Chapter Seventeen: Wishing for Forever

At dawn, shrouded in thick mist, Jingjia Village began to stir. Every household made their way to the riverbank to retrieve the fish traps they had set the day before. These traps were baskets woven from bamboo strips, their mouths shaped with inward-turning slats, making it easy for fish and shrimp to enter but difficult to escape.

The villagers were easily content. Yesterday, the waters upstream had surged, and their harvest was far greater than usual. Amid cheerful laughter, the dense fog gradually thinned, eventually vanishing altogether, and the rising sun heralded another fine day.

Ji Mi stood at the doorway of Old Jing’s house, her gaze troubled. She had just visited Meng Di, who still had not awakened, his forehead burning with fever. In a single night, his sharply defined face had sunk deep with exhaustion.

Old Jing merely shook his head and sighed. Meng Di had caught a chill, and whether he would survive depended on his own strength.

Lost in thought, Ji Mi wandered to the riverbank and gazed upstream. According to Old Jing, this was the fork of the Jushui River, which had become somewhat silted over time. If not for the floodwaters, the small boat would never have drifted here.

Having guessed a little of Meng Di’s origins, Old Jing sent Jing Chuo out to gather news. Around midday, Jing Chuo came running back in panic.

“Chu is gone!”

“How can Chu be gone?”

“Indeed, how could it just disappear?”

The villagers gathered around. Though Jingjia Village was isolated, they knew well enough that they were people of Chu.

Dodging Old Jing’s wooden staff, Jing Chuo dared not boast further and hurried to explain, “It’s true. The capital Yingdu has been taken by Wu. They say all the men were slaughtered, and the women… I didn’t dare get closer, so I came straight back.”

The villagers fell silent. Yingdu was not far, yet such events seemed distant from their daily lives, leaving them unsure what to say.

Someone asked in a quiet voice, “So, are we Chu people or Wu people now?”

Ji Mi heard only four words—Chu is gone. Her face turned pale, and she leaned against the door, tears streaming from her eyes.

From then on, she stayed constantly by Meng Di’s side. By day, she wore a crimson robe and danced the shaman’s ritual, praying to spirits and gods; by night, she watched his gaunt face in the flickering lamplight.

This was the last straw she could cling to, though even that seemed about to sink.

The villagers whispered among themselves, saying she had gone mad.

In the darkness, she lost track of time, believing she would be trapped in the abyss forever. Then, a flicker of flame flashed before her eyes. Meng Di struggled to open his eyes, wanting to see clearly.

The flame danced nimbly beside him and, with a startled cry, suddenly stopped.

Ji Mi turned around, and their eyes met, holding each other’s gaze in silence.

It was now the morning of the third day. Meng Di drank some fish soup and looked much improved. He bowed slightly to Ji Mi, “Your Highness.”

“There is no princess—Chu is gone.”

Ji Mi met his gaze calmly. “I am Ji Mi, simply Ji Mi.”

“Meng Di.”

It was their first real conversation, and at least they knew each other’s names.

Meng Di recovered quickly; within a few days, he could walk and stand beside Ji Mi at the river, quietly watching the flowing water. Both wore coarse linen garments, yet their bearing could not be concealed. From afar, the villagers whispered, admiring them as a perfect pair.

Since Meng Di awakened, Ji Mi became much more cheerful and lively. She often joined the village women in washing silk and pounding clothes, and even learned to make fish soup.

“Brother Meng, this place is wonderful. Would you like to stay here forever?” Ji Mi asked.

Meng Di understood her desire to escape reality, but he knew that Chu had not truly fallen. In fact, Wu was the first to meet its end.

Yet Ji Mi looked genuinely happy. Gazing at her sparkling eyes and charming smile, he found himself nodding almost involuntarily.

Miraculously, the flames of war had not reached this small fishing village, so close yet untouched. Perhaps it was because the place was so out of the way, or perhaps because the Wu soldiers were too busy enjoying the spoils of conquering Yingdu.

Aside from fishing, hunting was also vital to Jingjia Village’s way of life. Jing Chuo was an expert hunter.

Villagers used local materials to craft bamboo bows and arrows, which could barely take down a pheasant or rabbit, though most of their catch came from traps.

After all, making a bow was a skilled craft. The bow had six materials; the main body formed the arms, and the people of Chu favored the finest bamboo.

Ox horn was adhered to the inner side of the bow arms, while sinew was affixed to the outer side, all bonded with fish glue. The horn and sinew bindings were tightly wrapped with silk thread for strength, and the finished bow arms were lacquered to protect against frost and moisture. Normally, the lacquer was reapplied every ten days until it provided proper protection.

Meng Di was a master of archery and had attempted to make several bows himself. He smiled at the crude bamboo bows, though they sufficed for ordinary hunters given the circumstances.

The longbow he had casually left on a small boat was found by Jing Chuo. Meng Di gently ran his fingers across the bowstring—it was Mo Cheng’s bow. After their battle, he had never seen Mo Cheng again, and feared he had not escaped fate.

With a sigh, he handed the bow to Jing Chuo, who waited eagerly nearby. In Jing Chuo’s eyes, Meng Di saw the archer’s fervor for a fine bow.

When idle, Meng Di taught the villagers archery, earning their enthusiastic praise. Whenever this happened, Ji Mi always stood poised nearby, smiling as she watched.

Thus, more than a month passed in a blur. Meng Di’s wounds healed completely, and he began to learn net fishing, while Ji Mi grew ever more accustomed to country life. Just as they thought they might spend their whole lives in the village, the urgent sound of a bell echoed from the village entrance.

The bell had been brought back by Old Jing during his youth travels. Though it was missing half its body, it was still the village’s treasured possession. Whenever the bell rang, everyone gathered at the entrance.

Meng Di and Ji Mi went as well. Old Jing glanced at them with a complex expression and solemnly informed the crowd: the men of Wu had arrived.

News had just come in that several nearby villages had suffered tragedy—Wu soldiers had slaughtered entire villages and burned them to the ground.

The villagers were thrown into turmoil. They had thought the conflicts had nothing to do with them, whether as Chu people or Wu people; their lives were spent fishing and hunting.

Old Jing quieted their chatter and announced they would leave at once.

Leave? Where to? Meng Di whispered to the villagers beside him.

“Where else but back to the Great Marsh? A shame, really—such a good place.”

It turned out that Jingjia villagers had lived for generations in the Yunmeng Marsh. In recent years, river pirates had run rampant, extorting them mercilessly. In their misery, they had moved here.

Old Jing commanded great respect, and at his word, everyone began packing. He turned to Meng Di and Ji Mi, “You two should come as well. The river pirates are cruel, but at least there’s a chance to survive. We cannot stay here any longer.”

They had no reason to refuse; they had nowhere else to go.

Jingjia Village, with its fifty-odd people and seven or eight small boats, quickly left the river bend. Seeing how efficient the villagers were, Meng Di asked in surprise, “So you had always planned to leave?”

Old Jing chuckled. “We had no choice. Since leaving the marsh, we’ve moved several times. Everyone’s used to it by now. It’s a pity—here, the water is rich, the wild game plentiful, and we truly lived well for a few years.”

The Jushui River wound its way through rolling scenery, and the early spring of the south, though still chilly, had brightened the world.

Spirits lifted, some villagers began to sing folk songs of Chu, their voices flowing and unpretentious.

They caught a few fresh fish from the river, prepared them simply, and Meng Di and Ji Mi ate fish soup while listening to Old Jing recount the origins of Jingjia Village.

The water widened before them, and in the distance, misty waves stretched on and on. The blood-red sunset spilled from the horizon, dripping onto the dark lake surface. Waterbirds skimmed lightly across, leaving tiny ripples.

Meng Di and Ji Mi exchanged smiles. In that moment, they wished it could last forever.