It was February, the weather was still cold.

Inside a small clinic, the doctor had just sent off the last patient. He rubbed his stiff hands together, pulled his coat tighter, and sat by the stove, ready to eat dinner.

The sun hadn’t come out for days; mist and drizzle shrouded the remote mountain village. Though it wasn’t even six o’clock yet, darkness had already fallen.

The doctor had just picked up his chopsticks, about to take a bite, when the old wooden clinic door creaked open. A long shadow stretched across the floor under the slanting light from the doorway.

Cold wind rushed in, carried by a young man’s slightly chilly voice:
“Hello, I want to buy medicine.”

The doctor set down his chopsticks and turned his head.

At the door stood a tall, lean boy. His posture was straight, shoulders squared. He wore a bulky black down jacket. His somewhat sharp chin was tucked into the collar, and his fine features looked even colder under his indifferent gaze.

The face hit the doctor with unexpected force—so striking it startled him. He froze for a few seconds before reacting, then stood up from beside the stove and answered in accented Mandarin:
“What medicine do you want to buy?”

Jiang Shi stepped inside, glancing at the clinic’s shabby interior and the messy chairs by the wall. His brows drew together in distaste. For a moment he looked ready to turn around and leave, but remembering this was the only clinic around, he stayed put.

He rolled up his sleeve right in front of the doctor, showing an arm covered in dense red rashes. His words were short and to the point:
“An allergic reaction. Do you have medicine for this?”

His hand was beautiful—slender, pale fingers, like a piece of art under the lamplight. All the more shocking, then, was the rash covering his arm.

The doctor couldn’t help staring a bit longer. “This looks pretty serious. How did it happen?”

The cold bit at the air. Jiang Shi let his sleeve drop and shoved his hands into his pockets. He had forgotten to close the door when he entered, and the wind kept pouring in, so he had half his face buried in his collar as he spoke, voice muffled and indifferent.

“I don’t know. Woke up like this. Do you have the medicine or not?”

So, not only cold-looking, but with a bad temper too.

But then again, with a face like that, the doctor could somewhat understand.

He turned back to the counter, rummaging through jars and bottles while saying:
“Medicine can ease the symptoms, but you really ought to figure out what caused it. Best to avoid the allergen altogether.”

Jiang Shi didn’t show whether he was listening or not, simply watching as the doctor tore scraps of paper and measured out powder from bottles, folding them neatly into packets.

The doctor placed the wrapped doses into a small paper bag and handed it over.
“Here’s one day’s worth. Take it first. If it doesn’t improve, you’d better head to a bigger hospital.”

Jiang Shi accepted the bag. Resisting the itching in his arm, he pulled out one packet and saw, written on it in crooked pencil: 1 + 1 = 3.

Jiang Shi: “…”

He asked the doctor, “This isn’t going to kill me, is it?”

The doctor glared. “What nonsense! I’d never harm anyone. You little brat, don’t speak carelessly.”

Fine.

Jiang Shi paid, then walked out of the clinic with his medicine.

By now the sky was fully dark. Rain still fell lightly, cold wind sweeping the empty street. With no streetlamps, most houses had long shut their doors. Only a few shops still glowed dimly.

Jiang Shi stood there for a moment, staring at the unfamiliar place, the corner of his lips curling slightly.

Who would have thought? Just a few days ago, he’d been a pampered young master. Now here he was, trudging half an hour down a mountain road just to buy medicine for an allergy.

Ridiculous.

A few days ago, he wasn’t even called Jiang Shi. His surname was Song. For over ten years he had lived in ease as a beloved son of the Song family—until suddenly he was told he wasn’t his parents’ biological child. His real mother was a middle-aged woman from a remote mountain village.

Before he could even process it, both families arranged the exchange. He was sent off with his biological mother, wandering their way to this place—Xiliu Village.

Three days. That was all it had been.

…

Rain and wind whipped across his face. Jiang Shi shoved the medicine into his pocket and walked away from the clinic.

Ahead stood a noodle shop, its sign painted with the words “Hui Tou Chang Noodle Shop.” Jiang Shi paused for a few seconds, then lifted the flap at the door and went inside.

The shop was empty, save for the owner watching TV in the kitchen.

Hearing movement, the man didn’t even look up, calling in dialect: “What’ll you have?”

Jiang Shi lifted his chin from his collar, answering lazily:
“A bowl of noodles. No chili, no cilantro, no scallions, no garlic, no ginger…”

He thought a moment, then added:
“And no fatty meat. I don’t like it.”

The owner: “…”

He glanced over. The boy had already pulled out two tissues and was slowly, awkwardly wiping down the table before sitting. His movements were clumsy—it was obvious he wasn’t used to such chores—but once satisfied, he tossed the paper aside and sat down heavily.

The TV still played Princess Pearl. The owner busied himself with the noodles.

Despite all Jiang Shi’s “don’ts,” the noodles were served quickly.

Locals liked heavy flavors—the soul of these noodles was chili. Without it, the dish was plain and flavorless: white noodles sinking in pale broth, looking bland at first glance.

Jiang Shi stirred them with his chopsticks, cautiously tasted a bite, and immediately frowned.

Terrible.

He tried again, unwilling to accept it. Same result. His face collapsed.

On the TV, Princess Pearl ended, replaced by an old man hawking “traditional medicine” health supplements.

At that moment, the shop curtain rustled as someone walked in, bringing another gust of cold air. A deep voice followed:

“Boss, got coriander?”

Jiang Shi was just forcing down a third bite.

The owner peeked out and, recognizing the newcomer, grinned. “It’s you. Same as usual, three coins a pound.”

A tall figure carrying a basket of cilantro walked past Jiang Shi.

They spoke in dialect—Jiang Shi caught only a few words. Curious, he looked toward the kitchen.

From his angle, he saw only a tall back. The man was so tall he blocked the kitchen light. Despite the cold, he wore just a thin jacket, short enough to leave his wrists exposed as he carried the heavy basket.

The smell of cilantro filled the shop. Jiang Shi instantly lost any desire to eat. He zipped up his jacket and decided to leave.

Noticing, the owner called after him:
“Leaving already, customer? That quick?”

Jiang Shi lowered his eyes, not even glancing at him. “It’s disgusting. I don’t want it.”

The owner: “…”

“Hey! You—”

But the boy was already gone.

The tall man, Cheng Ye, turned slightly, catching only the slender figure disappearing into the night. The bowl of untouched noodles still steamed on the table.

The owner muttered irritably, “Picky brat. Won’t eat anything, then blames my noodles. Whose kid is that, anyway?”

Cheng Ye said nothing. He set the basket on the scale, lifting it easily with one hand.
“Minus the weight of the basket, eighteen jin.”

The owner paid him, eyeing his exposed, frost-bitten hands and feet, sighing inwardly.

He offered, “That kid clearly isn’t from around here. He barely touched the noodles—three coins wasted. If you don’t mind, you can have it.”

Cheng Ye’s eyes were pitch black, half-hidden beneath his long hair. In the lamplight, they gleamed faintly, like a wolf’s.

Then the glow dimmed.

He took the money, lifted his basket, and thanked the owner simply:
“Thanks.”

Without the slightest hesitation, he sat down where Jiang Shi had sat and silently began eating the noodles Jiang Shi had scorned.

---

Jiang Shi suspected he’d taken the wrong road.

His old slide phone was nearly dead. Maybe it was his imagination, but even the flashlight seemed to be growing dimmer.

He held it up against the wind. Ahead stretched endless darkness, with three forked paths leading off.

Had he come along the middle one, or the right?

No one could answer him. On this pitch-black country road, there weren’t even people—let alone… other things.

Bracing himself, Jiang Shi chose the middle path.

Five minutes later, not a soul, not a light—only rustling from the woods beside him.

His hair stood on end. He swept his weak beam toward the sound, voice sharp:
“Who’s there?”

Silence for two seconds. Then the rustling grew louder, now mixed with heavy panting.

Jiang Shi: “…”

He bolted.

God above, if he got out alive, he’d never set foot outside at night again!

The panting grew closer. Jiang Shi ran faster, until—bang! He collided with something, his body pitching sideways.

Before he could fall, a strong hand seized his arm, yanking him back upright.

He didn’t hit the ground, but a sharp crack rang out—and pain exploded in his ankle.

“…”

See? This cursed village really was out to get him.

Pain clouded his vision. He barely realized someone had guided him to sit on a roadside rock.

A brighter flashlight beam lit his face. A deep voice asked beside him:

“You okay?”

Only then did Jiang Shi realize he’d run into a man. A tall one. His nose still hurt from smacking into the man’s hard chest, on top of the ankle pain.

He slapped the flashlight in irritation. “What the hell! Trying to scare people to death in the middle of the night?”

The light wavered but stayed steady on him.

Cheng Ye said nothing. His wolf-like eyes locked onto Jiang Shi’s face, his breathing quiet.

He stayed silent. Jiang Shi, squinting against the glare, snapped,
“Hey! I’m talking to you. What, are you mute?”

When the beautiful boy glared, his delicate features seemed even more alive—like ink-brush art coming to life. Sitting there on a dark mountain path, he looked almost like a spirit sneaking out to steal souls.

Cheng Ye’s grip tightened on the flashlight. His gaze lingered on Jiang Shi’s face. At last, two words emerged from his throat:

“Sorry.”

The unexpected apology left Jiang Shi speechless.

The light still hurt his eyes. He grabbed the flashlight and turned it back toward Cheng Ye.

“Who are you?”

Cheng Ye lifted his head, brushing back his long hair to reveal a striking face. His pitch-black eyes caught the light, glinting faintly green—like a wolf’s.

But in front of Jiang Shi, his straight spine bent downward. To let Jiang Shi see him clearly, he dropped to his knees in the muddy road, like a wolfhound tamed.

Still, his gaze never left Jiang Shi’s face.

“Cheng Ye,” he said slowly.

“My name is Cheng Ye.”