Together in One Boat The night had deepened, yet Divinecraft Pavilion remained brightly lit. "Senior Brothe…
Together in One Boat
The night had deepened, yet Divinecraft Pavilion remained brightly lit.
"Senior Brother Zou, still here? You should get some rest," a passing junior called out with concern.
"He's still revising his paper—let's not disturb him," another whispered softly.
"Senior Brother Zou, I'm heading off. I left the key where I always do. Don't forget to lock up."
Zou smiled warmly in reply.
Zou isn't the head disciple of the Mohist Hill. In fact, he's not even a core disciple, just an ordinary outer one. Still, whenever his name comes up, everyone from the elders to Buster speaks highly of him.
The reason was simple: he treated everyone with sincere kindness. No matter the request, if anyone sought his help, Zou gave his all—never hesitant, never turning anyone away.
But even a man like him had someone he'd been estranged from for seventeen years.
Though calling it hatred was too strong—Yang never spoke of Zou, and the two quietly avoided each other whenever chance might bring them face to face.
What no one knew was that Yang, the carefree storyteller, and Zou, the most admired senior among outer disciples, had once been inseparable friends.
Seventeen years ago, the peach grove by the sparkling waters of Jadestream Valley had yet to bloom into the lush sea of blossoms it is now.
In early spring, peach branches stretched gently over the water, their delicate pink buds like scattered rouge on vibrant green silk.
Sixteen-year-old Zou walked deeper into the forest, a worn book satchel slung over his shoulder, his shoes damp from the morning dew kissing the grass beneath his feet. Suddenly, a clear, melodious voice drifted down from above:
"The east wind wakes the peach blossom rain,
The bright moon lights the jade-green waves."
He paused, lifted his gaze, and spotted a slender youth perched among the branches of a peach tree. His faded blue shirt was worn thin and frayed at the cuffs, and he clutched a yellowed scroll of poetry. Catching sight of Zou, the boy smiled and raised the scroll. "You like poetry too?"
Zou bowed politely, about to introduce himself. "I am Zou Yizhou…"
But as he bent forward, a tiny wild boar poked its snout from the satchel. Blinking its bright eyes, the little creature clumsily scrambled free and darted off into the woods.
The boy burst into laughter. "Hahaha! Who hides a wild piglet inside their book satchel instead of books? Truly one of a kind!"
His laughter ringing through the grove, the boy gracefully leapt down, returning Zou's bow with a playful grin. Noticing ink stains on his fingertips, he casually wiped them on the hem of his robe. "I'm Yang Qianyan. Just tossing together a few stray lines of poetry. Looks like I've made fools of both you and your piglet friend."
Zou watched the boar disappear into the underbrush, then glanced back at Yang, who was still chuckling. He hurried to explain, "I only tucked it in the satchel to keep it from running wild..." He couldn't help but laugh too—the idea of a book satchel turned pigsty was absurdly charming.
When the laughter settled, Yang clapped him on the shoulder with genuine warmth. "Whether it's books or boars, you're the first I've known to carry a wild pig in a satchel." He waved the scroll playfully. "Those lines I just read aren't finished yet. You seem to have an ear for poetry—care to help me refine them?"
For a thousand years, the Mohist Hill disciples prized mechanical ingenuity above all else—poetry, prose, and song had fallen into neglect. Because of this, the two young men connected instantly, as if old friends reunited.
Zou confessed he lacked any real talent for mechanics but found joy in writing tales of legends, strange creatures, and the supernatural. To keep this secret from their master, he adopted a pen name. Still, he was caught and scolded for neglecting his proper duties. Yang laughed and said, "Funny enough, I'm a complete novice when it comes to mechanics, and even the master wouldn't take me in. All I do is write bitter little poems. If you want, you can use my name for your stories—I don't mind. I can even craft poems and notes to accompany them."
As the sun dipped westward, Zou grew anxious—the little wild boar had yet to return.
Yang took his hand and led him toward the forest's edge. "Don't worry—I saw it wander south earlier. There's fresh grass there; it's probably resting nearby."
Sure enough, they found the boar curled in a patch of warm sunlight on a hillside by the fields, dozing with bits of grass stuck at its mouth. Zou gently lifted the creature, which softly snuffled and nestled against his chest. Watching this, Yang smiled and said, "Zou, I believe your first tale of legends should be about this wild boar."
They laughed together, their joy echoing through the grove.
From that day on, the peach grove became their treasured refuge.
They dreamed of the day the mountain would reopen, when they could journey across the land like the great poets of old—one writing verses, the other composing replies.
And they vowed to open a bookstore beyond the mountain, a place where their stories and poems could live and breathe, together.
"I've heard Kaifeng City is the liveliest place around," Yang said as he copied out the latest manuscript. "When the time comes, let's open our bookstore right at the busiest street corner—and plant two peach trees at the doorway, ones we bring all the way from the mountains." Their stories had already become wildly popular deep within the mountains.
Zou smiled and nodded, then penned four characters on the paper: Qian Jin Bu Yi—"Priceless and Rare." "That will be the sign above our shop."
The "Qian" from Yang, the "Yi" from Zou.
Together in one boat, priceless and rare.
They were young then, believing such days would stretch on forever—that the peach blossoms by the crystal-clear Jadestream Valley would bloom again next spring—that they would share countless stories side by side—that the little wild boar would one day grow into a mighty beast.
That was the spring seventeen years ago.
Later, a few weathered, fragile scripts were found tucked away in a forgotten corner of Divinecraft Pavilion. The poems inside bore the name Yang Qianyan, and pressed between the pages were a few strands of boar's bristles.
One disciple held the books and asked, "Senior Brother Zou, who exactly is this Yang Qianyan? Have you met him?"
"I have. Long ago."