Chapter 47: The Boy’s Confusion

On the third day since the Bamboo Grove Guild had closed its doors, Yan Shan was out front, sweeping snow. The broom’s bristles scraped against the frost-hardened ground, making it easy to slip if one wasn’t careful. The snowdrifts had piled halfway up Yan Shan’s waist, and the cold was so biting that even the breath from his lips trembled in the air.

Little Zhi hunched into himself, head down, clutching a bundle of wooden carvings tightly to his chest, as though afraid a stranger might glimpse them. He hurried along, arriving at the entrance of the Bamboo Grove Guild where Yan Shan was cleaning before the shut doors.

Peeking out from behind his bundle, Little Zhi asked, “Brother Luo still hasn’t returned?”

“The guildmaster is still away,” Yan Shan replied.

“It’s been days now. We agreed to meet in three,” Little Zhi said, fretting. In his agitation, one of the wooden carvings slipped from his arms and fell to the ground. As he bent to retrieve it, more tumbled down, prompting Yan Shan to help gather them. Yan Shan noticed at once how finely crafted the carvings were—dragons, lions, all depicted vividly.

“Brother Zhi, where did you buy these? They’re beautiful…” Yan Shan exclaimed.

Little Zhi, long accustomed to being the junior among his peers, was elated to receive such praise from someone even younger in rank. Forgetting the rest of the carvings scattered on the ground, he began to boast.

“Buy them? Not at all—these are all my own handiwork. Look at this…” He picked up a dragon carving, fierce with bared fangs and whiskers trailing down its body, radiating majesty and might. “This dragon alone took me over ten nights to finish. My hands are all calloused from the effort.”

Yan Shan took the carving, examining it closely, his admiration plain. “Brother Zhi, you’re incredible! All that’s missing is a strip of ribbon to send this dragon soaring into the sky!”

Soaring into the sky? The thought of a wooden carving taking flight struck Little Zhi as wonderful, but how could it be done? He fell into a reverie, his brows unconsciously gathering snowflakes.

Back at Tiger Roost Pavilion, Old Lin bustled about serving guests, a towel slung over his shoulder. Outside, snow swirled in the wind, but inside was as warm as a steam room, soon leaving everyone drenched in sweat.

“Old man! Two taels of steamed mutton for table two—my guests are many, don’t neglect them!” someone called.

“The wine’s run dry, and soon there won’t be a single waiter in sight. What’s going on?” another grumbled.

Old Lin nodded and apologized graciously, making amends as best he could. The crowd inside Tiger Roost Pavilion had thinned by a third compared to busier days. Though the atmosphere was still lively, many staff had left, and it was becoming harder to find reliable kitchen hands or servers. This weighed on Old Lin day after day.

Bamboo Zhang strode into the back kitchen, a heavy sack of ingredients slung over his shoulder. Steam enveloped his face, making it hard to keep his eyes open. Old Lin dispersed the steam with a wave of his arm and ushered Bamboo Zhang inside.

In the kitchen, the chefs were run off their feet. Having been promoted to the chopping board, Bamboo Zhang was now indispensable among the kitchen staff. With so many hands gone, reliable help was a rarity.

He set his board, brought out a large fish, and with practiced precision, his knife moved swiftly, dicing the fish into neat chunks and pushing them to the side. Meat became paste, vegetables into strips—all done with unhesitating efficiency.

At Greenview Pavilion, business had also dwindled. The girls, dressed thinly, caught colds from the chill. Yet Master Kuang insisted they drape themselves in silks, lest they forget their duty.

Han Chong rode his fine horse in circles around the lake behind Greenview Pavilion. Once, twice, three times—his gaze fixed on an upper window of the pavilion.

The window remained tightly shut. Dismounting, Han Chong closed his eyes to rest. Before long, A-Ning arrived, breathless with excitement. Han Chong swept her into his arms, and they embraced.

“You’re early today,” A-Ning said.

“I am, aren’t I? I switched horses three times, galloping all the way back. Look—I brought you something.” From his chest, Han Chong produced a delicate box of rouge, exotic in design, clearly not a local product.

Girls were always delighted by surprises and new things. She accepted the box eagerly, opened it, and was greeted by an intoxicating fragrance—a blend of musk and gardenia, bold and passionate.

“Brother, you’re so good to me,” A-Ning whispered, her cheeks blooming like peach blossoms, radiant and lovely. Han Chong noticed she wore hardly any makeup that day—her oval face was gentle and sweet, and her expression bashful.

A tremor ran through Han Chong’s heart. He drew her close once more, and A-Ning took his arm in her delicate hands.

“Brother… do you think this will ever end?” she asked softly.

Masculine pride surged in Han Chong’s chest. “I—absolutely—I’ll marry you. You’ll be my wife! We’ll go home together.”

A-Ning laughed coyly. “But I’m still at Greenview Pavilion. I doubt the manager would ever let me go.”

Han Chong was at a loss. He knew all too well how uncertain their future was, but with the woman he loved in his arms, he longed more than ever for a peaceful life together.

By the lakeside, people passed by with their own worries, the water still rippling green beneath the sky. Only by day did splashes glimmer; at night, the lake froze over again, just like secret lovers meeting only when the time was right.

Moonlight spilled gently to Little Zhi’s window. Back from his errands, he was met with a scolding from Old Lin—how could he forget his roots just because he’d earned a little money from a match? He wasn’t working hard enough, and if it weren’t for Old Lin giving him shelter, he’d have frozen outside long ago.

Little Zhi wasn’t a man of grand ambition or talent, but after so much scorn, he couldn’t help feeling disheartened. He stomped inside, kicked a chair leg in anger, only to hurt himself and howl in pain.

He was skilled, yet now all he could do was hawk wares and crack jokes at Tiger Roost Pavilion, making him question his fate. He, Han Chong, and Bamboo Zhang had once roamed the bamboo forest together, carefree and unburdened, calling themselves heroes for the poor, though they’d never managed any true acts of justice.

Compared to those days, Little Zhi felt his future did not lie here. This restless anxiety had only come after the ball game winnings and meeting Luo Gan. For the first time, his woodcarvings had been appreciated; his efforts had finally earned real recognition, not just a laugh.

Gazing at the scattered blocks of nanmu wood in his room, Little Zhi recalled the bold promises he’d made to Luo Gan. He was determined to achieve something worth showing, so as not to be a burden at Luo’s side.

Energized, Little Zhi picked up a sharpened stone and began sketching designs on the floor—outlines for his next carvings. He sketched little wings on the backs of each, imagining dragons and tigers soaring through the sky.

The room echoed with the clink of wood and tools. Bamboo Zhang, smelling of kitchen smoke, came in to find Little Zhi still absorbed in his carvings. He understood at once—Little Zhi had been obsessed with these things since childhood.

Without turning, Little Zhi greeted him, “Back late tonight, I see.”

“Stayed on to pick up some new tricks from the chefs.”

Bamboo Zhang examined a dragon carving, surprise lighting his face. “Little Zhi, you’ve improved a lot! These are really shaping up. But…”

Little Zhi paused, looking up at Bamboo Zhang’s unfinished thought.

“But this dragon… since when do dragons have wings growing out of their tails? Ha! Now that’s a strange sight!”