The second morning after he decided to stay, Zheng Wen Te woke before the village did.
He had slept in the small spare room of Lian's house—a narrow space with a woven mat, a low wooden stool, and a window that let in the scent of wet earth before the sun had risen.
He did not require much sleep anymore.
But he chose to lie still for a while, listening.
A rooster crowed once, then again, indignant that no one seemed impressed. Somewhere a pot lid clattered. A woman coughed. A door creaked open.
Ordinary sounds.
He exhaled slowly.
Staying had felt simple last night.
This morning it felt heavier.
He stepped outside.
Mist hung low over the rice fields, turning the world pale and indistinct. Figures moved through it like silhouettes not yet fully formed.
He walked toward the edge of the village where the irrigation channels met.
Two men were already there.
The same two.
The older one—Hao, he had learned—was standing with his arms crossed. The younger—Min—was knee-deep in mud, digging with stubborn focus.
"You started early," Zheng Wen Te said.
Min looked up, startled, then straightened awkwardly.
"We thought… better to finish before people gather," Hao replied.
"Why before people gather?"
Hao hesitated. "If we argue again, it's better not to have an audience."
Min shot him a look. "I wasn't the one arguing."
"You were shouting."
"You were being unreasonable."
Zheng Wen Te stepped closer, crouching near the disturbed earth.
"Have you found anything?"
Min wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, leaving a smear of mud across his temple.
"Just rocks," he muttered.
Hao sighed. "The flood was stronger than we thought. The current might have dragged them farther down."
"Or buried them deeper," Min added.
They both glanced at Zheng Wen Te.
He noticed it.
Not consciously asking.
Waiting.
"What will you do if you don't find them?" he asked.
Min opened his mouth, then closed it.
Hao answered instead. "We'll… decide."
"Together?"
A pause.
Hao's jaw tightened. "Yes."
Min didn't speak, but he didn't object.
Zheng Wen Te nodded once.
"Then the stones are less important than your agreement."
Min frowned. "They were placed by our grandfathers."
"And your grandfathers are not here to argue about them," Zheng Wen Te said gently.
Silence settled between them.
He stood.
"I will walk downstream," he added. "If the current carried anything, it may have lodged against a bend."
Min's eyes brightened slightly. "You don't have to—"
"I know."
He stepped into the shallow channel and began moving along its curve.
Behind him, he could feel their gaze.
Not dependence.
Not yet.
But relief.
That was the first shift.
By midmorning, word had spread that he was helping search for the boundary stones.
He didn't know who told whom.
He only noticed that when he returned with two rounded rocks half-buried against a cluster of reeds, five villagers were waiting near the field.
Min hurried forward.
"That's them," he said immediately. "See the carving? It's faint but—"
Hao crouched, brushing away mud with careful fingers. The carved mark, simple and weathered, emerged slowly.
He exhaled.
"It is."
Someone behind them murmured, "So the boundary stays."
Another voice whispered, "Good. No need to divide again."
Zheng Wen Te placed the stones gently on the ground.
Min looked up at him.
"Thank you."
"It was the river that carried them," Zheng Wen Te replied.
Min shook his head. "You thought to look."
Hao stood slowly, facing him.
"We would have found them eventually."
"Yes."
"But it would have taken longer."
"Yes."
"And people would have talked."
"Yes."
Hao studied him carefully.
"You ended it quickly."
Zheng Wen Te did not respond.
The small crowd began dispersing, satisfied.
As they walked away, he heard someone say quietly, "It's good he's here."
The words were not meant for him.
But he heard them.
That afternoon, Lian approached him while he was repairing a loose wooden beam near her roof.
"You know what they're saying?" she asked.
"I can imagine."
"They think you settled the land dispute."
"They settled it."
She crossed her arms. "You found the stones."
"I walked downstream."
"And none of us did."
He glanced down at her.
"You could have."
She tilted her head. "But we didn't."
There was something different in her tone.
Not accusation.
Observation.
"You don't like that," she said.
"It isn't about liking."
"What is it about?"
He tightened the rope around the beam before answering.
"When a solution becomes associated with a person instead of a process, the next problem seeks the same person."
She leaned against the wall.
"And that's bad?"
"It narrows responsibility."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Maybe we're tired," she said finally.
"Tired?"
"Of arguing. Of guessing. Of making decisions that might break something."
She looked up at him.
"You stand there and things feel… steadier."
He climbed down from the beam.
"That feeling is temporary."
"Maybe," she said. "But it's real."
Before he could reply, another voice called from across the clearing.
"Zheng Wen Te!"
He turned.
An older woman—Madam Rui—was waving him over urgently.
He exchanged a glance with Lian.
"See?" she murmured.
He walked toward Madam Rui.
"What happened?"
"My grandson," she said breathlessly. "He has a fever."
Zheng Wen Te followed her into a small house where a boy of perhaps seven lay on a mat, cheeks flushed unnaturally.
The child's breathing was uneven.
Madam Rui hovered anxiously.
"We gave him herbal broth," she said. "But it's not going down."
Zheng Wen Te knelt beside the boy.
He placed a hand lightly against the child's forehead.
Too warm.
But not beyond recovery.
He spoke gently.
"What did he eat yesterday?"
"Just rice. And some fish. The same as us."
"Did he fall into the water?"
Madam Rui hesitated. "He was playing near the channel…"
Zheng Wen Te nodded.
He examined the boy's pulse.
Not spiritual.
Human.
Fragile.
He turned to Madam Rui.
"He needs clean water. Boiled. Small sips."
"We did that."
"Continue. And cool cloth on his head. Not too cold."
She nodded rapidly.
"Will he be fine?"
There it was again.
Expectation.
Zheng Wen Te looked at the boy.
"He should recover," he said carefully. "But watch his breathing. If it worsens, call me."
Madam Rui's shoulders sagged with relief.
"Thank you. I knew you would know what to do."
He stood slowly.
Outside, three villagers waited.
Not intruding.
Just… there.
"How is he?" someone asked.
"Resting," Zheng Wen Te replied.
They nodded.
Satisfied.
As he stepped away from the house, Lian fell into step beside him.
"You're frowning," she observed.
"I am not."
"You are."
He exhaled softly.
"I gave simple advice."
"And it helped."
"Yes."
"So why do you look like someone handed you a burden?"
He looked at her.
"Because advice becomes weight when people believe it guarantees outcome."
She stopped walking.
"But you didn't promise anything."
"No," he said. "They heard certainty anyway."
Lian was silent.
After a moment she asked, "If you hadn't come, what would she have done?"
"Given broth. Prayed. Waited."
"And if he recovered?"
"She would have thanked Heaven."
"And now?"
"She will thank me."
Lian's gaze sharpened.
"You don't want that."
"I don't want displacement."
"Displacement?"
"Of responsibility. Of agency."
She studied him for a long moment.
"You think we'll stop thinking for ourselves."
"I think it becomes easier not to."
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of cooking rice.
Lian folded her arms loosely.
"You're not as distant as you pretend," she said quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"You care."
"I do."
"And that's why you're worried."
He didn't deny it.
That evening, the boy's fever broke.
Madam Rui wept openly in the clearing when she saw Zheng Wen Te.
"He's sitting up," she said, voice trembling. "He asked for food."
"That is good," Zheng Wen Te replied.
She clasped his hands unexpectedly.
"You saved him."
"I did not."
"You did."
Around them, villagers nodded.
Agreement.
Gratitude.
A kind of warmth spread through the clearing.
It was not worship.
But it was directional.
Min approached with Hao beside him.
"You should sit with us tonight," Min said. "We're roasting fish."
"It's nothing grand," Hao added. "Just… together."
Zheng Wen Te hesitated.
Lian watched him.
Just a heartbeat too long.
Then he nodded.
They sat around a low fire as dusk deepened.
Conversations overlapped.
Stories surfaced.
Min exaggerated the effort it took to retrieve the stones. Hao corrected him. Laughter followed.
At one point, Min turned to Zheng Wen Te.
"When you faced those bandits… were you afraid?"
A few heads turned subtly.
Zheng Wen Te considered.
"Yes."
Min blinked. "You were?"
"Yes."
Hao frowned. "But you didn't look it."
"Fear does not require display," Zheng Wen Te said.
Min leaned forward. "Then why didn't you attack first?"
"Because escalation narrows options."
Hao nodded slowly.
"And if they had attacked?"
"Then the outcome would have been different."
Min swallowed.
"You would have won."
Zheng Wen Te met his gaze.
"Winning is rarely clean."
Silence lingered for a moment before someone shifted the topic.
But something had settled.
Later, as the fire burned low and villagers drifted home, Lian remained seated beside him.
"They trust you," she said softly.
"I know."
"Does it feel wrong?"
He looked at the fading embers.
"No."
"Then what?"
He watched the last spark flicker out.
"It feels like the beginning of something."
"And that's bad?"
He thought of Heaven asking him what he sought.
He thought of saying nothing.
He thought of staying.
"It depends," he said quietly.
"On what?"
"On whether I remember why I refused power."
Lian did not speak.
In the darkness beyond the clearing, the rice fields whispered as wind passed through them.
And somewhere, unnoticed by most, two young men were arguing quietly about whether Zheng Wen Te should be asked to mediate the next village meeting.
The decision had not been made.
But the question had already formed.