It took three days.
Three days of searching the terraces, the irrigation ditches, the abandoned sheds along the lower fields. Three days of calling Guóliáng's name into wind that did not answer.
On the fourth morning, they found him.
High along the mountain path where the soil thinned and the trees grew closer together.
Or rather—
They found what remained.
The animals had done their work efficiently. Flesh torn. Cloth shredded. Bone exposed to sun and air. The forest had accepted the offering without ceremony.
The men who discovered the body did not shout this time.
They stood in silence.
Then one of them retched.
By the time word reached the village, it had already softened.
"A fall," someone said.
"He must have slipped."
"The animals found him after."
A tragedy.
An unfortunate wandering.
A young man too bold in the dark.
The elders agreed quickly. It was easier that way. Easier to fear the mountain than to fear one another.
But Fēi Fēnlán did not weep when they brought down what they could carry.
She stared.
Her grief had burned past tears.
"My son did not climb that high at night," she said flatly.
No one answered.
"My son was not a fool."
The statement lingered in the air like smoke.
The village avoided her eyes.
Because whether or not Guóliáng had been a fool—
He had gone somewhere he should not have.
And now he was dead.
They performed the rites as best they could. What was left of him was wrapped carefully. Burned. Prayers murmured. Incense thick in the evening air.
The elders called it misfortune.
The younger men called it a warning about wandering alone.
But Fēi Fēnlán called it something else.
She called it wrong.
Her gaze found Liú Tiānyuè more than once during the rites.
Not wild this time.
Cold.
Measuring.
*****************************
Zhào Dàfēng stood with his cane planted firmly beside him as the smoke rose toward the darkening sky.
He did not look at the pyre for long.
He looked at his wife.
Tiānyuè's expression was composed, almost solemn. Appropriate. Neither distant nor overly affected.
Perfect.
He had known by the second morning.
Before the body was found.
He had known the moment she said, He crossed where he should not have.
He was not a fool.
Guóliáng had gone to their courtyard.
Guóliáng had not returned.
And Tiānyuè did not fear discovery.
The mountain had simply… cooperated.
Dàfēng's grip tightened on his cane.
He should have felt horror.
Perhaps some part of him did.
But it was drowned beneath something heavier.
Relief.
No more watching eyes near their walls.
No more whispered speculation.
No more calculating young man measuring their household like prey.
Guóliáng had crossed a boundary.
Tiānyuè had enforced it.
And their children still slept safely at night.
Dàfēng exhaled slowly.
He did not ask her.
He would not.
Because if she had done it—
She had done it for them.
That understanding settled between them without words.
Later, when the village had dispersed and the last of the incense burned low, he spoke quietly.
"They will watch us more closely now."
"Yes," Tiānyuè replied.
There was no regret in her voice.
Only assessment.
Fēi Fēnlán stood alone near the ashes long after others left.
Grief had sharpened her.
Suspicion had rooted deep.
The village might accept the mountain's explanation.
She did not.
And she would not forget.
As night fell over the rooftops, a subtle shift moved through the village.
Fear had changed direction.
Not toward the mountain.
But sideways.
Toward neighbors.
Toward possibility.
Inside their courtyard, Tiānyuè closed the gate with quiet precision.
Territory had been defended.
But blood, once spilled, never truly vanished.
It simply sank into the soil.
And waited.