Li Shen walked home with a stamped paper hidden inside his bundle like a wound.
He didn't show it on the road.
He didn't take it out to read it again, even though the urge crawled under his skin like hunger. The words wouldn't change. The date wouldn't soften. The gate wouldn't move closer because he stared at it.
He kept walking.
Still, his body betrayed him in small ways.
His pulse ran faster than it should have for an empty road.
His hands—hands that carried sacks without shaking—felt light at the fingertips, as if the world had shifted and he hadn't found his footing yet.
Excitement, he realized, was just another kind of instability.
It made you chase. It made you hurry. It made you sloppy.
It made you break your own rules.
When the village came into view, smoke lifting from low roofs, he forced his steps to stay even.
In. Hold. Out.
Not to cultivate.
To keep his mind from running ahead of his body.
The Li house sat where it always had—near the back edge of the village, close to the trees that kept them warm and kept them poor.
Li Heng was splitting wood.
Same rhythm. Same axe. Same refusal to let the world rearrange him with announcements.
Li Shen stepped into the yard and set his bundle down.
Li Heng finished the cut. Stacked it. Wiped his hands on his trousers.
Then he looked at Li Shen.
He didn't smile.
But his shoulders loosened the smallest fraction.
"You're back," he said.
Li Shen nodded. "Han sent me."
Li Heng's gaze went to the bundle.
Then to Li Shen's face.
He didn't ask if Li Shen was hungry. He didn't ask if he'd been hurt.
He asked the only question that mattered when a boy came home out of cycle.
"Why."
Li Shen pulled the folded paper out and set it on the bench between them.
The stamp looked dull in the afternoon light—red pressed into fiber, a mark that didn't care who you were.
Li Heng didn't touch it immediately.
He stared at it as if it were a tool he hadn't used before and needed to judge by weight.
Then he picked it up, unfolded it, and read it once.
His eyes moved over the lines without changing expression.
When he finished, he folded it again with careful hands and set it back down.
"How soon," he asked.
"Tomorrow," Li Shen said.
Li Heng's jaw tightened—not in anger, in adjustment.
"That's fast."
"Yes," Li Shen said.
Li Heng nodded once, as if he'd already accepted that the world did what it wanted.
He didn't ask, Do you want this?
Li Heng had never asked questions that gave room for fantasy.
He asked, "What are you."
Li Shen swallowed.
The word tasted like dust.
"A servant," he said.
Li Heng's gaze held steady.
He didn't flinch. He didn't look relieved. He didn't look disappointed.
He looked like a man seeing a knife and calculating where the edge was.
"A sect," Li Heng said, not a question.
"Gray Pavilion," Li Shen replied.
The name sat in the yard like a heavy object.
Li Heng's eyes shifted once, toward the back line of trees, then returned.
"Han arranged it," he said.
"Someone came," Li Shen said. "He said Han didn't change anything. He would've come anyway."
Li Heng's mouth tightened at that.
Not because he doubted it.
Because it sounded like the truth: their lives were small enough that a larger machine could roll over them without noticing.
Li Heng looked at Li Shen again, and for the first time his voice changed.
Not softer.
More precise.
"Do you understand what this is," he asked.
Li Shen's throat tightened.
He did.
He also didn't.
"It's… work," he said.
Li Heng nodded. "It's extraction."
The word landed harder than the stamp.
Li Shen didn't argue.
He couldn't.
Li Heng continued, tone flat, "You will be tired. You will be watched. You will be told you're lucky because you're inside the walls. You will be replaceable."
Li Shen's fingers curled once, then relaxed.
"Yes," he said.
Li Heng stared at him for a long moment, as if searching for something reckless to correct.
Then he said, "And you still want to go."
It wasn't approval.
It was diagnosis.
Li Shen exhaled slowly.
He could lie.
He could say, I have to.
He didn't.
"Yes," he said. "Because… it's a door."
Li Heng's eyes narrowed slightly.
"A small one," Li Shen added quickly, as if trying to make the truth less dangerous. "But it exists."
Silence sat between them.
Wind moved through the pine needles behind the house, a dry whisper that sounded like winter practicing.
Li Heng reached for the axe handle, then stopped.
He looked down at his hands.
Hands that split wood. Hands that built fences. Hands that had held a sick wife's wrist and felt it cool.
Finally, he nodded once.
"Then we do it properly," he said.
That was his consent.
Not a blessing.
A decision.
He turned toward the house. "Eat."
Li Shen ate because he was told to.
The rice was thicker than the bourgade's. The broth tasted like bones. Li Heng didn't waste the good food on ceremony. He wasted it on function.
After, Li Heng went to the corner where they kept old cloth and tools and pulled out a strip of oiled patch cloth—newer than the last, folded tighter.
Luo Yao's threadwork showed in the seams, neat and strong.
Li Heng had accepted help.
He held the cloth out without comment.
"For the book," he said.
Li Shen took it and felt the oil in the fibers, the subtle weight of something made to keep paper alive.
"Thank you," Li Shen said.
Li Heng looked away, as if thanks were an uncomfortable thing to hold.
Then he said, "Pack."
They packed with the kind of efficiency poverty demanded.
Two changes of cloth, one heavier layer, food that could survive a day without turning.
A small cord.
A wedge.
Not weapons. Tools.
And the ledger—wrapped twice, oiled cloth inside oiled cloth, tied close to Li Shen's body as if it were part of him.
As the sun lowered, Li Heng stepped outside again and returned to splitting wood.
Same rhythm.
Except now, every strike sounded like time being cut down.
Li Shen watched him for a moment, then did what his body had learned to do when he couldn't hold still.
He walked.
Not to escape.
To anchor.
The path behind the Li house led toward the trees, then curved back toward the village grave mound where Li Mei rested.
Li Shen went there without announcing it.
He didn't need permission from the dead.
The grave marker was plain.
The earth around it had been smoothed and re-smoothed by weather, by animals, by the slow indifference of seasons.
Li Shen knelt.
He didn't cry. Not because he didn't feel.
Because tears were loud, and the place he carried his mother lived in a quieter part of him.
He took out a small scrap of paper from inside the ledger wrap—thin, already smudged at the edges—and a charcoal stub.
He wrote a single line.
Not pretty.
Not long.
Just a fact.
Tomorrow I leave.
He stared at it.
The words didn't comfort him.
They accused him.
Leaving again.
He folded the scrap once and tucked it under the stone at the base of the marker, where wind wouldn't steal it easily.
Then he bowed his head for three breaths.
In. Hold. Out.
Not cultivation.
A ritual.
When he stood, his chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with cold.
On his way back through the village, he stopped at Old He's yard.
Old He was outside, sleeves tied, hair pinned back, mending a handle with the slow patience of someone who had lived long enough to know haste was a young man's mistake.
She looked up, saw Li Shen's face, and didn't ask questions.
She knew, somehow.
The village always knew before you were ready to say it.
"You're leaving," Old He said.
Li Shen nodded.
Old He made a sound in her throat, neither approval nor pity.
"A sect takes servants like it takes water," she said. "It pours you until you fit the vessel."
Li Shen waited.
Old He pointed with her chin. "Keep your mouth shut. Watch where the older servants stand. They stand where the trouble doesn't fall."
Li Shen nodded again.
Her eyes narrowed. "And don't think you're safe because there are walls."
Li Shen's fingers tightened once around his bundle strap. "I won't."
She grunted, satisfied.
Then, without ceremony, she held out a small packet—dry herbs, tied in cloth.
"For your hands," she said. "Cracks get infected. Infection kills more boys than blades."
Li Shen hesitated.
Her gaze sharpened. "Take it."
So Li Shen took it.
"Thank you," he said.
Old He waved him off like thanks were a waste of breath. "Go."
Li Shen's feet carried him toward the village entrance next.
Luo Yao's house sat there like it always had—closer to the road, closer to strangers, closer to the part of the world that made the village nervous.
Luo Yao was in her yard, folding cloth.
She saw him and didn't pretend surprise.
"So it came," she said.
Li Shen paused. "You knew."
Luo Yao's mouth tightened slightly. "I hear things."
Not gossip.
Signals.
The way Han's bourgade changed its buying. The way Old He stopped laughing at certain rumors. The way the Chief's tone shifted at the well.
Luo Yao stepped inside and returned with a small bundle—flat, practical.
She held it out.
"Dried ration," she said. "And thread. Good thread. If your clothes tear, you mend them before they become rags."
Li Shen took it, because refusing her was not honor. It was pride.
"Thank you," he said.
Luo Yao studied him for a moment.
Her eyes were sharp, but there was something gentler behind them—an understanding of separation that didn't need explanation.
"Inside the walls," she said quietly, "they will tell you you're fortunate."
Li Shen didn't answer.
Luo Yao continued, "Fortune is a story people use to hide cost. Remember the cost."
Li Shen nodded once.
Luo Yao's voice softened by a fraction. "When you can, send one line."
Li Shen's throat tightened.
Not because he was a child.
Because he knew exactly what one line meant.
"I will," he said.
He left her yard and went toward the Qian house.
Qian Mei was outside, sitting on the low step with a small slate and a charcoal piece in hand.
She looked up as Li Shen approached, and her eyes went immediately to the bundle strap and the way Li Shen held it.
She didn't ask, Is it true?
She asked, "When."
"Tomorrow," Li Shen said.
Qian Mei's mouth pressed into a line.
Her mother appeared behind her, wiping her hands, face already tight with worry.
"A sect?" her mother asked.
Li Shen nodded. "Gray Pavilion."
Her mother sucked in a breath. "Servant?"
Li Shen nodded again.
Qian Mei didn't flinch.
She reached to the side and picked up a thin folded paper—clumsy, uneven, obviously new.
She held it out.
"What is that," Li Shen asked.
"A list," Qian Mei said.
"Of what."
"Prices," she answered, as if it was obvious. "Salt. Oil. Cloth. Nails. Rope. When they change. Where they change first."
Li Shen stared at it.
It wasn't beautiful.
It wasn't even complete.
But it was the first time he'd seen someone else in the village write like the world could be measured.
Qian Mei's eyes stayed on him.
"You taught me without teaching me," she said, voice flat to hide the feeling under it. "So I'm doing it now."
Li Shen took the paper carefully.
Qian Mei added, quieter, "If you see what they price labor at inside—how they pay, how they punish—remember it. If you come back, tell me."
Not when you come back.
If.
That was Qian Mei: cold enough to be honest.
Li Shen nodded once. "I will."
Qian Mei's mother stepped forward and shoved a bundle into Li Shen's hands—dried strips, a small bag of grain, a cloth wrap.
"Eat," she said, voice too sharp because she didn't know how to be gentle with fear. "And don't give your food away. Don't be foolish."
Li Shen held the bundle. "I won't."
Qian Mei's mother's eyes glistened, then hardened. "Write to your father."
Li Shen's chest tightened again. "I will."
Qian Mei didn't say goodbye the way children did.
She simply said, "Don't get stupid because you're excited."
Li Shen blinked once.
He hadn't told her he was excited.
Qian Mei tilted her head slightly. "Your eyes are fast," she said. "Like you want to run ahead. Don't."
Li Shen exhaled.
She was right.
He nodded. "I won't."
As he walked away, he saw the Chief near the well, speaking quietly to two older men.
The Chief's gaze landed on Li Shen for a heartbeat.
He didn't wave. He didn't call out.
Later, when Li Shen passed near enough, the Chief stepped closer just enough for his words to reach without becoming a performance.
"This isn't Luo Ning," the Chief said.
Li Shen didn't answer.
The Chief continued, voice low. "A disciple comes home and makes people stupid. A servant doesn't. A servant comes home and makes people… connected."
Connected.
The Chief's eyes were sharp, calculating even in kindness.
"I won't ask you to promise anything," the Chief said. "Promises are cheap. But remember where you're from. Not because we own you. Because villages survive on threads."
Li Shen felt that word again—threads, lines, marks, stamps.
The whole world was tying itself together, and he was being used as a knot.
"I understand," Li Shen said.
The Chief nodded once. "Good. Go."
When Li Shen returned home, the sky was already darkening.
Li Heng had finished splitting wood and stacked it in a wall that looked like control.
He was inside, checking the bundle again, tightening cords, making sure nothing would slip loose and be lost on the road.
Li Shen set down the extra packets—Old He's herbs, Luo Yao's ration, Qian Mei's price list—and Li Heng's eyes paused on each one without comment.
He understood what it meant.
That the village had moved.
That Luo Yao wasn't separate the way she used to be.
That Qian Mei's household had become a place where numbers mattered.
That Old He still held the village together with quiet hands.
Li Heng finally looked up.
"Sit," he said.
Li Shen sat.
Li Heng didn't give a speech. He didn't tell Li Shen to be brave.
He said, "Listen."
Li Shen listened.
Li Heng's voice stayed even. "You keep your head down. You don't volunteer for pain. You don't fight. You don't gamble. You don't take sides."
Li Shen nodded.
Li Heng's jaw tightened slightly. "If you can write, write."
Li Shen's throat tightened.
"If you can't," Li Heng continued, "you come back."
Li Shen stared at his father's hands.
Hands that had kept a family alive by refusing to collapse.
"Yes," Li Shen said.
Li Heng reached into the corner and pulled out one last thing: a small stone-warmed pouch of salt, wrapped carefully.
Not much.
A luxury in winter.
He set it into Li Shen's bundle like he was placing a weight.
"For your body," Li Heng said. Then, after a pause that was almost too long, he added, "And for your mother."
Li Shen's chest tightened until it hurt.
He nodded once, because if he opened his mouth, something loud might come out.
That night, Li Shen didn't sleep well.
Not because he was afraid.
Because his mind kept touching the idea like a tongue touching a sore tooth:
A door exists.
A door exists.
A door exists.
He forced himself to breathe slow until the pulse settled.
In. Hold. Out.
Again.
He woke before dawn.
Li Heng was already awake.
Of course he was.
They ate in silence.
Li Heng tightened the last knot.
Li Shen wrapped the ledger one final time, pressed it flat against his chest, and stood at the door.
Li Heng stood with him.
For a moment, neither moved.
The space between them was full of things neither of them had ever been good at saying.
Li Heng finally spoke, voice low.
"You were born ordinary," he said.
Li Shen's breath caught.
Li Heng continued, the words rough like they had to be pulled out with effort. "Stay ordinary. Ordinary survives."
Li Shen swallowed.
"Yes," he said.
Li Heng's hand rose.
Not to hug.
Li Heng didn't do that.
He pressed his palm to the back of Li Shen's head for one heartbeat—heavy, steady—then let go.
Go.
Li Shen stepped out.
The cold bit his cheeks.
The village was still dark, smoke not yet rising.
He walked toward the road with his bundle tight, ledger tighter, breath measured.
Behind him, the Li house sat near the trees like it always had.
And beside it, in the frozen earth, the quiet line he'd written for his mother waited under a stone.
Tomorrow I leave.
Now it was today.
Li Shen didn't run.
He wanted to.
But excitement was a variable, and variables broke systems.
So he walked.
One even step after another.
Toward the gate that didn't care who he was.
Toward the work that would grind him down.
Toward the smallest door he'd ever seen—small enough to crush him if he tried to force it—
…and real enough that he could not pretend it didn't matter.