains more than it shows, but it also prefers not to be involved unless necessary."
Hu Xinyan frowned faintly.
"You speak as if it has a will of its own."
The dog looked mildly amused.
"It does," he said. "Just not in a way that interferes with daily life, which is probably why it has not caused any problems here."
Hu Xinyan glanced back toward him.
"And Khun Ming uses it to cut roots," she said.
"Yes."
She paused.
"That is… unusual."
The dog wagged his tail.
"Yes," he agreed. "But also very consistent with everything else he does."
Hu Xinyan exhaled slowly.
There was a brief pause.
hen she asked, "How long have you been with him?"
The dog shifted slightly, stretching his front legs forward in an unhurried motion before settling again, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested the question was simple, even if the answer needed a small adjustment.
"Not long," he said. "It has only been a short while since I started staying here, just a few days more than you."
Hu Xinyan's ears angled forward, her expression sharpening slightly as she processed that.
"That is all?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, his tone casual, as if this detail carried no particular weight. "You arrived three days ago. I have been here a little longer than that, but not enough to claim any deep history."
Hu Xinyan stared at him for a moment, clearly re-evaluating several assumptions at once, like someone who had just discovered that the calm and experienced guide in a story had only been reading the manual slightly earlier than everyone else, yet somehow still walked ahead without hesitation.
"And yet," she said slowly, "you speak as if you understand him."
The dog wagged his tail once.
Hu Xinyan's ears angled forward.
The dog shook his head lightly.
"I met him after I left my clan," he said.
Hu Xinyan blinked once.
"You left your clan?"
"Yes," the dog replied calmly. "There was a discussion about marriage that I found… unconvincing."
Hu Xinyan stared at him.
"You ran away to avoid a marriage arrangement?"
The dog wagged his tail, completely unbothered.
"Yes," he said. "It was presented as a matter of responsibility, which is usually a sign that it will become inconvenient very quickly."
Hu Xinyan's expression shifted slightly, the corner of her eyes softening.
"That is surprisingly relatable," she admitted.
The dog gave her a brief look that suggested quiet agreement.
"I spent some time wandering after that," he continued. "Then I found him, or more accurately, I found a place where everything felt unusually stable, and he happened to be standing in the middle of it holding a bundle of dyed cloth like someone who had just finished doing something important but did not feel the need to announce it."
Hu Xinyan listened carefully.
"So you stayed."
"Yes."
"Without knowing who he is."
The dog wagged his tail again.
"Yes."
Hu Xinyan frowned slightly.
"That seems reckless."
The dog tilted his head.
"Not particularly," he said. "Strength is easy to recognize, even when it is not being displayed."
Hu Xinyan's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You are speaking from experience."
The dog gave a small, casual shrug that looked slightly unusual on a golden retriever.
"Something like that," he said. "Let's just say that I am not entirely unfamiliar with higher realms, even if I am currently pretending to be a household companion."
Hu Xinyan studied him carefully now, her gaze sharper.
"You are not weak," she said.
The dog wagged his tail.
"No," he replied. "But I am also not interested in making that the focus of my daily life."
Hu Xinyan let that settle.
There was something about the way he said it that felt… grounded.
Not defensive.
Not proud.
Just factual.
"And him?" she asked, glancing again toward the cottage. "What do you think he is?"
The dog looked toward the dye vats.
"He is someone who does not treat cultivation as something separate from living," he said. "Which is why most people have trouble understanding him."
Hu Xinyan was quiet for a moment.
Then she asked, "How old is he?"
The dog looked back at her, a faint hint of amusement in his eyes.
"Twenty-eight," he said.
Hu Xinyan froze.
The reaction came naturally, without exaggeration, the kind of stillness that appears when the mind briefly refuses to process information that contradicts everything it has learned.
"Twenty-eight," she repeated.
"Yes."
She stared at him.
"That is not reasonable," she said.
The dog wagged his tail.
"Most things here are not," he replied. "You will get used to it."
Hu Xinyan looked back toward the courtyard, at the cherry tree, the dyeing station, the quiet arrangement of tools that looked completely ordinary until one paid attention for more than a few minutes.
"If he is truly that young," she said slowly, "then his cultivation…"
She did not finish the sentence.
The dog watched her.
"Let me put it this way," he said. "The path most cultivators follow and the path he is on are not the same, so trying to measure him using the usual standards will only make the situation more confusing."
Hu Xinyan narrowed her eyes slightly.
"That sounds like avoidance."
The dog wagged his tail again.
"That sounds like practical advice," he replied.
Hu Xinyan held his gaze for a moment longer, then let out a quiet breath.
"Fine," she said. "I will observe instead."
The dog smiled in a way that did not require his mouth to move.
"That is usually the best approach."
She closed her eyes again and resumed circulating her qi, the flow smoother now, more stable, the damaged pathways gradually aligning with the calm environment around her.
The courtyard remained quiet.
The wind moved through the bamboo.
Petals drifted across the stone.
And somewhere along the mountain path, Khun Ming continued walking home with both arms full of supplies, completely unaware that a conversation about his age, his sword, and his general lack of awareness had just taken place in his absence.
The dog glanced toward the forest path briefly, then back at Hu Xinyan.
"He should be back soon," he said.
Hu Xinyan did not open her eyes.
"I will be ready," she replied.
The dog wagged his tail once.
That answer, for some reason, sounded slightly more serious than necessary, like someone preparing for a meeting that would involve absolutely no conflict but still felt important for reasons that had not yet been explained.
The waterfall continued its steady rhythm.
And the cottage, as always, waited.
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Chapter 19 complete.