The sky was just beginning to lighten, the air carrying the scent of moisture and fresh grass.
Song Yu walked through the rainforest, quietly sizing up the man ahead of her.
His hair was jet-black, his eyes clear and sharp, his features chiseled and profound, with a sharply defined jawline.
His lips were thin, pressed together lightly, exuding an air of cold detachment—as if nothing in the world could ruffle him.
Her thoughts drifted back to the previous night—
The gun had gone off accidentally, the bullet whizzing straight through.
Yet the man’s expression hadn’t changed at all, not even a flicker of a frown.
His gaze had landed on the tree trunk beside him, now pierced with a neat hole. He glanced at it indifferently, then reached out and pressed down on her gun.
“Careful,” he said, his voice low and cool, speaking in English she could understand.
He might have said “careful,” but his tone held no concern for her—only a hint of mockery at her marksmanship.
Song Yu stared into the man’s eyes in a daze. His eyelids lifted with cold arrogance, and when he met her gaze, his pupils were deep and fathomless, like the darkest well in the world.
The bullet was like a pebble dropped into it—swallowed without so much as a ripple.
Even the people woken by the gunshot in the wooden hut had seemed more startled than he did.
The next day, the negotiations were set at the border between the farm and the Native American tribe’s territory. Each side brought only two people, and since the man had arrived alone at their camp the night before, it showed plenty of good faith.
When they arrived, someone was already waiting under a banana tree. He wore local attire, but atop his head sat a crown adorned with parrot feathers—a distinctive mark of a Native American tribal chieftain.
The chieftain was younger than Song Yu had imagined, around thirty, with a large nose and deep-set eyes that gave him a friendly air.
She listened as the man conversed with the chieftain in the local tongue. The Native American tribal language was heavy on consonants, spoken fast and urgently.
Though Song Yu couldn’t understand it, she could tell the man spoke more slowly, unhurried and precise, each sound crisp and pure.
The notes burrowed into her ears, sending a shiver of pleasure through her.
From their exchange, she faintly caught the man’s name.
Pating.
After a brief conversation, the chieftain turned to Song Yu, doing his best to look friendly. “Hello,” he said in accented English.
Song Yu raised an eyebrow, surprised he spoke English too.
The guides had described these savage, uncivilized tribes, but they clearly weren’t what she’d pictured.
The chieftain raised his right hand to his left chest and bowed slightly in greeting.
He glanced at the man standing beside her. “Yesterday, Pating and I were away from the tribe. I apologize for my tribesmen’s rudeness.”
Song Yu’s gaze followed his to the man. So that was his name, after all.
Pating.
She held the two syllables between her teeth. For some reason, they evoked the flavor of a Western knight.
Song Yu had planned to yield if the other side proved stubborn, however reluctantly. But they’d softened first.
What she’d braced for as a tense standoff turned amicable in an instant.
From the chieftain, Song Yu learned they’d originally lived deeper in the rainforest heartland. He’d led his people here to join the civilized world, but worried they couldn’t adapt, so this was a transition—they’d started by sending a few children to outside schools.
The chieftain had a cheerful personality. His English was rough, with a limited vocabulary, but it didn’t stop him from chatting with Song Yu.
Zhao Xinxin, ever the social butterfly, quickly joined in.
Through the conversation, they learned the chieftain’s name was Takwar. He’d studied at a missionary college, had two wives and three children.
But his recent headache was this: to integrate into civilized society, he’d have to follow their rules—one wife only. He loved both his wives and couldn’t bear to give up either.
Zhao Xinxin joked, “Sounds like a sweet deal to me. Why not just head back to the jungle?”
Takwar shook his head. “In the jungle, you die too fast.”
His tone was calm and matter-of-fact, stating a simple truth without pity or any other emotion.
Zhao Xinxin was momentarily speechless, unsure how to respond.
Fortunately, Takwar changed the subject. “So, we’re good between us now?”
Song Yu thought it over for a moment, then nodded.
A compromise hurt no one.
With the negotiations wrapped up, the man who’d been silently standing by finally spoke.
“Then keep your people in line. Don’t come over here again.” His voice was cold, laced with clear impatience.
The man’s frame was tall and lean; Song Yu had to tilt her head to meet his eyes—distant and indifferent. A thin earring dangled from his left ear: a round frame holding a six-pointed star.
The copper metal caught the dim jungle light in crosses, cool to the touch.
Zhao Xinxin bristled a little, muttering under his breath in Chinese, “It was consensual, wasn’t it? We’re not even pressing charges for them hurting one of ours.”
He’d cursed Burigude plenty, but deep down, he didn’t see anything wrong with seducing a Native American woman.
Song Yu frowned and shot him a look to shut up.
“That’s our civilization,” she said evenly.
The free love of modern society didn’t apply to a tribe that hadn’t fully joined their world.
Song Yu met the man’s gaze steadily, her tone neither humble nor arrogant. “I will.”
“Hope you will too,” she added.
A respectful distance between civilizations, with no interference.
Takwar watched the two walk away, switching back to the tribal language.
Puzzled, he asked, “Their language sounds like yours. Why use English?”
Pei Zhi’s lips pressed together lightly. His mind flashed to the woman’s defiant stare earlier—like a little leopard refusing to back down.
After a pause, he lowered his lashes. “Too much hassle,” he explained.
He didn’t want to answer the same questions over and over.
Where from, where to, why here.
Especially from those who came to the rainforest depths just for thrills.
The plane carried Burigude to the local town’s hospital for treatment.
Song Yu halted filming, gathered everyone, and announced a five-day break.
Anyone who wanted to leave could do so—and not come back after five days.
After what had happened, no one had the right to demand they stay and face potential risks.
Her announcement delighted everyone, whether they planned to go or not.
The gloom lifted as they eagerly packed, desperate to escape the wild rainforest and catch their breath back in civilization.
Song Yu stayed behind with a few others at the camp.
Life in the rainforest was dull and grueling, a constant battle with the environment. Without guides, they didn’t dare venture deep into the forest.
The crew’s supplies had relied on daily plane drops, mostly water—clean water was scarce in the jungle. With fewer people left, supply runs shifted to every three days.
During the break, Song Yu kept busy with whatever work she could, but days without a bath had left her reeking.
“Why not wash in the river?” Zhao Xinxin suggested, cradling audio gear as he picked his way over hard-packed dirt.
“Nah, I don’t want to end up fish food.” The jungle rivers were murky yellow, teeming with piranhas. She’d seen a guide pull one up once—vicious little snapper.
Song Yu’s voice was edged with irritation; she was sick of the rainforest’s sweltering, humid weather. A single forest trek soaked her back in sweat, with bugs hopping on her now and then.
Worse, water sources were near Native American territories, and she hadn’t forgotten the man’s arrogant warning.
Zhao Xinxin found a relatively clean patch of ground, stripped banana leaves from overhead to lay down, and set the recording equipment out.
Song Yu took the headphones he handed her and slipped them on. Amid the forest ambiance came faint laughter—the men at camp playing cards, carried on the wind.
She picked up the microphone. “I’m going deeper in.”
Zhao Xinxin spotted a frog in the bushes and crept toward it cautiously, hoping to capture its croak. He gave her a thumbs-up.
Song Yu adjusted her headphones and held the mic high, walking until the sound in her ears cleared of human chatter.
She heard sunlight filtering through rustling leaves, birdsong, the murmur of water—bringing a touch of coolness to the stifling heat.
Absorbed in recording, Song Yu wandered deeper into the forest, following the refreshing sound.
Suddenly, amid the monotonous green, she spotted a clearing. The trees thinned, revealing open blue sky beyond.
Without the canopy’s shade, the sunlight glared. Song Yu squinted against it.
In the river’s clearing, the man burst from the water, sending up a spray that muddied the clean ambient sound.
His black hair was soaked, strands clinging to his forehead. Long fingers raked through it, slicking the wet locks back. Water-clumped lashes framed his deep eyes.
Sunlight played over his body, droplets sparkling like jewels. His chest, abs, and arms were taut and muscled, proportions flawless.
Song Yu stared, transfixed in place.
After a long moment.
She knew a line divided them, drawn by civilization.
She still couldn’t control herself. She walked toward the clearing, crossing the boundary.