Chapter 1: My name is Cheng Ye
February. The weather was still cold.
Inside the small clinic, the doctor had just seen off his last patient. Rubbing his stiff hands together, he pulled his coat tighter and sat down by the stove, ready to have dinner.
The sun hadn’t shown itself in days. Mist and drizzle blanketed the remote mountain village. It wasn’t even six o’clock yet, but the sky was already dark.
The doctor had just picked up his chopsticks, about to take a bite, when the creaking of the old clinic door sounded. A long shadow was cast diagonally inside by the faint light at the doorway.
Cold wind swept in, along with a boy’s slightly cool voice: “Hello. I need some medicine.”
The doctor set down his chopsticks and turned his head.
A tall, thin teenager stood at the entrance. His posture was straight and upright, a bulky black down jacket draped over his frame. His somewhat sharp chin was tucked into the collar, and his delicate features were framed by a pair of indifferent eyes.
The impact of that face was strong enough to make the doctor pause in surprise. It took him a few seconds to react before he got up from the stove and spoke in halting Mandarin:
“What medicine do you need?”
Jiang Shi stepped inside, sweeping his gaze over the shabby interior of the clinic. His eyes landed on a cluttered chair to the side, and his fine brows knit together ever so slightly. For a moment, he considered turning around and leaving, but this was the only clinic in the area. So he stayed put.
Right in front of the doctor, he lifted his sleeve, revealing an arm covered in dense red rashes. His words were concise: “An allergic reaction. Do you have anything for it?”
His hands were beautiful—slender, pale fingers, elegant enough to look like a piece of art under the lamplight. Which only made the angry red rashes on his arm all the more jarring.
The doctor couldn’t help but stare a moment longer before asking, “Looks pretty serious. How did this happen?”
The chill in the air made Jiang Shi drop his sleeve again and shove his hands into his pockets. He’d forgotten to close the door when he came in, and the cold wind blew straight through him, so much so that half his face sank into the collar of his jacket. When he spoke, his voice was muffled, carrying a careless undertone.
“I don’t know. I just woke up like this. Do you have the medicine or not?”
‘Tch. So the temper wasn’t great either.’
But then the doctor looked at that face again—and somehow, he could understand it.
He turned toward the counter to rummage through the shelves, muttering as he searched,
“Medicine can only ease the symptoms. Best if you figure out what’s triggering the allergy and avoid it altogether.”
Whether Jiang Shi was actually listening or not was unclear. His gaze followed the doctor as the man flipped through boxes, tore off sheets of paper, twisted open jars and bottles, and began mixing medicine by hand.
The doctor wrapped the powder into small packets, folded them neatly, and slipped them into a paper bag before handing it over.
“Here, that’s one day’s worth. Take it first. If it doesn’t get better, you’d better head to a proper hospital.”
Jiang Shi accepted the bag, suppressing the itch crawling up his arm. He pulled out one of the packets. On it, written crookedly in pencil, were the words: 1+1=3.
Jiang Shi: “…”
He looked up at the doctor. “This stuff isn’t going to kill me, right?”
The doctor glared. “What nonsense! You think I’d hand out poison? You little brat—don’t spout rubbish when you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
‘Fine, whatever.’
Jiang Shi paid, tucked the bag under his arm, and walked out of the clinic.
By now, the sky was completely dark. Light rain drifted down. With no streetlights, the narrow road was swallowed in shadows. Most homes had long since shut their doors for the night, and only the occasional shop still cast a dim glow into the street.
The wind cut sharp and cold. Jiang Shi stood there for a moment, surveying this unfamiliar place, the corner of his lips quirking in a humorless smile.
Who would have thought that just a few days ago, he had still been a pampered young master? And now, in the blink of an eye, his identity had flipped, and here he was—breaking out in hives, trudging half an hour down a mountain road just to buy medicine.
It was ridiculous when he thought about it. Just days ago, his name hadn’t even been Jiang Shi. He’d been Song, a young master who’d lived more than a decade without the slightest obstacle. Until one day, he was suddenly told—he wasn’t his parents’ biological child.
His real mother was a middle-aged woman from some remote mountain village.
And just like that, before he even had time to process it, the parents on both sides had completed the exchange. Following his biological mother through several transfers, Jiang Shi ended up in Xiliu Village.
Counting the days, it had only been three.
…
Rain-laden wind whipped against his face, snapping him back to his senses. He shoved the medicine into his pocket and left the clinic.
Up ahead was a noodle shop, its signboard painted with four large characters: Come Back for More Noodles. Jiang Shi stood there for a few seconds, then lifted the wind-blocking curtain and stepped inside.
The place was empty, save for the boss sitting in the kitchen watching TV.
Hearing the noise, the man didn’t even lift his head, just asked in the local dialect, “What’ll it be?”
Jiang Shi lifted his chin from his collar, his voice lazy and languid.
“A bowl of noodles. No chili, no cilantro, no scallions, no garlic, and no ginger…”
After a pause, he added, “And no fatty meat. I don’t like it.”
The boss: “…”
Glancing over at the seating area, he saw the boy who’d just spoken awkwardly pulling out two napkins. With his pale, delicate fingertips, he began slowly wiping down the table.
His movements were clumsy, like someone who rarely did this sort of thing. After fussing with it for a long while—clean or not, who knew—he finally seemed satisfied, tossed the napkin aside, and sat down.
On the TV, Princess Pearl was playing. The boss buried his head in the kitchen, blanching the noodles.
With Jiang Shi rejecting this and that, the bowl of noodles was served up in no time.
The locals here favored bold flavors; the soul of the dish was always the chili. Without it, the noodles lost their essence. White strands sank in a thin, clear broth—plain and watery at first glance.
Jiang Shi stirred the noodles with his chopsticks, tried a bite, and immediately frowned.
Terrible.
Unwilling to admit defeat, he tried another mouthful.
And his face fell completely.
By then, Princess Pearl had ended on TV, replaced by an old man pretending to be the heir of some ancient Chinese medicine family, hawking health supplements.
Amidst the noisy chatter of the TV host, the curtain at the back of the shop suddenly rustled open. A rush of cold wind swept in, followed by a low, steady voice:
“Boss, got any cilantro?”
Jiang Shi was just bracing himself for a third bite.
The boss poked his head out of the kitchen, spotted the newcomer, and grinned.
“Oh, it’s you. Same as always—three jiao a jin.”
A figure carrying the sharp scent of cilantro brushed past Jiang Shi’s side.
They were speaking in the local dialect, of which Jiang Shi could only pick out a few words. Curiosity piqued, he glanced toward the kitchen.
From his angle, all he could see was a tall, broad-shouldered back.
The man was so tall he nearly blocked out the light from the kitchen just by standing there. On such a cold night, he wore only a thin jacket—one that was a little too short, exposing a length of wrist. In his hand, he carried a large basket brimming with fresh cilantro.
The pungent aroma thickened, and Jiang Shi instantly lost the last of his appetite.
He zipped his jacket up to his chin, decision made—time to leave.
Seeing him stand, the boss called out from the stall, “Leaving already, guest? Done so soon?”
Jiang Shi’s eyes drooped, not even sparing the man a glance. “Disgusting. Can’t eat another bite.”
The boss: “…”
“Hey! I—”
But his words were met only with the sight of Jiang Shi’s slim figure disappearing into the cold wind. On the table, the untouched noodles still let off thin wisps of steam.
Cheng Ye tilted his head slightly, catching just a glimpse of that retreating silhouette before it vanished into the night.
The boss cursed under his breath. “Picky brat. Didn’t want this, didn’t want that, and then blames my noodles for tasting bad. Whose kid even is that?”
Cheng Ye said nothing. He hooked the basket onto the scale, lifted it with ease, and showed the reading to the boss. “Minus the weight of the basket, eighteen jin in total.”
The boss handed him the money. His gaze lingered on the boy’s bare, purpled hands and feet, and he couldn’t help sighing inwardly.
He said, “That fellow just now—clearly not from around here. Paid three yuan for a bowl, and walked out after barely two bites. The noodles are still full. If you don’t mind, take it and eat.”
Cheng Ye’s eyes were pitch black, half-hidden beneath the strands of his too-long hair. When the boss spoke, he glanced over, and in the lamplight his gaze gleamed faintly—like that of a wolf.
A second later, the gleam vanished.
He took the money, hefted the basket, his exposed hands and feet so frozen they were almost numb.
“Thanks,” he said simply.
Then, without the slightest hesitation, he sat down in the very spot Jiang Shi had just vacated and began silently devouring the bowl of noodles that Jiang Shi had found utterly inedible.
—
Jiang Shi was starting to suspect he’d taken the wrong road.
The sliding phone in his hand was nearly out of battery. Maybe it was just his imagination, but even the glow of the flashlight seemed to be dimming.
He held the phone up against the biting wind. Ahead stretched nothing but darkness, three forked paths winding off into the distance.
Had he come by the middle road earlier—or the one on the right?
No one could answer him. On this pitch-black country path, it wasn’t certain there’d be people… but ghosts were another story.
Bracing himself, Jiang Shi chose the middle road.
After five minutes of walking, he hadn’t seen a single soul—hadn’t even caught a glimmer of light. Instead, the only thing that came was the faint rustling from the forest beside the road.
Every hair on his body stood on end. He swung the beam of his phone toward the trees, raising his voice in a poor attempt at bravado.
“Who’s there?”
For two seconds, the woods went dead silent.
Then the rustling came again—louder this time—accompanied by heavy, guttural breathing.
Jiang Shi: “…”
And then he bolted.
Dear heavens above—if he made it out alive, he swore he would never go out at night again!
The grating breaths drew closer, faster and faster. Jiang Shi’s own sprint grew wilder, until—
BAM! He crashed headlong into something solid, his body pitching sideways, completely out of control.
Just as he was about to topple headfirst into the dirt, a strong hand seized his arm, yanking him back onto steady ground.
Jiang Shi hadn’t fallen, but he distinctly heard a sharp crack—followed by a searing pain in his ankle.
“…”
See? He knew it. Xiliu Village was cursed against him!
The pain was so intense his vision went black, and he had no idea when someone had helped him onto a stone at the side of the road.
A few seconds later, a flashlight—far brighter than his dying phone—lit up his face. A deep voice rumbled beside his ear.
“You okay?”
Only then did Jiang Shi realize he’d crashed into a person. A tall one. His face had smacked straight into the other’s solid chest, leaving not only his ankle throbbing, but his nose sore too.
He slapped at the hand holding the flashlight.
“Seriously, are you sick or something? Jumping out in the middle of the night to scare people!”
The beam shook but steadied again, still aimed squarely at him.
Cheng Ye said nothing. His gaze—dark, wolf-like, gleaming faintly green in the light—remained locked on Jiang Shi’s face. His breathing was so soft it was almost inaudible.
He didn’t speak, and Jiang Shi squinted against the glare of the flashlight, trying to make out the person in front of him.
The man’s face was half-swallowed by shadow, but his silhouette was sharp and striking. Even crouched down, he loomed like a mountain, solid and unyielding, enclosing Jiang Shi completely in his presence.
Jiang Shi could feel the man staring, and irritation prickled.
“Hey! I’m talking to you. What are you, mute?”
When the beautiful boy glared, his features grew even more vivid, brows and eyes springing to life like strokes of ink from a Jiangnan painting. Sitting there on the pitch-black mountain path, he looked like some spirit who had slipped out under the moonlight to drain people’s energy.
Cheng Ye’s grip on the flashlight tightened. His gaze scraped slowly across Jiang Shi’s face before he finally forced two words out of his throat.
“…Sorry.”
Opening his mouth only to apologize left Jiang Shi speechless.
The light glaring into his eyes was unbearable. He snatched the flashlight straight out of Cheng Ye’s hand and swung it around—aiming the beam at the other’s face instead.
“Who are you?”
Cheng Ye lifted his head, brushing aside the strands of hair that had fallen over his eyes. An unexpectedly handsome face came into view, his pitch-black gaze meeting Jiang Shi’s directly.
His eyes were the deepest shade of black, yet when caught in the light, they glimmered faintly green—just enough to resemble a wolf at first glance.
But in front of Jiang Shi, Cheng Ye’s straight-backed posture sank lower. So that Jiang Shi could see his face more clearly, he bent one knee and knelt down in the muddy road—like a wolfhound tamed at its master’s feet.
Still, his gaze never left Jiang Shi’s face.
“Cheng Ye,” he said slowly.
“My name is Cheng Ye.”