Haiqiu watched Shen Yulan with detached curiosity, the syrup in the woman’s voice grating against her ears. The twins, startled by the sudden embrace, pushed weakly against Shen Yulan’s chest, their small faces still smeared with bun crumbs. Haiqiu’s gaze flickered to the spot where Chixue’s spectral form usually hovered. The air shimmered with an unseen tension, a cold prickle on her skin. She had learned enough from her brief time in this harsh world to recognize a predator, even one cloaked in benevolence.
“Shen Yulan, your concern is noted,” Haiqiu said, her voice level, a thin blade beneath the polite phrasing. “The little ones are fine. And I manage my own affairs.” She moved forward, gently separating the twins from Shen Yulan’s tight grip. Shen Yulan's arms lingered, slow to loosen. A flare of resentment crossed her pupils before smoothing away behind furrowed brows.
“Oh, Haiqiu, you always were so fiercely independent,” Shen Yulan sighed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing a painful secret. “But sometimes, even the strongest among us need help. Especially when… when things are so difficult for you.” She glanced pointedly at the broken door frame, then at the meager furnishings of the cabin, a subtle gesture that implied pity tinged with judgment. Haiqiu simply met her gaze, a silent challenge.
“Perhaps you should look after the students waiting down at the schoolhouse instead,” Haiqiu suggested, her tone flat. The implicit accusation hung in the air: *You’re neglecting your duties.* Shen Yulan flinched, her carefully constructed facade wavering. With a forced smile, she stammered a quick farewell, then hurried out into the fading light, leaving behind a lingering scent of cheap jasmine soap and a silence that felt heavier than before.
Haiqiu pulled the wooden door shut, the splintered frame offering little resistance. She needed to fix that. But first, the space. She pressed the jade pendant, the familiar dizzying lurch engulfing her. The frigid air of the cabin melted into the temperate warmth of her personal oasis.
Chixue, the crimson hare, materialized beside her, its spectral fur rippling with residual agitation. “That woman,” it hissed, its voice like dry leaves skittering across stone. “Her intentions are poison. Pure, undiluted malice.”
Haiqiu nodded, a familiar tightness in her chest. “I sensed it. She plays a different game than the Jiang family, but the stakes are the same. My destruction.” She walked past the thriving fields of grain and vegetables, a stark contrast to the famine outside. Her destination was the time-dilated library, its ancient wooden doors beckoning.
Inside, the air was still, thick with the scent of aged paper and forgotten knowledge. Rows upon rows of scrolls, tomes, and curious holographic projections filled the shelves. She ran her fingers over a smooth, cool surface, a display flickered to life, showing a complex schematic for a 'Turbine-Driven Hydro-Pump, Model 78-B'. It was a design from the late 21st century, engineered for maximum efficiency in arid regions, capable of drawing water from deep aquifers with minimal fuel. Perfect for the Wushan Production Brigade, especially with the looming drought. A quiet satisfaction settled in her as she mentally cataloged the required components and construction methods. The library was a bottomless well of solutions, and she intended to drain it dry.
***
Song Zewen adjusted the cuff of his linen jacket, the unfamiliar chill of the Wushan winter biting through the fabric. He stood before the commune’s ramshackle schoolhouse, a single-room building with a cracked mud wall and a roof patched with straw. The black sedan, a sleek anomaly in this desolate landscape, idled quietly a short distance away. He carried a small crate of imported pencils, notebooks, and dried milk powder – practical donations, unlike the grand gestures of other benefactors.
Shen Yulan met him at the door, her smile wide and welcoming, but her eyes held a spark of something calculating. “Mr. Song! It’s an honor to have you visit our humble school.” She led him inside, where a dozen wide-eyed pupils sat on rough wooden benches, rustling paper and whispering under their breath.
After a brief, polite exchange and the distribution of the supplies, Zewen steered the conversation. “Instructor Shen, I’m searching for any information regarding the Song ancestry in this area. My grandfather, Song Lixin, spoke of his early years near a place called ‘Crimson Peak.’ Does that name ring any bells?”
Shen Yulan’s smile softened, her gaze dropping. “Crimson Peak… it’s a local legend, a mountain range to the east. Few live there now. But the Song family… yes, I’ve heard whispers.” She paused, then, as if making a difficult decision, her voice dropped to a troubled murmur. “There’s a woman… Lin Haiqiu. Her late husband, Chen Dawei, was distantly related to a branch of the old Song clan. But… please, Mr. Song, you must be careful.”
Zewen raised an eyebrow. “Careful?”
Her eyes welled up, though no tears fell. “Haiqiu… she’s had a hard life. The famine, Dawei’s passing. It’s driven her to… extremes. She hoards food, hides grain from her in-laws, even from the brigade. They say she’s unstable, that she even neglects her twins, locking them inside while keeping rations to herself.” Shen Yulan wrung her hands, a picture of distressed virtue. “It pains me to say it, but the rumors… they are quite persistent. She’s a dangerous woman, Mr. Song. A danger to herself, and to those around her.”
Zewen studied her face, unpersuaded. The woman he’d seen earlier, snapping Jiang Weidong’s arm with brutal efficiency, her eyes cold and clear as mountain ice… that didn’t fit the image of a mentally unstable, starving mother. But the urgency in Shen Yulan’s voice, the almost-tears, painted a convincing picture. He thanked her, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting impressions, and left the schoolhouse. He had to see this Haiqiu for himself.
He found Lin Haiqiu’s cabin easily enough, guided by the still-broken door frame. She was outside, wrestling with a fallen tree branch, her movements precise and powerful as she maneuvered it with a lever. She looked up as his sedan approached, her eyes narrowing with a flash of suspicion. No fear. Just a stark, unyielding wariness.
“Lin Haiqiu,” Zewen began, stepping out of the car, his voice smooth and calm. “My name is Song Zewen. I understand we have a distant family connection, through your late husband.”
Haiqiu straightened, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek. “I’m aware of no such connection. What do you want?” Her voice was clipped, devoid of warmth.
“I’ve recently returned from overseas, seeking to reconnect with my roots, and perhaps invest in the region,” he explained. “I’ve heard… rumors of hardship. The famine. Your twins. I’m prepared to offer capital and provisions to see your household through these lean months.” He gestured vaguely at the struggling commune.
Haiqiu’s lips thinned. Her eyes, usually so sharp, seemed to glaze over with a cold, distant calculation. “Financial assistance?” She scoffed, a short, bitter sound. “Relying on others, Mr. Song, is a luxury I cannot afford. In this world, every kindness comes with a price, every helping hand expects its pound of flesh. The moment you depend on someone else, you give them the power to let you starve.” Her gaze flickered to the fields beyond her cabin, then back to him, as if measuring his sincerity against a lifetime of betrayal. “I’ve learned that lesson, painfully. Trusting others only leads to death. My children will not suffer that fate because of a momentary weakness, or a stranger’s fleeting generosity.”
A tense silence stretched between them, rigid and unbroken. Zewen found himself momentarily speechless, taken aback by the sheer force of her refusal, the raw, brutal pragmatism behind her words. This was no unstable madwoman; this was a fortress built of self-preservation, impenetrable and cold.
Later that evening, after the twins were asleep, their breaths soft and even, Haiqiu began to sort through Dawei’s meager belongings. Most were threadbare clothes, worn tools, and a few faded photographs. She picked up his worn winter coat, the fabric stiff with age and dried mud. As she dusted it off, her fingers brushed against a cleverly stitched seam in the lining, almost imperceptible. Curious, she pulled at it, revealing a small, hidden compartment. Inside, folded neatly, was an unsent letter, addressed directly to Song Zewen.