Yu Sha studied him for a moment and decided not to get involved. He turned and started to shut the door.

But before the door could close, the man strode over and braced one hand against the frame, blocking it. Looking down from above, he said coldly:

“Inn.”

The word was formal, but his tone was curt and cool.

Yu Sha looked up. The man’s face was too dirty to make out, but he was tall—half a head taller than Yu Sha, who wasn’t short himself. From where he stood, Yu could only see the man’s chin.

“We’re not taking guests today,” Yu Sha said flatly. “Try somewhere else.” He had already made up his mind to turn the man away. This tiny inn only had him and Xun Er left. They couldn’t afford to deal with these jianghu types.

The stranger seemed taken aback, stunned by the rejection. His grip slackened.

Yu Sha, thinking he’d made himself clear, pushed the door. But just as it began to close, the man abruptly snapped out of it, his hand tightening. The door stopped in place.

Now that was unexpected.

Yu Sha raised an eyebrow. Was this guy seriously thinking of forcing his way in?

His voice grew sharper. “Sir? Would you mind letting go?”

The man pressed his lips together, then after a moment replied,

“…I don’t know the roads here. I’ve wandered since last night—everywhere was brothels and gambling dens. Yours is the only inn I found with its doors open.”

That one sentence softened his earlier chill. He sounded… almost uneasy.

He looked down at his own clothes, then back at Yu Sha, seeming to guess that his filth might be the reason. He added,

“I don’t have to come in. I just need a few steamed buns.”

That caught Yu Sha off guard.

As his sister Xun Er would say—Yu Sha was the kind of person who couldn’t be moved by force but always gave in to softness. If the man had tried to barge in, Yu Sha might’ve slammed the door on his face. But now, faced with quiet concession, he didn’t know how to turn him away.

He glanced at the rising sun. The streets were still mostly empty. This was Pingchun Ward, a place crawling with all sorts—gamblers, drinkers, brothel-goers. If this man kept wandering around looking like that, he’d probably get robbed before long.

Helping him out was as good as earning a little karma.

As Xun Er liked to say, Yu Sha was the kind of man who bowed to softness but stood firm against force. If this muddy stranger had tried to force his way in, Yu Sha would’ve slammed the door in his face without a second thought. But after just a few words, the man had yielded—and now Yu Sha found it hard to refuse him.

He glanced up at the sky. It was still early. Most of the neighborhood was still asleep. This was Pingchun Ward—where all walks of life mingled. The streets were filled with gamblers, drinkers, and brothels. If this man kept wandering around like that, looking half-dead, it wouldn’t be long before some snake tricked him into a bad corner.

Helping him now could count as a small good deed.

With that thought, Yu Sha stepped aside and opened the door wider. “In that case, come in, sir. The guest rooms are upstairs. We’re just a small inn—can’t afford hired hands, so you’ll need to see to your own cleaning. Where do you want your food? The hall or your room?”

The man hadn’t expected Yu Sha to change his attitude so suddenly. He looked puzzled, but pleasantly surprised. He gave a slight nod and thanked him. “The hall is fine.”

Yu Sha led him to the counter, where he registered guests and handed out keys. The ledger hadn’t been used in ages—pages warped with moisture, ink blots bleeding through. When the man finished signing, the name was nearly unreadable.

Yu Sha squinted at the writing. After a moment, he made it out: Guan Lan. The name was elegant, almost delicate—hardly what one expected from a mud-caked man like this.

He cleaned off a table for Guan Lan, pointed out a corner in the kitchen where he could wash, then brought over a pot of leftover cold tea from the night before.

“The stove isn’t lit yet. The steamed buns will take a little while—hope you don’t mind the wait,” Yu Sha said, not especially worried about offending him.

Guan Lan didn’t seem the picky type. He took off his hat, rinsed his hands quickly, and sat down at the table.

In the short time that passed, rain began to fall again outside.

Yu Sha heard it and glanced out. He frowned. “Only two days of sun, and it’s raining again.”

Guan Lan looked toward the growing rain as well. “It’s been falling since Grain Rain,” he said.

Yu Sha gave him a sidelong glance. “You’ve got a sharp memory, sir.”

Guan Lan didn’t answer. He picked up his tea and drank quietly.

Sensing he didn’t want to talk, Yu Sha let it be and went to the kitchen to light the stove and steam the buns.

Only one door of the inn was open. The sky outside had turned pale, the view limited to the buildings across the street. But beyond them, if one looked carefully, one could just make out Jinting Mountain rising behind Jin Zhan Pavilion.

Guan Lan sat there, gazing out into that small slice of the world. Slowly, the cold that had been sealed in his body by inner force began to seep out.

He’d only learned of Yu Shaomiao’s death a few days ago.

One month prior, around the time of Grain Rain, he had reached the area near Yangzipo. Most of his funds were gone. Several roads had collapsed under floodwaters, so he hadn’t rushed toward Lijiang. Instead, he stayed behind to help a local family drive out wild boars from their farmland. Almost a month passed. Then a carrier hawk from the Guan family arrived.

Tied to its leg was a note, sealed in red wax. When Guan Lan opened it, there were only five words:

Yu Shaomiao is dead.

Since reading that, it had felt as if a fire had been lit inside his chest. It burned through him, giving him no rest, pushing him faster and faster toward Lijiang.

Now he was finally here—but everything felt distant, like a half-remembered dream. He no longer knew what he’d come to do.

Yu Sha brought out the steamed buns, the rising heat dispelling some of the rain’s chill.

Guan Lan turned his head and stared blankly at the buns. Seeing his slow reaction, Yu Sha frowned and asked,

“Sir? Won’t you eat them while they’re hot?”

“You…” Guan Lan opened his mouth, hesitating, then said,

“I heard Yu Shaomiao of Jin Zhan Pavilion is dead. Is it true?”

Yu Sha’s heart gave a sudden jolt. He looked at Guan Lan’s face—still fixed on the buns.

So this man was here for Yu Shaomiao’s funeral.

Realizing his purpose, Yu Sha relaxed a little. “Seems to be true. Jin Zhan Pavilion issued an obituary a month ago. Everyone in town knows.”

Guan Lan frowned. “But just because there’s an obituary… doesn’t mean he’s really dead.”

“…Right.” Yu Sha blinked, then chuckled at the man’s stubbornness. “Maybe he’s still alive somewhere.”

He said it carelessly, but Guan Lan didn’t seem to mind. He reached for a bun, tore it in half, and went back to staring.

He had already removed his hat, though his face was still too dirty to see clearly. Yet the atmosphere around him had changed. His eyes—beautifully shaped, deep and dark—were fixed on the halved bun with a quiet, heavy sorrow.

What had started as a simple act of kindness was now laced with curiosity. Who was this man? What was his connection to Yu Shaomiao? His grief didn’t seem faked, but his origins were a mystery.

“Did you know Yu Shaomiao?” Yu Sha asked.

The question seemed to pull Guan Lan from his daze. He looked at Yu Sha, then lowered his eyes again, silent for a moment before lifting his gaze back toward the mountains behind Jin Zhan Pavilion.

There was a stillness to him now—not showy, but solemn. Subtle, but somehow difficult to face.

After a long pause, Guan Lan finally said,

“He once showed me kindness.”

And as if waking from a spell, he took a bite of the bun—slow, almost mechanical.

He hadn’t eaten in days, and had been pushing himself with lightness skills through the rain and darkness. His body was already running on fumes.

Even now, utterly exhausted, his mind was trying to stay sharp—still calculating what came next.

If Yu Shaomiao was alive, he had to find him. If he was truly dead, he had to know why. He couldn’t just… disappear.

As these thoughts swirled in his mind, his head grew heavier. Then came a sudden thud—Yu Sha turned at the noise and saw Guan Lan slumped over the table.

He panicked. For a moment, he feared he’d served the wrong buns—poisoned ones meant for rats.

Rushing over, he felt for breath. Thank heavens—Guan Lan was still breathing.

Relieved, Yu Sha checked him more carefully. He was simply asleep, his breathing deep and steady.

Yu Sha looked at him… and looked again.

This man hadn’t paid yet.

Yu Sha sighed. What a headache. Falling asleep while eating—he must’ve truly pushed himself beyond his limits. No wonder he looked like he’d crawled straight out of the mud. He’d probably traveled nonstop through rain and storm, and now, at last, his body had given out.

Yu Sha exhaled again, resigned. He stepped forward, lifted the man partway up, and slung him across his shoulders.

Guan Lan was tall—and heavy. Yu Sha looked at the stairs to the second floor, paused, and turned toward the back courtyard instead.

The man’s breath warmed the side of Yu Sha’s neck, soft and ticklish.

Seeing him in such a worn-out state, Yu Sha couldn’t even bring himself to care about the mud staining his clothes. He moved carefully, carrying him toward the back, muttering under his breath:

“Damn Jin Zhan Pavilion… Even dead, your damn Master still knows how to make people suffer.”