Five people sat around the table. Lianxin poured wine from a porcelain pot, the liquid light red, rich with medicinal scent. Yan Dan’s eyes widened—if she was not mistaken, this was realgar wine, famed for its pungent smell and bitter taste.
“This wine is home‑brewed, not strong. Miss Yan, you can drink it with confidence,” Lianxin said quickly. The white‑haired grandmother added: “We prepared the herbs ourselves, but the rice wine came from the village. Life is hard without a man in the family… if you dislike it, don’t drink.”
Yan Dan shook her head. “How could I dislike it? The Dragon Boat Festival is for drinking realgar wine to ward off evil.” She trembled, lifting the bowl, but before she could drink, a hand reached diagonally, took the bowl, and drained it in one gulp.
“Yu Mo…” Yan Dan whispered.
“She cannot drink. One sip will make her drunk,” Yu Mo said calmly.
“You…” Yan Dan stammered.
“She only causes trouble when drunk. I will drink for her.” He lifted his own bowl and drank again.
Yan Dan muttered: “Two bowls… ward off evil spirits… too late…”
The old woman’s wrinkles softened. “Little girl, this young master is so good to you. Remember it.” She picked up chopsticks, placing yellow croaker into Yu Mo’s bowl. “Eat more while it’s hot.”
Yan Dan turned quickly. Yu Mo frowned slightly, face calm. She reached out. “Young master, may I have the fish in your bowl?”
Yu Mo smiled faintly. “Too lazy to pick thorns?” He removed the largest bone, carefully picking out the small ones, but before he could place the meat in her bowl, Lianxin added another fish for Yan Dan, removing skin and bones. “I should have chosen a bigger fish. The spines wouldn’t be so fine.”
Yan Dan swallowed her words.
Her sympathy deepened as Yu Mo slowly ate the fish under the grandmother’s eager gaze. “It’s very flavorful,” he said. The old woman beamed, adding another.
Yan Dan choked, coughing. Later, when they left, Yu Mo turned pale, staggered to the stream, and retched violently.
“You… are you better?” Yan Dan stroked his back, offering tea. Yu Mo grabbed her fingers, squeezing painfully. Cold sweat beaded his forehead.
“Mountain lord, lie down,” she urged.
Yu Mo shook his head, unable to speak. His side face shimmered faintly with blue‑black scales, a flame‑like totem spreading across his neck. His eyes reddened, yet he smiled. “Are you… embarrassed?”
Yan Dan touched the totem. “You… an ancient remnant, no wonder…”
Suddenly Yu Mo pulled her beneath him, blood splattering her cheeks. His sword flashed, stabbing an assassin through the heart. Crimson spread across Huanhua Creek. Blue fire burned, reducing the corpse to ash.
Yan Dan pressed his back, chanting spells, but her healing failed. Sorcery was weakened on the Dragon Boat Festival.
Yu Mo sighed. “I didn’t expect assassins. Let’s go inside.”
Yan Dan tore cloth to bind his wound, cleaned the blood, and hung the curtain. “Rest, mountain lord. I will handle it.”
But assassins kept coming. Yan Dan fought desperately, turning a wooden basin into iron to break a blade, stabbing with Yu Mo’s dagger, feigning weakness to lure enemies close. Blood stained her sleeves, yet she endured.
Finally, three corpses floated on the stream. Yan Dan knelt, chanting softly: “Let the dull and unvirtuous stay away from ignorance, not greedy, not bound by dust…” Lotus flowers bloomed, then withered, dissolving the corpses into dust.
She lay against the boat, whispering: “I thought these spells useless, but now… they are beautiful.”
Yan Dan listened to the sound of water outside, then glanced at the hourglass by the low table. Two hours remained before the Dragon Boat Festival ended. Something felt missing. Her eyes fell on the basket of glutinous rice, chestnuts, and salted meat.
Rice dumplings must be eaten on the Dragon Boat Festival.
She rolled up her sleeves and began wrapping. Dozens of salted meat and chestnut dumplings filled the steamer, and with the last ingredients she combined chestnuts and meat, shaping one dumpling into a fish. Remembering Yu Mo’s ordeal that day, she felt no sympathy—only a laugh.
She poked Yu Mo gently under the blanket. He was cold as ice, scales flickering faintly on his cheeks. His eyes opened, red and weary.
“What do you want to do?” he asked weakly.
“Have I seen you before?” she whispered.
Yu Mo sighed. “Enough trouble. Tomorrow I’ll let you see enough.”
She realized how close they were, breath mingling. Flustered, she let go, and Yu Mo collapsed onto the board.
“Mountain lord…” she cried.
“Enough,” Yu Mo rasped. “One more word and you’ll be buried. I mean it.”
Yan Dan fell silent.
When the dumplings were ready, she peeled the fish‑shaped one. Yu Mo rose, pale but steady. “I’ll wash up.”
“Your wound—don’t wet it!” she protested.
“It’s scarred already,” he said lightly.
She despaired. If Bailing saw the scar, she would be blamed.
Later, Yu Mo returned, wet from the stream. “Aren’t you going to help me wipe?”
Yan Dan draped a cloth over him, wiping carefully. She thought of using magic to erase the scar, but Yu Mo stopped her. “Enough. I’ll do it myself.”
She changed the subject. “The dumplings are steamed.”
She handed him chopsticks, biting into her fish‑shaped dumpling. Yu Mo leaned close, took a bite, and smiled. “It tastes good.”
Yan Dan nearly choked. Yu Mo’s smile was too beautiful, surely hiding ulterior motives.
The journey back to Chenglan Mountain Realm was fraught with assassins, poisons, even lime powder. Yan Dan endured, tortured by endless schemes.
Yu Mo muttered irritably over his arithmetic book. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone to Nandu.”
Yan Dan teased: “Isn’t Pei Luo the Prime Minister’s son? Why so many enemies?”
“He is no longer the Prime Minister’s son. At the end of last year, this world was their Pei family’s country.”
Yan Dan realized: the Great Zhou Dynasty was embroiled in crown prince battles, assassinations, and palace intrigues. “Emperors and generals live very fulfilling lives,” she concluded.
Assassins came again and again—then suddenly stopped. Yan Dan grew restless, too accustomed to chaos.
Yu Mo scolded her. “Yan Dan!”
She feigned innocence. “I’m throwing away the assassins’ things.”
Yu Mo was suspicious but let it pass.
That night, Yan Dan tried to undress him, claiming she wanted to check his wound. Yu Mo sighed. “If it were Zilin or Bailing, I’d be the same. Don’t dwell on it.”
Back in Chenglan, life grew stable. Yu Mo even asked Bailing to bring her fruit. By the tenth day, Yan Dan had forgotten her worries.
But one noon, while bathing, Bailing stormed in, furious about Yu Mo’s scar. Dan Shu peeked innocently, Yuan Dan teased shamelessly, Zilin scolded, and Yu Mo awkwardly drove them all out. Yan Dan was mortified, scarred with a lifelong knot about bathing.
Years passed. Winter to spring, summer to autumn. Yan Dan remained in Chenglan Mountain Realm for ten years.
At dawn, Yu Mo stood at the bow, hand outstretched. “I want to walk outside. Will you come?”
Yan Dan took his hand, leaping lightly onto the boat.
“Where to this time?” she asked.
“Mobei. Wind and sand, sunset, desert…”
Day after day, year after year, like the sun itself.
She liked those freedoms, high in the sky.
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