That afternoon, Tuoba Lie came again.
The tent flap was thrust open from the outside, and a wave of alcohol fumes drifted in before he did. He didn't shout "I'm coming in," nor did he wait for a reply—he simply bent low and ducked inside. In one hand, he carried two jars of wine; mud caked his boots, and the wind had left his hair in a chaotic mess.
"I won't cause trouble today." He set one jar on the low table and sat down on the fur pelt with the other, stretching his legs out. "Have a drink?"
Li Yuanhao glanced at the jar but said nothing.
"Fine. If you won't drink, I will." Tuoba Lie pulled the cork and took a long swig, his Adam's apple bobbing. He let out a satisfied sigh. "The wine here is better than mine."
"Did you steal it?"
"Borrowed it. From your father's cellar." He took another gulp and wiped his mouth. "Your father owes me."
The low table was covered with wooden boards, covered in characters.Xia, Lie, Jiang, Jin, Yue. Row upon row. They were crooked and clumsy, but each attempt was slightly better than the last. Li Yuanhao held a piece of charcoal and was currently writingJin (Immersion). The water radical, withQin on the right. It had many strokes; he wrote slowly.
Tuoba Lie tilted his head and watched for a moment. "You wrote these?"
"Mm."
"They look much better than that dog-scratch handwriting you used to have."
Li Yuanhao ignored him.
Tuoba Lie drank again, leaning back against the fur, his gaze wandering around the tent. It swept over me—paused for a split second—then moved on. Ever since the "girlfriend" incident, the way he looked at me had changed. It wasn't that carefree, say-anything gaze anymore; there was a layer of something else over it. I couldn't quite define it.
"Your... uh..." He hesitated. "Teacher."
"Mm."
"Is she still teaching you?"
"Mm."
Tuoba Lie fell silent for a moment. He wasn't usually a quiet man. When he was silent, it meant he was thinking about something.
"You should learn too," Li Yuanhao said suddenly.
Tuoba Lie blinked. "Me?"
"Your handwriting is too ugly."
"So what if it's ugly? I don't need to write."
"You will fight wars in the future. You need to read maps. There are words on maps."
Tuoba Lie opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked at Li Yuanhao, then at me, then at the characters on the board. He stared for a long time.
Then he downed a large mouthful of wine, set the jar down with a thud, pulled his legs back, and sat up straight.
"Fine. Then teach me."
Li Yuanhao looked up at him.
"Didn't you say my writing is ugly?" Tuoba Lie said. "Then teach me. I want to see how good it can get."
Li Yuanhao stared at him for three seconds. Then he lowered his head and continued writingJin. The corner of his mouth curved slightly. It was faint and quick, like wind sweeping across the grasslands.
"Finish your drink first," he said.
Tuoba Lie chuckled, lifted the jar, and drained it. Wine spilled from the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin onto his clothes. He didn't care.
The atmosphere in the tent relaxed. Tuoba Lie drank, Li Yuanhao wrote, and I watched. Occasionally, I corrected a stroke order—Tuoba Lie listened from the side, occasionally interjecting.
Then Tuoba Lie suddenly stopped. The jar hovered in mid-air, not moving toward his mouth. He stared at the tent flap.
"If you don't come out," he said, "I'm starting to think you're dead."
The flap didn't move. There was no sound from outside.
"I'm serious," Tuoba Lie took another gulp. "If you don't come out, I'll drink your share too."
Silence.
Then, the flap moved.
It wasn't the wind. A finger extended from the edge of the flap, pushing it open just a crack. It was a beautiful hand—distinct knuckles, long fingers, clean, trimmed nails. No calluses.
The flap was lifted.
The light in the tent seemed to dim for an instant.
It wasn't an illusion—he was tall, half a head taller than Tuoba Lie. Broad shoulders, but a slender frame, like a sword wrapped in cloth. He wore dark clothing, no furs, no decorations. A knife hung at his waist—the scabbard was black, without any patterns.
His face—
His features were deep-set. High cheekbones, a straight nose, thin lips. His skin was fairer than anyone else's in the camp—not a sickly pale, but a natural white that wouldn't tan. His hair was black, not braided, simply tied back. A few stray strands hung by his ears, stirred slightly by the wind.
When he walked in, every sound in the tent ceased.
It didn't stop out of fear. It was like when someone walks into a room where people are talking, and everyone forgets what they were saying.
Tuoba Lie's jar hovered in mid-air, forgotten. Li Yuanhao's charcoal stopped on the board, drawing a black line. My fingers froze on the charcoal, forgetting to pull back.
The air in the tent solidified.
If this were UCLA, so many fangirls would be swooning.
The thought popped into my head, and I paused for a second. Then I quickly shoved it down.
Tuoba Lie lowered the jar, the corner of his mouth curving. "I thought you weren't coming."
The man didn't answer. His gaze shifted from Tuoba Lie, swept over the low table, over the characters on the board, over me—
It paused. A very short, almost imperceptible hesitation. Then it moved on.
He walked to the corner of the tent and sat down on the fur pelt. He didn't greet Li Yuanhao, didn't exchange pleasantries with Tuoba Lie, didn't look at anyone. He just sat down. He unsheathed the knife from his waist and placed it by his side. Then he leaned back against the fur and closed his eyes.
As if there were no one else in the tent.
Tuoba Lie glanced at him, then at me, then at Li Yuanhao. That expression seemed to say, "See? He's always like this."
"Yeli Han," Li Yuanhao said.
Two words. No introduction, no explanation. Just a name.
The temperature in the tent seemed to drop a few degrees. It wasn't a real temperature drop, but the man sitting there, not speaking, not moving, breathing so lightly it felt like nothingness. His eyes were closed, long lashes casting a shadow on his cheekbones. His lips were pressed thin, expressionless.
Like a sculpture.
I looked at him. He sat there, separated from everyone in the tent by an invisible layer. It wasn't alienation, it wasn't indifference—it was something else. Like the winter moon. You look at it, it looks at you, but you can't touch it.
"Does he speak?" I asked. My voice was lighter than I expected.
Tuoba Lie chuckled. "He does. But rarely."
"When?"
"When necessary."
"What counts as necessary?"
Tuoba Lie glanced at the man in the corner. Yeli Han didn't react.
"Before he kills someone," Tuoba Lie said. His tone sounded like a joke. But his eyes weren't laughing.
The tent fell silent for a moment.
Yeli Han's fingers rested on the scabbard, his fingertips gently caressing the end of the hilt. The movement was light, so light that if I hadn't been staring, I wouldn't have noticed. Once, twice, thrice. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat.
"Who is he?" I asked Li Yuanhao.
"From the Yeli clan."
"The Yeli clan?"
"My mother's family." He kept his head down, writing, not looking up. "He is a son of the Yeli family."
His voice was flat. But what lay beneath wasn't flatness—it was an unwillingness to say too much.
Tuoba Lie took a drink nearby and filled in the blanks for me. "The Yeli clan are all madmen." As he said this, he glanced at Yeli Han. No reaction. "The kind who don't value their lives in battle. His father was, he is. Everyone in his family is."
"And you aren't?" Li Yuanhao asked.
"I value my life." Tuoba Lie grinned, showing his teeth. "After I fight, I need to drink. After I drink, I need to sleep. After I sleep, I need to—" He glanced at me and swallowed the second half of the sentence.
Yeli Han opened his eyes.
Slowly. Eyelids lifting, lashes parting, revealing eyes of a very deep color. Not black, but dark brown, so deep it looked black. He looked at Tuoba Lie.
Tuoba Lie's smile stiffened for a second. "What?"
Yeli Han didn't speak. He just looked at him.
Tuoba Lie held his gaze for two seconds. Then he raised both hands, palms facing out.
"Alright, alright, I won't say it. The madmen of your family are all heroes. Happy?"
Yeli Han withdrew his gaze. Closed his eyes again.
Tuoba Lie downed a large mouthful of wine and muttered something under his breath. I couldn't hear. But I saw the corner of Li Yuanhao's mouth curve.
The tent grew quiet again. Tuoba Lie drank, Li Yuanhao wrote. The charcoal scratched against the board, Tuoba Lie's throat gurgled.
In the corner, Yeli Han's fingers were still on the scabbard. Once, twice, thrice.
I was looking at his hands. Slender, clean, no calluses. Not like hands that held a knife.
But his knife was right there. Black scabbard, no pattern.
Tuoba Lie said he killed seven people when he was thirteen.
I didn't know who those seven people were. I didn't know how he killed them. I didn't know if a thirteen-year-old boy had nightmares after killing, if he woke up in the middle of the night, if he put his hand on the scabbard, touching it over and over, as if to confirm the knife was still there.
His fingers paused.
A very short, almost imperceptible pause.
Then continued. Once, twice, thrice.
He sensed I was looking at him. But he didn't open his eyes.
I looked away, lowering my head to watch Li Yuanhao write.Jin. Three dots of water on the left,Qin on the right. He had written it many times; this time it finally stood firm.
"This character," he said, "what does it mean?"
"Jin. It means to soak in water."
"It's in your name."
"Mm."
He wrote it once. Not good. Wrote it again. Still not good.
"Your name," he said suddenly, "has three characters."
"Mm."
"How many characters do other people's names have?"
"Han people? Some have two, some have three."
"What about Tanguts?"
"Mostly two."
"My name is Li Yuanhao," he said. "Three characters."
He didn't look up.
"Tuoba Lie," he said. "Three characters."
He paused.
"Yeli Han," he said. "Three characters."
The man in the corner didn't react. But his fingers stopped—for just a moment.
"Your name," Li Yuanhao said, "is also three characters. Just like ours."
I looked at him. He didn't look up, continuing to write. His ears weren't red. His hands weren't shaking. The brush was steady.
He was sayingYou are here, you are not an alien.
He finished the fifthJin. Put down the charcoal.
"It doesn't look good."
"For a first attempt, this is already very good."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying."
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time."
He looked up at me. That gaze wasn't sharp, wasn't probing. The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, but close.
In the corner, Yeli Han opened his eyes.
Slowly. Eyelids lifting, lashes parting. He didn't look at Tuoba Lie, didn't look at Li Yuanhao. He looked at me.
Looked at my face, my hands, the charcoal in my hand, the characters on the table. For a long time.
Then he closed his eyes.
Fingers continued. Once, twice, thrice.
Tuoba Lie finished the last drop of wine and stood up. "I'm leaving. You two are too boring."
He walked to the flap and stopped. Looked back at Yeli Han. "You not coming?"
Yeli Han didn't move.
"Fine." Tuoba Lie lifted the flap and left.
Three people remained in the tent.
"Why did he come?" I asked.
"To see me," Li Yuanhao said.
"See what?"
"See if I've changed."
"Did he see it?"
Li Yuanhao didn't answer. He put down the charcoal and looked at the man in the corner.
Yeli Han opened his eyes.
The two looked at each other. No one spoke, no one moved. The air in the tent solidified in that instant.
Then Yeli Han stood up. The movement was light, silent. He hung the knife at his waist and walked to the flap.
He stopped. Didn't look back.
"Changed."
One word. The voice was low, light. Like the sound of ice cracking.
He lifted the flap and walked out.
The tent grew quiet. So quiet you could hear the wind blowing through the cracks in the flap, you could hear Tuoba Lie's laughter from afar—he was waiting outside for Yeli Han, and they walked away together.
"He said you've changed," I said.
"Mm."
"Changed for the better or worse?"
Li Yuanhao lowered his head and picked up the charcoal. He wrote a character on the board. NotXia, notLie, notJin. It wasBian (Change).
"Changing," he said.
These were words I had said before. He remembered them.
I watched him write. Once. Not good. Twice. Three times. Four times.
By the fifth time, the character stood firm.
"Tomorrow," he said, "teach me to write his name."
"Who?"
"Yeli Han."
"Okay."
He lowered his head and continued writing.
Outside the tent, the sun was setting. The horizon burned in a patch of tangerine red, light leaking through the cracks in the flap, falling on the board, falling on the characters he had written.
On the fur pelt in the corner, there was a faint indentation.
Where Yeli Han had sat.
The image of his fingers caressing the hilt over and over was still in my mind. Slender, clean, callus-free fingers. As if confirming something was still there.
Li Yuanhao finished the sixthBian and put down the charcoal.
"He wasn't like this before," he said.
"Like what?"
"Not speaking." He paused. "He used to speak."
The tent was quiet for a while. He didn't continue, and I didn't ask.
Some things don't need asking. A child who killed seven people at thirteen, who stopped speaking from a certain moment on. You know why.
No need to ask.
I picked up the charcoal and wrote a character on the board. NotXia, notLie, notJin, notBian.
It wasAn (Peace).
"This character," I said, "is pronounced 'An'. It means peace."
Li Yuanhao looked at the character. For a long time.
"Tomorrow," he said, "teach together."
"Okay."
He picked up the charcoal and wroteAn next to it. Crooked, but every stroke was there.
Outside the tent, the sun had set. The last ray of light withdrew through the cracks in the flap, and the characters on the board darkened.
But his hand kept writing.
One stroke. One line.
"An."
Outside the tent, the boy stood in the camp.
He didn't return to his own tent. He stood in the wind, watching two figures walk away. Tuoba Lie walked fast, talking as he went, gesturing wildly. Yeli Han walked beside him, slow, quiet, like a shadow.
Tuoba Lie said something, Yeli Han didn't answer. Tuoba Lie said another thing, Yeli Han still didn't answer. Tuoba Lie stopped, looking back at him. Half a camp away, his expression was unclear. But Tuoba Lie smiled. Turned around and kept walking.
The two disappeared behind the tents.
The boy stood where he was.
"Changed."
When Yeli Han said that word, his voice was light. But he heard it. Yeli Han never spoke. When he spoke, it meant there was truly something to say.
He looked down at his own hands. The scar on his tiger's mouth had faded; his fingers were stained black with charcoal dust. She had taught him to writeJin today. The water radical, he had written it many times before it looked good. AndBian. AndAn.
He touched his chest. There was a piece of paper there, and a wooden board.
He turned around and walked toward the tent. Walking fast. The wind blew from behind, cold.
He didn't know why, but the "changed" that Yeli Han spoke of made him feel—it wasn't a bad thing.
He didn't know why he felt that way.
He only knew—
Tomorrow, she would teach him to write "Yeli Han".
Three characters.
One more than her name.
He walked faster and faster. The sunlight shone on his back, stretching his shadow long.
He didn't look back.
End of Chapter 11