Beneath the delicate shimmer of starlight, the young boy tread softly beyond the town's edge, making his way toward the brook. Though cloaked in night, Chen Ping'an's pace did not falter—he ran no slower than he would in broad daylight. He deliberately avoided the corridor bridge, where the water was deepest, instead choosing a stretch of the stream where the water barely reached his knees. There, he removed the large bamboo basket from his back, bent down to retrieve a smaller basket nestled inside, fastened it securely to his waist, slipped off his straw sandals, rolled up his trouser legs, and stepped into the cold current to begin his search for stones.
The wound on his left hand, cut by shards of porcelain, still throbbed with pain, rendering it unfit for immersion. Thus, the boy relied solely on his right hand to rummage through the stream. The stones were easier to collect from dry riverbeds, but as Liu Xianyang once remarked, those would lose their color rapidly. Now, having gleaned some rudimentary insight from the girl in black, Chen Ping'an understood a deeper truth—it was not difficult to grasp. These stones reminded him of his earlier years, roaming the mountains with Old Yao, tasting the soil from every hilltop they crossed. The earth, though appearing ordinary, offered wildly different flavors depending on the mountain—sometimes even a single ridge made all the difference. As Old Yao once said: "Trees die when moved, men thrive; earth, once shifted, becomes divine." Soil held in one's hand, once separated from its origin, swiftly lost its essence.
The stream had no name. Its stones—ranging from the size of fists to the tip of a thumb—lay in hues of vibrant color beneath the crystalline water. To the town's folk, who had grown accustomed to their quiet presence over generations, they were nothing remarkable. Anyone who brought them home would be considered a fool with too much time and not enough labor; better to plow a field than gather rocks.
Bending low in the shallows, Chen Ping'an steadily turned over the larger stones at the bottom of the brook, collecting seven or eight pebbles of various sizes and colors. One glowed golden-orange like ripe autumn citrus, another was pale and delicate as an infant's skin. There was one as black as ink, polished and gleaming; one burned bright red like peach blossoms in spring. Most common was a dusky green, reminiscent of a shrimp's back. These so-called "snake-gall stones," named by country folk, were generally small, smooth, and weighty in the palm. By day, held aloft beneath the sun, or by night, beneath candlelight, their intricate patterns emerged—fine and winding like serpents or slender fish. Viewed from a distance, their surfaces shimmered like the scales of eels and snakes.
An hour passed. The fish basket at his waist was nearly full. Returning to the bank where he had left his sandals and basket, he gathered large bundles of reeds, wild celery, and foxtail grass to line the bottom, then placed the stones inside one by one. With fish basket at his waist, sandals in hand, and heavy basket slung over his back, Chen Ping'an returned to the stream once more, this time to a different section, where he resumed his stone-gathering.
After half a basket's worth, he stood upright and looked to the sky, hoping to glimpse a falling star, though luck was clearly not on his side tonight. Refocusing, he continued under faint starlight and his keen eyesight, doing what any true treasure-seeker would. Each successful find brought him quiet delight. To this boy, every stone was a glimmer of hope.
Before he realized it, Chen Ping'an had gathered nearly eighty stones, the largest surpassing the size of his fist—vividly red like solidified blood, radiant and flawless, unmarred by crack or blemish. As he walked along the bank toward the next stretch of water, he toyed with a medium-sized snake-gall stone in his hand. It was a soft, translucent green—far paler than the verdant glaze of the town's porcelain, smooth and pleasing to the touch. At first sight, he had taken a liking to it.
He reached the foot of a massive, moss-covered rock face, where local children often bathed in summer. Beneath the cliff, the water was especially deep—at least twice his own height—second only to the deep pool beneath the corridor bridge. This was the favored arena of boys who prided themselves on holding their breath the longest. Chen Ping'an had chosen this spot because he remembered, from bathing here with Liu Xianyang, that the bottom of the pit held a trove of snake-gall stones. Once, to show off, Liu had even surfaced with a stone clamped under his armpit—a stone, Chen recalled, as large as Gu Can's head, milky and translucent with specks of crimson scattered within, like petals of peach blossoms frozen in ice.
At the time, Liu Xianyang had found the feat deeply meaningful and made Chen Ping'an carry it home. But once back in town, the fickle boy quickly lost interest and left Chen to deal with it. When he reached Niping Lane, little Zhi Gui from next door had inexplicably trailed behind him, eyes fixed hungrily on the stone, much like how Chen Ping'an looked at the meat buns sold on Xinghua Lane. Unable to withstand her gaze, he gave her the stone. She struggled to lift it and nearly hurt herself, so Chen helped carry it to Song Jixin's courtyard. What became of the stone afterward, he never knew. It had been as pure as water, with floating peach petals within—like the peach blossoms after a spring rain in Tao Ye Lane, bathed in emerald light.
Even before learning the stone's secrets, Chen Ping'an had always thought it extraordinarily beautiful.
He sighed, suddenly halting. Thirty paces ahead, on the green cliff by the stream, sat a girl in a green robe, her cheeks puffed as she continued to stuff food into her mouth. His first thought was: She must've been a starving ghost in her past life to be so pitifully hungry at this hour.
He decided not to approach, not wanting to disturb her midnight meal. But neither did he turn back—he had already resolved to try his luck at that deep pit. With patience, one or two stones at a time, success would follow. Moreover, the stones there were larger and more vibrant.
Though not as skilled in the water as Liu Xianyang, Chen Ping'an held his own.
What he hadn't expected was that the strange girl, having just finished one item, immediately picked up another. She barely paused—her cheeks were never not bulging.
The basket on his back was growing heavy, and he knew the stone-searching ahead would be no easy feat. So he turned slightly and set it down gently. But he underestimated the girl's hearing—she perked up at once and shot him a sharp glance.
Caught off guard, Chen Ping'an could only offer an awkward smile. The girl's expression went blank; she burped twice in quick succession, then suddenly began to choke. She straightened her back, pounding her chest with her hand. Only then did Chen Ping'an notice that she was quite young, yet her figure beneath the neckline was… astonishing. Her clothes stretched taut across her chest, putting even many mothers to shame. Embarrassed, he quickly averted his gaze, harboring no improper thoughts.
She finally remembered her water flask, turning her back to him and drinking deeply. Her breathing eased.
In that moment, holding his straw sandals, Chen Ping'an had but one simple thought: The fabric of her clothing must be expensive—nothing cheap could withstand such pressure.
The green-robed girl resumed eating, now more reserved. Her cheeks no longer bulged so dramatically; she nibbled in small bites, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the odd boy from town. Her eyes, long and slanted like peach petals, lifted slightly at the corners—eyes that gave her the appearance of a young, enchanting fox spirit. She...