Chapter 71: Peace Was Never an Option

Beside Bai Yue, Hóng Yè marched as though he was a general, his small wooden bucket swinging in a perfect arc with every step.

His brow was furrowed into a scowl, though Bai Yue noticed it wasn’t quite as sharp as the “I-want-to-set-your-fur-on-fire” glares he had given her back at the village.

Still, the tension was thick enough to choke a mammoth.

Bai Yue looked down at the top of his head. His ears, dark and alert, flicked occasionally at the sounds of the night, a distant owl, the rustle of a nocturnal rodent.

He was so young, yet he carried himself with the weight of someone who had lived three lifetimes.

“Hóng Yè,” she said softly, her voice barely rising above the sound of their footsteps on the dry leaves.

The boy didn’t stop. He didn’t even look up. “The water source is another hundred paces, Mother. We should hurry.”

Bai Yue winced at the ’Mother’ title. Even though he said it, it sounded less like an endearment and more like a bitter obligation.

She stopped walking, letting her bucket clatter softly against her leg.

“Hóng Yè, wait.”

He stopped, his back to her, his shoulders tensing. He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t keep walking either.

“I know I have said it before,” Bai Yue started, her heart hammering against her ribs. “But I really am sorry. Not just for the spicy soup or the dragons or the chaos back at the village. I’m sorry for….before. For the way I treated Yàn Shū. For the way I treated all of you.”

Hóng Yè’s shoulders began to tremble. It was subtle at first, just a slight vibration of his small frame.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” she continued, her voice cracking. “I know I don’t deserve it yet. But I am never going back to being that person. I’ll never hurt your father again. I’ll never leave you behind again. I promise.”

The boy whipped around, and Bai Yue’s breath hitched. His face, usually so composed and stern, was a mess.

Large, silent tears were streaming down his cheeks, leaving tracks through the dust of the trail.

His lower lip was tucked under his teeth in a desperate attempt to stop it from wobbling, but it was a losing battle.

“You…..you made Papa cry,” he choked out, his voice small and high.

“He tried so hard to make you happy. He gathered the best herbs. He wrote poems. He worked until his paws bled to make the furs soft for you. And you…..you called him a weakling. You pushed him into the mud.”

“I know,” Bai Yue whispered, her own eyes stinging. “I am so sorry.”

“Papa was in so much pain!” Hóng Yè suddenly wailed. He dropped his bucket and covered his face with his hands, sobbing.

Bai Yue’s eyes watered again. Sigh.

She needed to do something.

Without thinking, she lunged forward and pulled the boy into a tight embrace.

Hóng Yè stiffened for a fraction of a second, his hands hovering in the air. Then, with a sound that was half-sob and half-sigh, he buried his face in her dappled fur wrap and clung to her as if she were the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the dark.

“I am sorry, my dear son,” she murmured into his hair, over and over, rocking him gently. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

They stayed like that for a long time.

Eventually, the sobs slowed to hiccuping breaths. Hóng Yè pulled back abruptly, his face turning a spectacular shade of crimson.

He wiped his eyes aggressively with the back of his hand and shoved her away with a huff.

“My….my eyes were just… hmm,” he muttered, pouting fiercely. He looked everywhere except at her. “There was a lot of dust on the path. And the Fox’s tail fluff is everywhere. It’s an irritant. A scholar would know this.”

Bai Yue let out a wet chuckle, reaching out to pat his head. To her surprise, he didn’t dodge the touch, though he did let out a performative grumble.

“Of course,” she said, her voice warm. “Very dusty. Let’s get the water and get back. I’m starting to worry about what happens when you leave a fox and a dragon alone for more than ten minutes.”

“They are likely dead,” Hóng Yè said, regaining some of his usual stoicism as he picked up his bucket.

They filled their buckets and made their way back to the clearing, the silence now feeling much lighter. But as they neared the camp, the sounds of “peace” were absent.

Instead, there was a series of wet, thuds, high-pitched giggling, and a very familiar, very undignified screeching.

“I’ll pluck your scales one by one and make a belt!”

“I’ll turn your tails into a very expensive, very annoying scarf!”

Bai Yue and Hóng Yè stepped into the clearing and froze.

In the center of the clearing, Zhāo Yàn and Cāng Jì were no longer just arguing. They were…..tangled. It was hard to tell where the Fox ended and the Dragon began.

Zhāo Yàn had wrapped several of his tails around Cāng Jì’s torso like a straightjacket, while Cāng Jì had his hands firmly buried in the Fox’s hair, pulling with all his might. They were rolling around in the dirt, hissing and snapping like two feral cats fighting over a piece of tuna.

“Stop it! Both of you!” Yàn Shū was hovering nearby, waving his hands frantically. He looked like he was trying to break up a bar fight with nothing but a polite request. “You’re going to knock over the huts! The architecture is delicate!”

“Go, Uncle Cang Ji! Go, Uncle Zhao Yan!” Yòu Lín and Ruì Xuě were sitting on a nearby log, clapping their hands and giggling.

Off to the side, Cāng Yáo was sitting cross-legged, her golden jewelry chiming as she shovelled the last of the spicy broth into her mouth with a wooden ladle.

She was sweating, her face was bright red, and she looked like she had achieved enlightenment.

She didn’t even look up as the two men rolled past her, nearly knocking over her bowl.

“More,” she muttered between gulps. “The pain is…..exquisite.”

But the most concerning sight was Han Shān.

The stoic, powerful Snow Leopard was currently doubled over a berry bush at the edge of the clearing. His shoulders were heaving, and a series of very distinct bleurgh sounds were echoing through the woods.

“Han Shān?” Bai Yue asked, dropping her bucket.

The Alpha turned his head slightly. His face was a sickly shade of greyish-green. “The… the soup,” he managed to wheeze out before leaning back over the bush. “Too… too much… heat. My stomach… is not… a volcano.”

Apparently, even a Snow Leopard Alpha had a limit when it came to Cāng Yáo-level spice.

Zhāo Yàn managed to bite Cāng Jì’s shoulder, Cāng Jì let out a high-pitched “Uhh!!!”, and Yàn Shū let out a tiny, stressed squeak and fainted dead away, Hóng Yè catching him just in time.

Bai Yue raised her hand and let out a long, slow facepalm.

“For goodness sake,” she groaned into her palm. “I think I’ll die before the end of this trip.”

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