Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

When Yang Hui returned from the market, it was already dark.

He took the alley behind the Purple Orchid Pavilion—narrow, with high walls on both sides, their bases covered in moss. During the day, he could hear voices in the courtyard, but at night, only the sound of his own footsteps remained. He didn't take a detour. He used this alley during the day because it was close, and at night because he knew the location of every loose paving stone. When he stepped on them, he already knew which ones would make a sound and which ones wouldn't.

As he walked to the middle of the alley, he heard a sound behind him. It wasn't footsteps—he could distinguish footsteps, but this sound was lighter, like someone stepping on the broken tiles at the base of the wall, landing on the balls of their feet. He slowed his pace, and the sound slowed down as well. He stopped to tie his shoelaces, and as he crouched down, he caught a glimpse of two shadowy figures about ten paces behind him, pressed against the wall. One was shorter, the other taller. Something in the shorter one's hand reflected the light—a knife. A short knife, its blade no wider than two fingers, a weapon for close combat.

Yang Hui straightened up and continued walking. He didn't quicken his pace or look back. He adjusted his pace to the exact same speed as before, as if completely unaware. When he reached the narrowest part of the alley, the walls on both sides were even closer, almost within reach. He paused there—not really stopping, but slowing his pace slightly. The two dark figures behind him, thinking he had "hesitated," quickened their pace to catch up.

Yang Hui leaned against the wall. His movements were light and silent, like a cat gliding through a crack in the wall. When the short, dark figure reached the spot where he had just been standing, he paused, finding no one in front of him. In that instant, Yang Hui's hand reached out from the side and slapped him three inches from the outside of his wrist.

The knife fell. The short knife made a crisp sound when it hit the ground, bounced once in the alley, and slid to the base of the wall.

The tall, shadowy figure reacted faster. He struck at the same moment his companion lowered his knife—not with a knife, but with a fist, aimed straight at Yang Hui's face. Yang Hui didn't retreat. He turned his head to avoid the punch, his knee already raised. His knee slammed into the tall man's lower left abdomen—not with a forceful impact, but with a "pushing" motion, like pushing a door shut from the outside. The tall man bent over, bracing himself against the wall, but lost his balance and slid to the ground.

The whole process took less than three breaths. Yang Hui straightened up, bent down to pick up the short knife the shorter man had dropped, then walked to the taller man's feet and pulled another knife from his boot. He placed the two short knives side by side on a protruding bluestone at the base of the wall. He didn't take them away. He stood up straight, brushed the dust off his knees, and continued walking.

Moonlight was shining at the alley entrance. When he came out, there were only two figures behind him, each clutching their own sore spots, slowly moving forward. They glanced at the two knives by the wall but didn't dare pick them up. Yang Hui didn't hear any more footsteps following him. When he pushed open the back door of Zilan Pavilion, there were still traces of dried mud on the threshold from the daytime. He squatted down to scrape the mud off his shoes, then stood up to go into the kitchen. Zi Nu stood at the kitchen doorway, holding a bowl of water. The charcoal fire in the stove glowed a warm red, casting a warm light on her profile. She looked at him: "There was some noise in the alley just now."

"Yes. Two people."

"Dead or alive?"

"Alive. The knife is at the base of the wall."

Zi Nu glanced at him. "Are you injured?"

Yang Hui glanced down at his hand—there was a very shallow scratch on the back of his hand, as if his knuckles had rubbed against something rough, and it barely bled. He shook his head. "No."

Zi Nu turned and went back to the kitchen, bringing out a bowl of hot water and placing it on the stove. "Drink this before you go upstairs."

Yang Hui walked over and picked up the bowl. The water was lukewarm, not hot. He didn't drink it immediately, but held the bowl in his hand for a while, letting his palm warm up from the night's chill. Then he lowered his head and took a sip. Outside the kitchen, it was quiet; the leaves in the backyard rustled, and there was no sound from the alley. Yang Hui placed the empty bowl on the edge of the stove. Zi Nu was poking at the charcoal fire with tongs, as if trying to make it burn longer so that it would retain warmth in the night. Yang Hui stood in the light of the kitchen and listened for a while longer.

Then he turned around and went upstairs.