The Man Who Would Not Leave

When I awoke again, I was lying on a mat of straw.
It was warm, faintly scented with herbs.
I opened my eyes; strength slowly returned to my limbs.

It was a shabby thatched hut—bare walls, almost no furnishings,
just the wooden bed beneath me and a triangular table by the wall.

Had someone picked me up again?

The door creaked.
Someone entered.

I shut my eyes at once, my fingers slipping to the dagger hidden in my sleeve.
If this stranger tried anything improper, I would slit his throat before he could speak.

A chair scraped beside the bed.
Someone sat down.

I held my breath, fingers tightening on the blade.
But the moment never came.

Instead, a gentle voice sounded above me.
“You’re awake, aren’t you? No need to pretend anymore. Come—drink your medicine.”

I had no choice but to open my eyes.

Before me stood a man in coarse hemp robes, about thirty years old.
His features were plain, but his smile had a quiet warmth to it,
like sunlight through early spring mist.

He held a steaming bowl toward me.
“Here. Drink this.”

I didn’t take it. I glared instead.
“Who are you?”

Madam Li had taught me well: never trust kind faces—especially kind men.

The man chuckled softly and set the bowl on the low table.
“My name is Zhao Xiao. I’m a physician.
May I ask the young lady’s name?”

Young lady?
I almost laughed.

With the rags I wore, the mud on my skin,
and the face beneath its bandages,
how could anyone still see a “lady”?

I touched my face; indeed it was wrapped tightly.
I reached for my bundle, meaning to leave,
but he blocked me.

“Drink the medicine first, then go.”

“Move,” I snapped, disgust rising in me.

My body reacted before thought—
I kicked him hard in the chest.

He stumbled backward, landing squarely on the floor.
Yet he only gave a wry smile.
“Good kick. I’ve treated many patients in my life, taken many a hit,
but none quite so firm as yours.”

I clenched my teeth. “Get out of my way.”

He rose and stepped aside. “The door’s there. You’re free to go.”

I strode toward it—
and the world spun.
My legs gave way, and I crumpled to the floor.

When I looked up, Zhao Xiao was standing over me, sighing.
“I told you, didn’t I?
You could have drunk it first.
You’ve been starving for days; your body’s exhausted.
That bowl isn’t poison—it’s nourishment.”

I stayed, in the end.
My body simply wouldn’t let me wander further.

He seemed to understand my mistrust.
So, before handing me the medicine,
he drank half of it himself and wiped his mouth.

“There,” he said. “Satisfied? It’s not poison.”

I gave him a long look, then drained the bowl in one go.

He chuckled.
“You drink exactly like a little cat I once kept.”

I pricked up my ears despite myself.

“I found her half-dead,” he continued.
“Some cruel children had stuffed stones and firecrackers into her mouth.
She feared people so much, she wouldn’t eat anything touched by human hands.”

He sighed.
“To feed her, I had to think of something.
So I’d eat half a bowl of rice in front of her,
then step back and wait.
Only then would she eat.
We shared that same bowl for half a year.
She grew fat. I grew thin.”

I found myself listening. When he fell silent, I asked,
“And then?”

He smiled, eyes soft.
“So you do speak.”
Then, lightly, “Later, a little she-cat from the next village stole her away.”

A ridiculous ending, yet he seemed pleased by it.
After a moment, his gaze settled on me.
“You’re exactly like that little cat.”

I scowled. “Enough talking. Go away.”

I wasn’t a cat. I was a fox.

The medicine flowed through me,
spreading warmth through every aching limb.
Sleep came fast and deep.

I slept for more than ten hours,
and dreamed a lucid dream—
lucid, because I knew I was dreaming.

The world was black,
water dripping somewhere in the dark.

Then—
a single spark.
Then a thousand.
The sparks gathered, forming a shining path through the void.

I followed it.

The path led to a place I knew.
Mountains shrouded in mist,
a cottage by a stream,
a garden thick with blossoms.

Bai Xi sat before the house, smiling.
“Qiao Qiao,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

I looked around. “Where is this?”

She rose gracefully, brushed her robe, and said,
“My soul.”

And I remembered.
For five hundred years, I had been her vessel.
This was where her spirit lived inside me.

I wasn’t afraid of her,
only weary.
So I asked flatly, “Why did you bring me here?”

She didn’t answer at once.
She summoned a watering pot from thin air
and tended the flowers as she spoke.

“You already know, don’t you?”

“Know what?”

“The truth—about yourself.”

She crouched, plucking weeds.
“I owe you, truly. You were just a little fox,
never meant to be caught up in our affairs.
And yet I took five hundred years of your cultivation.”

I took a deep breath, swallowing my anger.
“So long as you leave my body, I’ll call it even.”

She straightened and shook her head.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.
Your body has already accepted my essence.
We’re one now.”

Then she smiled.
“You should have realized long ago—
your body was chosen for my resurrection.”

My fists clenched.
“Then why summon me here?”

Bai Xi stepped close, fingertips brushing my cheek.
Her touch was cold, but gentle.

“I feel guilty,” she said softly.
“I wanted to make it up to you.
You’ve suffered because of me, yes—but also because you’re weak.
So let’s join together.
If you merge with me, I can lend you my immortal power.”

A chill crept down my spine.
“Merge?” I said slowly.
“You mean—erase me?”

She hesitated.
“When two souls fuse, they become one.
But don’t worry—
I’ll set aside a corner of my mind for you.
You’ll still exist—somewhere inside me.
Part of you will even influence who I am.”

I understood then.
This wasn’t “fusion.”
It was consumption.
I would be her meal,
her final nourishment for full rebirth.

“I refuse!” I shouted. “Never!”

Bai Xi sighed and flicked her sleeve.
“Don’t be so absolute.
People rarely have control over their fates.”

Before I could answer,
she pressed her finger to my forehead.

The world shattered.
Wind roared; colors fled.
When they returned,
I was back on the dark road again.

And then—
I woke.

My body was drenched in sweat.
I forced my eyes open—
someone stood at the doorway.

Cold terror clenched my chest.

I was staying in Zhao Xiao’s house.
He’d been decent enough to sleep outside.
But if he’d come in the middle of the night—
so much for decency.

Another hypocrite.

I smiled grimly, hand sliding toward the dagger.
I feigned sleep.

Soft footsteps approached.
My pulse quickened.

A hand reached toward me.

I tensed, ready to strike.

The hand brushed my face,
then my shoulder—
and gently tucked the blanket under my chin.

Then it withdrew.

A quiet yawn,
and he left.

That night passed in peace.

At dawn he returned,
carrying medicine and a bowl of porridge.

Seeing me awake, he smiled.
“Did you sleep well?”

I gave him a cold glance.
Hard to believe this calm man was the same one
who had crept in last night.

He set the bowls on the table.
“I heard you tossing about,” he said lightly.
“You’d kicked your blanket off, so I tucked it back.
Forgive me if I startled you.”

His honesty left me feeling foolish.
After an awkward pause, I muttered,
“Thank you.”

He shook his head, smiling. “It was nothing.”

Then, as before, he drank from the bowl.
“Testing for poison,” he said cheerfully.

I followed suit.

He was right—my body was still too frail.
And with Bai Xi’s power inside me,
I felt stretched thin,
barely able to hold myself together.

I decided to stay a few more days.

Since I’d refused her,
Bai Xi appeared often in my mind,
humming songs, teasing me.
I ignored her,
mastering the art of keeping my face serene
while cursing her silently.

Two days later, when Zhao Xiao tried to “test for poison” again,
I stopped him and drank the medicine myself.

He looked delighted,
his eyes bright.
Then he produced a small piece of red candy.

“Here,” he said. “Eat this—it’ll take away the bitterness.”

I froze.
That candy—
I knew its color, its shape.

“It’s chicken-heart pastry,”
a voice once said, gentle as falling snow.
“I thought you’d like the taste, so I brought you some.”

Gu Yi.

A dull ache spread through my chest.

Days passed peacefully with Zhao Xiao.
Every night, he “visited”—
not to touch,
but to tuck in my blanket,
to leave a bowl of sweet water,
or sometimes only to watch me sleep.

If I still couldn’t read his intentions,
my five centuries would have been wasted.

But I could not return his affection.

I asked him once why he had saved me,
why he treated me so kindly.

He spread his hands, smiling.
“I’m a doctor. It’s my duty.
If the one lying there had been a beggar instead of a maiden,
I’d still have done the same.”

He meant it, too.
During my stay, I saw him treat rich and poor alike,
never asking for payment.

People repaid his kindness with small gifts—
fruit, vegetables, a roasted bird now and then.

One day a hawker brought a glossy roast chicken wrapped in lotus leaves.
Zhao Xiao passed it straight to me.
“You need the nourishment more than I do.”

The smell was heavenly.
Before long, only bones remained.

When I looked up, embarrassed,
he was watching me with a smile.

“You’re still the same,” he said.
“Once there’s roast chicken, you forget everything else.”

I blinked, puzzled.
“What do you mean, still?”

He just waved it off, still smiling.
“Nothing. Eat up.”

Thanks to his care, I soon recovered.
I planned to leave the next morning.

That night, beneath a crescent moon,
I lit a small oil lamp and studied myself in the mirror.
The scar had healed, but the pink tissue stood out sharply,
cutting across my face like a reminder.

Zhao Xiao had left early for house calls.
Unable to thank him in person,
I wrote a short letter of gratitude,
dressed in one of his old robes,
smeared ash on my face,
and slipped away.

The town beyond was bustling—a trading post alive with gossip.
I stopped at a teahouse and ordered a cup of tea.

As I drank, I overheard a group of men talking excitedly.

“Have you heard? The old emperor of Dongyi has died!”

Chairs scraped.
“What happened? Tell us!”

The storyteller puffed his chest.
“He was over seventy, still a lecher.
Took a new concubine not long ago—died of excitement in bed!”

The crowd gasped, clicking tongues.

“Terrible,” someone said.
“He had four sons. Now they’ll tear the country apart.
Poor people of Dongyi.”

Another man shook his head wisely.
“Not quite. The old emperor named the fourth prince, Gu Yi, as his heir.”

“Gu Yi?” the others said. “Never heard of him.”

“The one born to a palace maid,” the man explained.
“Low rank, little favor.”

They all nodded in sudden understanding.

“But the empress won’t allow it,” the storyteller continued.
“She says a concubine’s son can’t be emperor.”

A little girl asked timidly,
“Then… what will happen?”

The man took his time, savoring his tea.
“No need to worry,” he said at last.
“Gu Yi has a powerful ally—the emperor of Beiji himself!
He’s promised troops, even his own daughter, Princess Qinglun,
to marry the new emperor.
Gu Yi accepted, and he’s on his way back to claim the throne.”

The listeners cheered, satisfied with the tale’s neat ending.

I sat frozen,
the tea bowl trembling in my hand.

It had nothing to do with me.
Nothing at all.

Yet my chest felt hollow,
my hands cold.

I drank to hide it,
choked, and coughed until my eyes blurred.

It was just the tea.
Just the tears from coughing.

Right?

I wiped them away, smiling at the absurdity.
But my fingers came away wet.

I paid and wandered the streets,
my mind full of Gu Yi—
his laughter, his anger,
his tired eyes after long nights,
his warmth when he stayed by my bedside.

He had never been just a man to me—
but he was never mine either.

He would do what destiny demanded.
And I—
I was nothing more than a memory he’d outgrown.

Still, I couldn’t help whispering to myself:

“Gu Yi, why did you say you loved me?
Why did you promise to marry me?”

I remembered the forest,
the illusion that fooled him,
the way he wept over a stone he thought was my body.

“Don’t die, Qiao Qiao,” he had cried.
“I love you. I’ll marry you.”

He had been the only one
who loved me simply because I was me.

And now he, too, was gone.

No—that wasn’t right.
He had never been mine to lose.

Tears spilled again.
I wished I still had the black iron chain—
the only thing that tied us together.
If I still had it,
I might have gone to him again,
even as a pet at his feet.

But now even that thread was gone.

I laughed bitterly, trying to forget—

when suddenly a hand seized my arm.

I looked up, startled,
and met a sweat-drenched face.

“You—where have you been?”