Chapter Five: Smiles Shared Beneath the Window

About eighty miles from the newly established Egret Grass Post of the Tang Dynasty lies a narrow gorge known as Bone-Chilling Ravine.

The fierce cold winds from the northern plateau funnel into this narrowing terrain, roaring like a wild tiger in flight. During blizzards, the snowflakes don’t drift gently here; instead, they fall as if hammered down, striking clothing with a sharp puffing sound.

Midway through the gorge, the mountains on either side rise and fall unevenly. In the darkness, flickering fires glimmer on several gentle slopes. Approaching from the southern entrance and heading north, these flames appear and vanish intermittently.

In the rainy summer months, mushrooms sprout from the cypress trees here, but most are highly poisonous—many have died from accidental ingestion.

Travelers gradually came to call these cypress trees “Deadman’s Cypresses,” associating them with ill omens and avoiding them whenever possible.

Yet, despite their ominous reputation, many caravans found the place impossible to forsake.

Here, firewood for warmth and cooking is abundant. Within a two-hundred-mile radius, this is the only place where suitable timber can be found to repair carts and camel caravans.

Medicinal herbs for treating venomous insect bites grow only here as well.

Natural caves form along the fractured mountain edges caused by landslides. With guards stationed there, goods can be transferred and haystock stored for the caravans.

Caught between superstition and utility, those who sought sustenance along this route chose practicality.

Fugitives from the northwest fleeing turmoil, survivors of northern tribal conflicts, Persian believers, and criminals from the Tang Empire—all manner of people passed through, forcibly transforming this place into a vital supply point on the trade route between the Tang and northern kingdoms.

On Tang maps, this place was marked as Dark Cypress Slope.

Night had just fallen when a group of seven or eight, stumbling through the snow with uneven steps, arrived at Dark Cypress Slope, guided by flickering fires.

They were badly chilled. Though the peculiar terrain of Dark Cypress Slope seemed to swallow much of the raging wind between the mountain walls and tangled cypresses, they still shivered uncontrollably whenever they paused.

“Oil tea! Oil tea!” two of them shouted hysterically toward a large rounded tent.

These two appeared far from benign; as they shivered, the flesh beneath their skin seemed to writhe with a living energy, accompanied by a faint surging of inner vitality.

“Quiet! Don’t you know the rules?”

“Fifteen Brother is staying at the Spring Breeze House tonight. If you want to die, don’t drag us down with you!”

Hearing the low, angry reprimands around them, the two, momentarily losing their wits to the cold, snapped back to reality, shrinking into the tent ahead and silently squatting by the fire pit.

There were just over forty places in Dark Cypress Slope suitable for lodging or storage, and only about half had fires burning for warmth. Each shelter or caravan warehouse was built in its own way, using local materials with no two alike.

Only two places offered food to outsiders: the rounded tents nearest the path’s entrance, and a better, more renowned spot called the Spring Breeze House.

Amid the wild blizzard, the Spring Breeze House seemed especially fierce.

Its core was the thickest cypress in Dark Cypress Slope, split in two by lightning and hollowed out by fire.

The earliest occupants propped this timber up like a stilted building with a dozen uneven logs, filled the gaps with stones, and covered the top with animal hides. This freehand construction made it a precarious monstrosity from the start.

Built on such a fragile foundation, later occupants patched it haphazardly—covering leaks with bark or cowhide, plugging drafts with stones, mud, and stray grass, and adding more wooden braces when the wind made it sway.

Decades later, this patchwork structure had grown defiant and unruly, yet remained the most solid, warm refuge on Dark Cypress Slope.

Perched on a high ledge, when the storm raged, all windows but two were boarded up, allowing only a faint glow to escape.

Though the two men finally received their steaming oil tea, their bodies still trembled involuntarily each time they glimpsed the Spring Breeze House’s silhouette through the tent seams.

They felt as though the building was a colossal demon, its two windows the ever-watchful eyes glaring at them in the night.

Gu Liubai sat beside one of those windows, in front of a fire pit.

The strange building was spacious, containing three fire pits in total, which made it quite warm—but with limited ventilation, smoke stung the eyes everywhere except where Gu Liubai sat.

At the other two fire pits, five or six people gathered, but only two others shared the fire with Gu Liubai.

Besides a woman in white, there was a short, stout middle-aged man.

His face was round and pale, hardly that of a traveler after a long journey.

Most of the time, he wore a smile, unaffected even when the woman in white spoke softly about the Turkic people.

Yet his gaze, when resting on Gu Liubai and the others, carried a hint of malice.

Especially when he grew quiet and reflective, his eyes darkened deeply.

Gu Liubai always feared that if he turned his back, this man might seize the chance to stab him.

In Gu Liubai’s eyes, this man was a living embodiment of a smiling tiger.

The smiling tiger wore a black cotton robe. Neatly folded on the straw mat beside him lay a black cloak and a black felt hat.

Both the cloak and robe were impeccably clean, as if recently changed—an odd contrast to the surrounding squalor.

In fact, after the smiling tiger arrived at Dark Cypress Slope, Gu Liubai took him and the white-clad woman on a brief tour. Before settling by the fire, the man meticulously wiped every speck of dirt from his clothes with a cloth, even polishing his boots and the straw mat he sat on.

He was a smiling tiger with a cleanliness obsession.

Without introducing himself, the smiling tiger casually chatted with Gu Liubai.

“Fifteen Brother, this Spring Breeze House must have cost many lives in this damned place, huh?”

“More or less,” Gu Liubai smiled in kind. “About a dozen. And in recent years, no one’s cared much for this place anymore.”

“Turned into a cursed building under your hand—impressive, Fifteen Brother. Without you, I wouldn’t have guessed Dark Cypress Slope had such a haven.” The smiling tiger laughed uneasily. “But tell me, who exactly is the noble at Egret Grass Post? Have you found out?”

Gu Liubai laughed heartily. “No clue, but I’m certain they’re no friends of the border troops. None of their people use the border forces.”

“The ragged lot shouting below may look shabby, but their skills aren’t low. I doubt any of our border troops in single combat could beat them.” The smiling tiger took a sip of Gu Liubai’s oil tea and grimaced at its strong fishy and bitter salty taste, laughing with a grimace. “What kind of people are these?”

Gu Liubai admired the smiling tiger’s endurance.

That tea had been heavily salted on purpose, yet the man still smiled through the bad taste.

Rubbing his sore cheeks, Gu Liubai explained, “They’re all Qiang tribesmen, hauling furs for the Arabs along this route. When there’s no work from the Arabs, they act as guides and escorts.”

“You know so much, Fifteen Brother?” The smiling tiger hesitated, setting down his cup.

“They often rest at Dark Cypress Slope; it’s no surprise I know.” Gu Liubai smiled humbly.

“I’ve heard these Qiang are ruthless, with many lives in their hands,” the smiling tiger said, eyeing Gu Liubai. “No wonder they swagger around demanding oil tea.”

“Yes, they’re quite arrogant.” Gu Liubai smiled more sincerely this time.

At that moment, someone pushed open the door, letting in fresh cold air that made him shrink his neck.

A tall man in his twenties or thirties entered, wearing a narrow-sleeved sheepskin coat with a large collar, a waist belt, trousers, and leather boots.

His face was unremarkable, save for scars on his cheeks and neck—like claw marks from beasts—and he was missing his right arm, the sleeve tied into his belt.

“Fifteen Brother.”

Ignoring the others by the other fire pits, he approached Gu Liubai, bent down to whisper a few words in his ear, then placed two bulging money pouches and a handful of copper coins beside Gu Liubai’s tea bowl.

He poured himself a bowl of oil tea, drank it in two gulps, and turned to leave.

The smiling tiger, incredulous, took another sip of the tea and grimaced again. Smiling with bared teeth, he stared at the money pouches and coins. “What’s this? Why not keep the money together?”

“The two pouches are debts from someone who passed by last time,” Gu Liubai stifled a laugh. “These copper coins are a gift from the Qiang.”

The smiling tiger was taken aback. “Why gift you?”

Gu Liubai thought for a moment. “Maybe because I’m always smiling at them?”