DBTC 04

Chapter : 04

The Poplar Grove.

The carriage lurched forward again, wheels groaning over the cracked earth. The brief midday confrontation, along with the receding backs of that family of three, was left far behind.

Inside the carriage, Zhao Wan sat upright. The scene just now still lingered before her eyes—the savage glint in that man’s gaze, Qin Chuan’s sudden drawn bowstring, Qin Hu’s icy refusal. Once the initial shock subsided, a cold clarity settled in her heart instead.

When that man had taken a step forward, what flashed in his eyes was the madness of desperation, pushed to the brink by starvation. If Qin Chuan’s arrow had been a moment slower, if Qin Hu’s tone had been a fraction softer… she dared not imagine the consequences.

Her fingers unconsciously clenched the plain handkerchief in her lap. Slowly, she released her grip; the handkerchief bore creases from her grip.

Some truths feel heavy when you hear them spoken—but only when they rush at you wrapped in the stench of blood do you realize their weight is enough to crush innocence.

Zhao Mingyuan was silent for a long time, with only the monotonous rumble of the wheels filling the stillness. Finally, he let out a sigh, heavy with helplessness and desolation.

“‘A kind commander cannot lead troops; a righteous man cannot manage wealth’… The ancients spoke truly. Hu’zi sees more clearly than we do. In times like these, a soft heart plants the seeds of disaster.” His gaze rested on his daughter’s tense profile. “Follow him… perhaps he truly can protect you and lead you to a path of survival.”

The sun remained merciless, baking the cracked earth.

Qin Hu sat with his back straight, the knuckles of his hands gripping the reins white from strain. Behind him, Qin Chuan drove the mule cart, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s, constantly sweeping both sides of the road.

The sun gradually sank westward. Qin Hu chose a dirt road that branched off from the main official road, running close to low hills. It was rougher, but offered a wider field of view to spot distant movements early.

“Brother, smoke.” Qin Chuan’s voice came low and urgent.

Zhao Wan looked and saw several thin wisps of gray smoke rising toward the dusky sky.

Qin Hu narrowed his eyes: “Doesn’t look like proper cooking smoke.” He turned the horse’s head, keeping a wary distance from where the smoke rose.

Darkness was falling. Ahead appeared a sparse, half-withered poplar grove. The trees were few and thinly leafed, but they offered some shelter from the wind.

On the clearing at the edge of the grove lay scattered, chaotic cart tracks and cold ash heaps. A faint smell of decay hung in the air—this had once been a resting place for refugees, and now it was nothing but a mess.

“We’ll stay here tonight.” Qin Hu reined in and jumped down from the driver’s seat. He didn’t immediately call for everyone to alight. Instead, he raised a hand to make a signal to Qin Chuan behind him. Qin Chuan understood, reining in the mule, one hand already resting on the hunting knife at his side.

Qin Hu himself carried his hunting knife and swiftly, silently made a thorough search of the grove and the surrounding fifty paces.

He crouched to examine tracks on the ground, used the scabbard to part several suspicious clumps of grass, and even leaned in to sniff the lingering odors. Only after confirming there were no ambushes and no fresh signs of danger did he turn back and nod toward the carts.

“Chuan, unload. Lead the horse and mule into the grove, tie them on the leeward side. Feed them first, but give little water.” Qin Hu gave the orders as he walked to a leeward spot at the edge of the grove where the ground was relatively dry and flat. He began clearing away stones and dead branches.

Only then did Zhao Mingyuan and Zhao Wan climb down from the carriage, setting foot on solid ground and stretching their stiff legs. Zhao Wan’s legs buckled slightly; she quickly steadied herself against the cart shaft, and the familiar ache in her waist resurfaced. She wanted to help gather firewood, but Qin Hu stopped her with a look.

His gaze rested on her face for a moment: “You and Father rest.”

Qin Chuan gathered dry branches and stacked a fire pit. Qin Hu didn’t light it immediately—only when the last glimmer of daylight was swallowed by night and the outlines of the surroundings blurred completely did he signal Qin Chuan to strike the tinder.

Orange-red flames crept up cautiously, illuminating only the small circle where they sat.

Firelight flickered across Qin Hu’s profile. He took out the flour, and Zhao Wan had barely moved her lips when he looked up at her.

“Don’t move.” His voice wasn’t loud, but his gaze swept over her face as if to confirm she wasn’t feeling any worse. “Stay put.”

That look was deep enough to burn—not a command, but more like an obsession etched into his bones; as if letting her exert the slightest effort was his failing. Zhao Wan felt her heart quiver under his gaze and dropped her eyes.

He turned and began kneading the dough. Qin Chuan tied up the mule and horse, then sat down on the other side of the fire, taking out a dagger to slice dried meat into thin pieces. The brothers worked in perfect sync—one kneading, one preparing meat, the motions flowing smoothly as if rehearsed a thousand times.

When the dough slices went into the pot, the boiling broth reflected the firelight. Qin Hu first filled a full bowl for Zhao Mingyuan, handing it over with both hands: “Father, please eat.”

When it was Zhao Wan’s turn, he leaned down, picked out the most evenly cut slices, and filled a full bowl for her. When he handed it over, his fingers were steady and warm, almost cradling the bowl into her palms.

“Eat slowly, it’s hot,” he murmured.

Qin Chuan quietly ate his own bowl, though his gaze kept sweeping the surrounding darkness. As soon as Zhao Wan finished, he rose immediately and took the empty bowl: “Sister-in-law, let me take that.”

Qin Hu scooped the last few pieces of meat from the pot into her bowl, drinking only the clear broth himself. Then he rose and said to Qin Chuan: “Watch the fire. I’ll make a round.”

Late at night, the wind picked up.

When arranging the night watch, Qin Hu’s voice was especially clear in the darkness: “It’s cold at night. You and Father sleep in the carriage—lay the bedding thicker.” As he spoke, he leaned into the carriage and personally tucked the edges of her thin quilt a little tighter.

Qin Chuan wrapped himself in an old felt blanket, sitting by the wheel of the mule cart, his bow within reach.

Zhao Wan lay down and lifted a corner of the carriage curtain.

Qin Hu sat by the dying fire. Qin Chuan was at the mule cart a little further away—the brothers, one near and one far, formed a protective angle between them. Qin Hu wasn’t sleeping at all; his eyes burned startlingly bright in the darkness. His hunting knife lay across his knees, his hand resting beside the hilt.

Just then, from the darkness deep within the grove, came a faint rustling.

Qin Hu’s gaze sharpened instantly, every muscle in his body tensing. Almost simultaneously, Qin Chuan by the mule cart sat up soundlessly, his hand reaching for the bow beside him.

Qin Hu gripped his knife hilt, positioning himself firmly between the carriage and whatever lurked in the dark.