The morning at the shrine had begun with a simple goal.
"We are out of salt," Shen Qiyao had noted.
He was looking at the empty ceramic jar in the kitchen.
He Qing had been leaning against the doorframe.
He was tossing a small pebble into the air and catching it.
"Salt? That sounds like an adventure, Mr. Taller Shen."
Shen Qiyao glanced at him.
He Qing looked, as always, like a man with nothing.
His robes were simple, his pockets were empty.
He had no family to speak of.
No home other than the shrine.
No copper coins to his name.
"I will go to the market," Shen Qiyao said.
"You should stay and watch the garden."
"Absolutely not!" He Qing protested.
"I am a vital part of the procurement process."
"You are a vital part of the distraction process," Shen Qiyao corrected.
But he didn't argue further.
He picked up his coin purse.
He felt a strange, quiet urge to bring He Qing along.
To let him see the village, even if only for a few hours.
The walk down the mountain was slow.
The air was cooler than usual.
The bamboo leaves rustled with a secret energy.
As they reached the outskirts of Zhuyin Village, something was different.
The quiet, sleepy atmosphere had been replaced.
There was a frantic, joyful bustle in the air.
"Look at that," He Qing said, pointing.
A group of men were dragging a large wooden cart.
It was filled with unlit lanterns and rolls of red silk.
"Is the village under attack by weavers?"
Shen Qiyao watched the activity with a slight frown.
"It seems they are preparing for something."
As they entered the main street, the changes were even more visible.
Women were standing on stools, hanging banners.
Children were running with bundles of incense.
"Young Master Shen!"
A shopkeeper called out from his doorway.
He gave a respectful bow.
Shen Qiyao nodded back.
"Good morning, Master Chen."
"Here for the usual? Or getting ready for the feast?"
"The feast?" Shen Qiyao asked.
"The Mid-Autumn Festival, of course! Two days from now!"
Master Chen laughed, wiping his hands on his apron.
"The whole village is turning upside down for it."
Shen Qiyao felt a small surge of surprise.
He had lost track of the lunar calendar.
He Qing was standing a few steps behind.
He was looking at a red banner with an unreadable expression.
The shopkeeper glanced at him, then back to Shen Qiyao.
"And who is your friend, Young Master?"
"A traveler," Shen Qiyao said simply.
"He is staying at the shrine for a time."
The shopkeeper nodded politely but didn't address He Qing.
To the village, Shen Qiyao was a known figure.
A man of quiet dignity and mysterious origin.
He Qing, however, was a stranger.
A ghost of a man with no history.
Shen Qiyao felt a sudden, sharp pang of sympathy.
"Come," Shen Qiyao said, turning to He Qing.
"Since we are here, let's find that salt."
"And maybe something else?" He Qing asked, his eyes brightening.
"Like what?"
"I saw a shop back there," He Qing said.
"It had those little steamed buns. The ones with the red bean paste."
He Qing looked at the shop with a longing that was almost painful to see.
It was the look of someone who had never had the luxury of a treat.
Someone who had spent a lifetime as a guest in other people's worlds.
Shen Qiyao looked at his coin purse.
He had enough.
"We will get the salt first. Then the buns."
"Truly? You're treating me, Mr. Taller Shen?"
"It is a festival," Shen Qiyao said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Everyone should have something sweet."
They found the salt merchant near the village well.
The area was crowded with people preparing decorations.
Large bamboo frames were being tied together for a dragon dance.
"The dragon should face the east," He Qing muttered.
Shen Qiyao paused. "What did you say?"
He Qing blinked, looking surprised by his own words.
"I... I said it looks like a lot of work."
"You said the dragon should face east."
"Did I? I must have heard it somewhere. Travelers hear many things."
He Qing laughed, but it felt a bit forced.
"Probably just a superstition from some other village."
Shen Qiyao didn't press him, but the feeling remained.
Something about the way He Qing looked at the preparations felt... off.
He looked like someone who was seeing a familiar face after a long time.
A face he was pretending he didn't recognize.
"Here is the salt," Shen Qiyao said, handing the jar to He Qing.
"Now, where was that shop?"
"This way!" He Qing said, leading the way with a sudden confidence.
He turned corners without hesitation.
He knew exactly which alley led to the market square.
"You seem to have a good sense of direction for a newcomer," Shen Qiyao noted.
He Qing stopped, his back to Shen Qiyao.
"I... I just follow the smell of sugar. It's a very reliable guide."
He turned around, his playful grin firmly in place.
They reached a small, tucked-away shop.
It was decorated with simple paper flowers.
The owner was a very old woman with a gentle face.
"Two red bean buns," Shen Qiyao said.
He handed over the copper coins.
The old woman looked at He Qing, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"You have a familiar look about you, young man," she said.
He Qing froze, his hand halfway to a bun.
"Do I? I'm just a traveler passing through."
"Hm. Perhaps," she murmured.
"But you walk like someone who knows these stones."
He Qing laughed, taking a big bite of the bun.
"I just have very comfortable boots, Grandmother!"
He turned to Shen Qiyao, his mouth full of sweet paste.
"This is amazing! You should try one!"
Shen Qiyao took a small bite of his own.
It was warm and sweet.
He watched He Qing eat with a quiet, satisfied intensity.
To anyone else, He Qing was just a hungry traveler.
But to Shen Qiyao, he was a mystery that was slowly unfolding.
A man who claimed to have no home, yet felt like a part of the earth itself.
"Is it your first festival?" Shen Qiyao asked.
They were sitting on a low stone wall, watching the villagers.
He Qing looked at a group of children hanging lanterns.
"As a traveler? Yes," He Qing said.
"I've seen many things on the road, but... this feels different."
"How so?"
He Qing looked at the red banners fluttering in the breeze.
"It feels like it matters. Like the people here really believe in it."
"They do," Shen Qiyao said. "It is their history."
"History is a heavy thing," He Qing whispered.
He looked down at his empty hands.
"Sometimes it's better to have none at all."
Shen Qiyao didn't know how to respond to that.
He looked at He Qing's simple robes and his empty pockets.
He felt the weight of his own history—the clan, the exile, the betrayal.
"You have a home at the shrine," Shen Qiyao said.
His voice was low, almost a whisper.
He Qing looked at him, his eyes softening.
"I know, Mr. Taller Shen."
He stood up, brushing the crumbs from his robe.
"And I think I like your home better than any festival."
As they walked back up the mountain, the village noise faded.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows through the bamboo.
The preparations below were still going on, but up here, it was quiet.
Shen Qiyao carried the jar of salt.
He Qing walked beside him, humming a tune he didn't recognize.
It was a slow, haunting melody that felt ancient.
"What is that song?" Shen Qiyao asked.
He Qing stopped humming. "What song?"
"The one you were just singing."
"Oh. Just something I picked up on the road," He Qing said.
"I don't even know the name of it."
He started walking again, faster this time.
Shen Qiyao followed him, his mind filled with questions.
The festival hadn't even begun yet.
It was only the preparation.
But something had shifted between them.
The village, with its banners and its lanterns, had pulled at something.
It had pulled at the secrets He Qing was keeping.
And it had pulled at the walls Shen Qiyao had built.
The shrine was no longer just a place to hide.
It was a place where two people with no history were building something new.
"We should get some more wood for the fire," He Qing said.
"It will be cold tonight."
"Hm," Shen Qiyao acknowledged.
He looked back at the village one last time.
The first few lanterns were being tested.
Tiny points of light in the gathering dark.
The festival was coming.
And with it, the truth would eventually follow.
But for now, there was only the quiet walk home.
The shrine was waiting for them.
And for the first time in a year, Shen Qiyao didn't feel alone.
He felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.
[End of Chapter 122]