WHF Ch 48 – “You believe what’s said in bed?”

What was this feeling like?

One day, when you were still young, you upset your dad or mom, but just then, guests arrived at the house. They couldn’t lash out, so they pulled you along, chatting, laughing, offering snacks. You knew that once the guests left, your doom was coming. Even though Xiu Ma didn’t have normal parents, he still understood this logic. Ever-changing, yet always the same, Xiu Ma felt like he was about to die.

How would he die? He didn’t know, and that was scarier than knowing.

The man in the rearview mirror was still staring at him, then asked quietly, “Don’t you feel like something’s off?”

What kind of question was that?

Xiu Ma nodded slightly, but Yu Tianbai’s next words didn’t come. He asked, “Is it you who’s off, or me?”

Yu Tianbai was momentarily speechless at his response, furrowing his brow. “I’m not talking about us. I mean those two.”

Old Five and Old Seven. Xiu Ma stopped looking at him, leaning back in his seat, thinking it over.

“They’ve always been pretty strange. It’s not just a day or two.”

That was true. Maybe from the first time they encountered them robbing on the road, the whole thing had been far from normal.

“Not that,” Yu Tianbai said, signaling to merge onto the highway, adjusting the van’s direction. “Instinct. Something’s not right with either of them.”

During their three days in Changlin Village, it wasn’t exactly a feast, but at least they didn’t freeze to death in Heilongjiang’s wild nature. Xiu Ma was content and couldn’t see what was so strange.

There were few cars on the highway. Yu Tianbai took a deep breath and continued, “In the village, whenever we weren’t watching them, they were watching us.”

At the dinner table, in the courtyard, on the mountain top, even during those few minutes in front of the old lady’s grave when they were performing with the flagpole, two pairs of four stark white eyes, set in the dark silhouettes of the uncle and nephew, stared at them motionlessly. Xiu Ma shut his mouth completely, a chill creeping up from the back of his head. He glanced back; the van’s cargo area looked tidier than usual, nothing out of place.

“Could it be your imagination?” he asked Yu Tianbai. “Half their family’s gone. That’s pitiful enough.”

That was undeniable. Yu Tianbai’s finger tapped the steering wheel, and he let out a breath.

“Maybe. After all, the first night, I dreamed they were dragging me to some shaman dance.”

Xiu Ma pictured it for two seconds and burst out laughing. The tension eased, and he felt less uneasy.

The weather today was surprisingly nice. It had been foggy in the morning, but now the clouds had parted, and sunlight poured down. Seeing a peach blossom paradise wouldn’t have been odd. Spring in the North was too short-lived. Xiu Ma gazed out the window, savoring the rare warmth for a moment, then asked Yu Tianbai, “So, you went out early to fix the car because you thought they were strange?”

“Yeah,” Yu Tianbai said flatly, as if discussing oil prices or the weather. “Didn’t want to stick around and get killed, ground up, and fed to the chickens.”

Fair point. The vermilion lotus ornament in front of the van swayed, silent on the quiet inside.

The passenger turned his face to the window and asked, “Are you sure you weren’t avoiding me?”

Everything from last night flooded back—the dusty smell of the small room, the bulb’s buzzing, the friction of skin, and the faint bitterness on his tongue. Xiu Ma hadn’t smoked, but he knew it was tobacco’s taste—acrid to smell, bitter to lick, never pleasant, yet some were enthralled by it. In a way, it was like the feeling of being around Yu Tianbai. But the one who couldn’t resist tasting was him.

The results weren’t always pretty.

“You said you’d give me a reward,” Xiu Ma said, staring at a cloud outside—a dull cloud. As the van moved, the boring cloud vanished, leaving an even duller sky.

In the van, days ago, that night outside the glass factory, lying in the seats, Yu Tianbai had told him.

Loving someone was boring, loving someone like Yu Tianbai even more so. But he was willing to give Xiu Ma a chance—occasional sweet moments in this indifferent, one-sided long chase. It sounded not only irresponsible but downright childish. Yet Xiu Ma was willing to listen.

“You believe what’s said in bed?” Yu Tianbai said, half-laughing, half-exasperated, straightening the vermilion lotus ornament. It was annoying, swaying back and forth.

“You also said in bed not to kiss anyone else,” Xiu Ma shot back quickly. “Should I not believe that either?”

The conversation stopped dead. Yu Tianbai didn’t respond, the lotus stopped swaying, and the sky was a cold blue, not a wisp of cloud in sight.

What did a seasoned master fear most? Not an unknown Eastern expert or a peerless hermit, but a fearless rookie—unscathed, unyielding, unafraid of pain, and inescapable. Against such a person, using real force felt like admitting defeat early. But holding back meant certain loss.

Yu Tianbai gave up thinking.

Staying silent wasn’t even a stalling tactic. All the Romance of the Three Kingdoms and Sun Tzu’s Art of War he’d listened to in the van were useless now. His mind was clearer than the sky at this moment, spotless.

A blank slate.

Yet in that blankness, he recalled reading Red Sorghum Family as a kid, sneaking it from a forbidden book stash. The shopkeeper harbored feelings for a worker, and after a passionate encounter, pretended indifference, saying to the longing worker—Work hard!

Work hard, Yu Tianbai. Work hard, young master!

If he opened the window now, the spring breeze from the book would surely brush his face, carrying the fragrance of newly planted sorghum. Wit and sharp words eluded Yu Tianbai, but he clearly remembered the story—two lovers lying in the sorghum field, entwined in love, and the protagonist’s low, hoarse “My God” amidst the vibrant crops.

My God.

He glanced at the rearview mirror. The young master wasn’t looking at him. Both stared at the road, neither meeting the other’s eyes, yet both wanting to. If Yu Tianbai weren’t gripping the wheel, he’d close his eyes for a nap, escaping this wordless Heilongjiang land.

To his surprise, in his silent struggle, the young master spoke first.

“I’ve never been like this with anyone else.”

It sounded like a cliché from a soap opera lead, but when it hit him, it stalled his already sluggish thoughts for a few seconds, his right cheek numbing as if brushed by a cold wind.

But Yu Tianbai’s mouth couldn’t produce kind words. He asked, “Should I thank you for that?”

Maybe that was too harsh. The van fell silent. The young master’s eyes closed, probably lulled to sleep by his words. That wouldn’t do—annoying as it was, sleep made it pointless.

Yu Tianbai blinked, his mind forming words to say.

“I’ve liked plenty of people,” he said. “When I was young, around your age.”

Xiu Ma shifted toward the window, curling up. In a spot Yu Tianbai couldn’t see, his eyes cracked open slightly. Yu Tianbai knew he was listening, so he kept talking.

“My school days, my youth, in Beijing—there was never a shortage of people I fancied. I wasn’t as good-looking as you, so liking someone didn’t look as good on me.”

The passenger looked ready to doze, his back suggesting he’d fall asleep any second. But the near-sleeping figure piped up, “I don’t believe you were ever not good-looking.”

Yu Tianbai’s gaze flicked sideways, his tongue brushing a canine. Arrogantly speaking, to someone Xiu Ma’s age, Yu Tianbai seemed effortlessly adept, invincible. But stepping back, from a third-person view, a near-thirty drifter and a fresh twenty-something standout had little in common. The standout was just taking a detour in life’s journey, or maybe sampling something new. Given an out or a chance to look back, he’d bolt without hesitation.

“You’re exceptional. You’ll have far more chances than now,” Yu Tianbai said, thinking it fair. In the rearview mirror, the passenger didn’t turn. “Every story in my life ended with me running—not others leaving me, but me leaving them.”

Xiu Ma finally sat up.

“Even that Sun guy? You left him?”

Yu Tianbai had no idea what this kid had been listening to. He didn’t roll his eyes—driving demanded focus. Road safety mattered.

“He’s not even human, alright? Don’t bring him up,” Yu Tianbai said, suppressing his irritation. Whether from lack of sleep, last night’s events, or last night colliding with now, he felt his calm wouldn’t last long.

But Xiu Ma was calm, eerily so, staring straight at Yu Tianbai, saying word by word, “So in this story, are you still planning to end it by running?”

How do you make Yu Tianbai toss road safety out the window? That sentence did it. He lifted his eyes, and beyond Xiu Ma’s piercing gaze, he saw something far more pressing.

Damn it!

A screeching brake jolted the van forward at a forty-five-degree angle before snapping back. Xiu Ma slammed into the seatback, dazed and shocked. Yu Tianbai flung open the door and jumped out.

It wasn’t the first time for a brake like that.

“You—damn it, don’t you care about your life!”

The young master rarely cursed, but he was furious now, slamming the passenger door and stepping out. He didn’t say more, sensing Yu Tianbai’s expression was off too.

The van stopped in the highway’s emergency lane. No stray cars passed, only a few long-haul trucks roaring by. Yu Tianbai turned to him. “Stand to the side.”

Whenever gentle words came from his mouth, they carried the bite of early winter. Yet, oddly, these seemingly cold words held an inexplicable warmth. No one knew if Yu Tianbai told him to move because he was in the way or because he worried the kid might get swept up by a truck.

Xiu Ma didn’t know either.

Another heavy truck thundered past. Yu Tianbai kept staring. Xiu Ma chose to obey. When he moved to the guardrail, Yu Tianbai leaned into the van, shifting a plaque pressed under a cardboard box.

The lane was backlit, making it hard to see what Yu Tianbai was searching for. The van creaked, the figure moved. Xiu Ma squinted to see better, but Yu Tianbai stepped out, closed the door, walked around the rear, and stopped in front of him.

“The gun’s gone,” he said.

—

In Changlin Village, Old Five sat on the stone steps at the village entrance, his Type 81 rifle propped against the ground. In his other hand, he held a chamois cloth, slowly wiping the rifle’s barrel. The cloth hissed, the barrel gleamed, polished until the stock nearly reflected his face. Only then did he murmur to himself, “You’ve suffered with them.”

He faced the direction out of the village. The Northeast plains stretched endlessly, and from his stone seat, he saw only boundless mountains. But he believed the North he stared at was the path those two had taken.

In this solemn, silent gaze, a rousing red song blared from the valley. Old Five froze, then realized it was his phone’s ringtone. He pulled it from his pocket, a familiar name flashing on the screen.

Factory Manager Sun.

He squinted his cloudy old eyes, silenced the phone, and after a long sigh, muttered to himself, “Sorry.”