Hot flashes

In the days that followed, Zhou Heng taught Xiao Jue a lot more things.

Zhou Heng thought for a long time, going through the little bit of junior high school physics in his mind again and again, and stumbling over how to explain gravity, inertia, and air resistance to him.

After he finished speaking, he felt that it was all a jumbled mess, but Xiao Jue listened with shining eyes and kept asking him questions all day long.

There is also military strategy.

Zhou Heng recited every sentence from Sun Tzu's Art of War that he could remember to Xiao Jue: "Know yourself and know your enemy, and you will never be defeated," "The best strategy is to attack the enemy's plans; the next best is to disrupt their alliances," "Swift as the wind, silent as the forest." Xiao Jue listened intently.

Before we knew it, more than a year had passed.

Life on the mountain moves slowly, as slowly as a stream flowing over stones, day after day, month after month, quietly slipping away.

Zhou Heng's hair had grown longer and was no longer as conspicuous as when he first arrived. Xiao Jue had grown taller and his shoulders had broadened; standing in front of Zhou Heng, he was now almost half a head taller.

That day, Zhou Heng was reading in his room when he suddenly heard hurried footsteps outside the window.

The door was pushed open, and Xiao Jue rushed in.

"Little teacher!"

Zhou Heng put down his book and looked up.

Xiao Jue stood at the door, panting from running, a smile on his face, his eyes shining as if he had discovered something extraordinary.

Zhou Heng looked at him like this and shook his head helplessly.

"No respect for elders."

Xiao Jue's smile froze for a moment.

He stood there, his expression shifting, his lips moving as if he were muttering something.

Zhou Heng didn't hear clearly.

"What?"

Xiao Jue glanced at him quickly, then looked away.

"It's nothing."

As he spoke, he walked in and sat down next to Zhou Heng. As he sat down, he unconsciously scooted closer to him.

Zhou Heng didn't pay attention.

"Did you finish martial arts practice today?"

Xiao Jue nodded.

"My master said I've made progress."

Zhou Heng smiled.

"That's good."

Xiao Jue looked at him, at his smiling face, and suddenly spoke again.

"Young Master."

Zhou Heng glanced at him helplessly.

I don't know when this form of address started. At first, Xiao Jue honestly called him "Sir," but later, for some reason, he insisted on adding the word "Little."

Zhou Heng corrected him several times, and he responded in person, only to turn around and call out again. After a while, Zhou Heng got tired of correcting him.

"What's wrong now?"

Xiao Jue blinked.

"You haven't told me a story yet today."

Zhou Heng was stunned for a moment.

"What story?"

"It's that story, the one about 'borrowing arrows with straw boats,' the one you only told half of last time."

Zhou Heng remembered.

He read "Romance of the Three Kingdoms" several times when he was a child, but only a few parts left a deep impression on him.

Borrowing arrows with straw boats, the Empty City Stratagem, the Battle of Red Cliffs—it's all the same old stuff. Xiao Jue listened to it once, then wanted to listen a second time, and after each listen, he would ask, "And then what?" "What happened to that person later?"

Zhou Heng cleared his throat.

"Alright, let's continue."

Xiao Jue immediately sat up straight, rested his chin on his hands, and stared at him without blinking.

Outside the window, the sun is shining brightly.

A mountain breeze blew by, bringing with it the fresh scent of grass and trees.

As Zhou Heng was speaking, he suddenly noticed that Xiao Jue's gaze was fixed on his face, and he seemed somewhat lost in thought.

He stopped.

"What's wrong?"

Xiao Jue snapped out of his daze and paused for a moment.

"N-nothing."

He lowered his head, and his ears turned red again.

When Xiao Jue returned to his room, it was already very late at night.

The moon was high in the sky, illuminating the courtyard brightly. He pushed open the door and went inside, without lighting a lamp. By the dim moonlight, he walked to the bedside and sat down.

After sitting for a while, he suddenly bent down and reached under the pillow.

My fingertip touched something hard.

He took the thing out.

It was a small wooden box, about the size of a palm, made of sandalwood, with a smooth, shiny surface. The lid was simply engraved with a few cloud patterns; he had found it in a town at the foot of the mountain.

Xiao Jue placed the wooden box on his lap.

Moonlight streamed in through the window and fell on the box lid.

Xiao Jue gently opened it.

Inside the box was a stack of papers. They were neatly cut, with slightly yellowed edges. Each sheet of paper had a drawing of a person on it.

The moonlight shone directly on that piece of paper.

The person in the painting has handsome features and a slightly curved mouth, as if he is smiling. His hair has grown long and is loosely tied back, with a few stray strands falling in front of his forehead.

Xiao Jue's fingers landed on the painting and gently touched the person's cheek.

The paper feels thin and cool to the touch.

But his fingers recoiled as if burned.

He pulled his hand back, clenched it into a fist, and placed it at his side. His heart was beating so fast he could almost hear the thumping.

The room was quiet. Only the occasional chirping of insects could be heard from outside the window, soft and delicate.

Xiao Jue lowered his head and looked at the paintings.

The ones at the very bottom were drawn shortly after he met Zhou Heng. They were ugly back then, with the facial features all crooked and distorted, but he couldn't bear to throw them away and kept them.

As he drew more, the likeness gradually improved. The eyebrows, the eyes, the expression, the occasional smile. He collected them one by one, hiding them in this box, under his pillow.

Nobody knows.

No one can know.

Xiao Jue had long understood his own feelings.

In the blushing, heart-pounding moment as day approaches. In the countless ripples of dreams at night, little by little.

Like a mountain stream, it starts as a thin line, but as it flows, it eventually becomes a river.

He found himself constantly wanting to be near Zhou Heng. Whether there was something to do or not, he would go to him. He would just stay there, listening to him talk, watching him write, and seeing him occasionally look up and smile at him.

He would remember every word Zhou Heng had ever said. Whether it was said casually or unintentionally, he remembered it all. When he couldn't sleep at night, he would bring those words up again and again, thinking about them over and over.

He knew this was wrong.

Others may not know, but he knows.

He is an immortal.

He came from the sky. He doesn't belong here, he doesn't belong to this mountain wilderness, he doesn't belong to himself.

Xiao Jue lowered his head and looked at the painting.

In the moonlight, the people in the painting are still smiling.

How could someone like that possibly defile something with such thoughts?

He didn't know what Zhou Heng would think if he found out.

You might be surprised, you might be silent, you might—feel disgusted.

Xiao Jue clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He recalled the way Zhou Heng always looked at him. It was gentle and open, like looking at a younger brother, a student, or a child who needed care.

nothing else.

There has never been anything else.

Xiao Jue put the painting back, one by one, and closed the lid.

He put the wooden box back under the pillow, stood up, and walked to the cabinet.

He opened the cabinet door, put the wooden box inside, placed it at the very back, and covered it with his clothes.

Close the cabinet door.

He stood there for a while, then turned and walked back to the bedside.

sit down.

After sitting for a while, he stood up again and walked back to the cabinet.

Open the cabinet door.

He reached out and took the wooden box out again.

He held it in his arms.

Xiao Jue walked back to the bedside, lay down, and hugged the wooden box tightly to his chest. The sharp edges of the box dug into his ribs, causing him some pain. He curled up on the bed, burying his face in the lid of the box.

The moonlight shone on him, casting his shadow on the wall.