A world of Strangers

Chapter 4: A World of strangers

The desert night stretched endlessly, cold and unforgiving, yet the camp remained restless. The fire crackled in the center, casting flickering shadows over rough faces and weary eyes.

Inside a tent, the girl sat curled up, gripping the fabric of her oversized clothes. They had given her a set of men's clothing—coarse, too large, but at least they covered her. She wasn't in chains, but she wasn't free either.

She had been interrogated, their eyes filled with suspicion. Who was she? Where had she come from? The bandits didn't trust her—how could they? A lone girl appearing in the middle of the desert was either a spy or a fool, and they couldn't afford risks. Their den had already been compromised once. If soldiers were onto them, keeping her was dangerous.

Yet, their leader had judged her differently. He was experienced, and he could tell if someone was a threat. And this girl… she was not one.

But that didn't mean she was safe.

A camp full of desperate men was no place for a lone woman. The leader had ordered them not to harm her, but words alone couldn't protect her. Who among them was still human, and who had turned into a beast? No one could say for sure.

Still, they couldn't throw her out into the desert. Not yet. Instead, she would remain their hostage—for now.

The tent flap rustled, and she tensed.

A young man stepped inside, carrying a small bowl in both hands. Unlike the others, he looked different—softer, almost out of place. He was thin, his posture uncertain, his expression lacking the roughness of a hardened bandit.

He knelt and placed the bowl beside her. "Here," he said simply.

She hesitated before glancing down at the steaming stew.

He didn't push her. Instead, he sat a small distance away, hands resting on his knees. "I know you don't want to talk," he said after a moment. "That's fine."

Silence stretched between them.

After a long pause, she finally reached for the bowl. The warmth of the broth spread through her, soothing the gnawing hunger in her stomach.

The young man watched her quietly. "I was like you once," he murmured. "Brought here against my will."

Her grip on the bowl tightened, but she said nothing.

His lips curled into a sad smile. "But that was a long time ago."

The fire outside crackled, laughter echoing from the other bandits. But inside the tent, it was quiet.

He didn't ask her name. He didn't ask where she came from.

He only left her with the food, and the unspoken understanding that he knew what it was like to be trapped.

And then, as quietly as he came.

The girl sat motionless for a long time after he was gone.

She didn't want to hide anything—she had no reason to. But even if she spoke, who would believe her? That she had woken up in a foreign body, lost in the middle of a desert? That she didn't even know her own past?

It was absurd.

Yet, no amount of fear or confusion would help her now. If she let herself be consumed by panic, she would not survive.

She had already learned that in the desert.

Now, she needed to hold herself up.

For now, she was alive. She had food. Shelter, even if temporary.

That was enough.

Near the fire, the leader sat in deep thought, his sharp gaze scanning his men. His instincts told him the girl was not a spy. If she was, she was the worst spy he had ever seen.

But that didn't mean she wasn't a problem.

Their ties with the imperial court were weaker than ever. If officials caught wind of their presence, they had no allies to save them. Keeping an outsider in camp was a risk.

Yet, letting her go was also a death sentence.

His eyes darkened as he leaned back.

A decision had to be made.

Because the longer she stayed, the greater the danger—for her and for them.

And in this world, mercy was often the first mistake.

The desert night stretched on, silent and heavy. Outside the tent, the bandits on duty stood guard, their torches flickering against the cold wind. The camp never fully slept—eyes always watched the dunes, ears stayed alert for approaching danger.

Inside, the girl remained awake for most of the night. The ground was rough beneath her, and the oversized men's clothes felt foreign against her skin. But none of it mattered as much as the uncertainty that gnawed at her mind.

She couldn't trust them.

No one had harmed her yet, but that meant nothing. She was alone, surrounded by men who lived by no rules but their own. Even their leader, though he seemed experienced and rational, couldn't guarantee her safety. He could order them not to touch her, but he couldn't control what lurked in the hearts of his men.

So, she stayed cautious. Kept herself awake.

Morning arrived without incident.

The golden sun stretched over the vast dunes, casting long shadows over the camp. The scent of smoke and dried meat filled the air as the bandits prepared for another day of survival.

Inside her tent, the girl sat with her back against the wooden crates, exhaustion pressing down on her limbs. She had not fully rested, but at least she had survived the night.

The tent flap rustled.

She tensed but relaxed slightly when she saw the same young bandit from the night before. He carried a bowl of food, just as he had before, and set it down near her.

"You didn't sleep, did you?" His voice was quiet, almost careful.

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked at the bowl. Warm steam curled upward.

He watched her, then sighed. "I don't blame you."

For the first time, she studied him properly. He was younger than most of the others, with a lean frame and sharp but tired eyes. Unlike the others, he lacked the hardened edge of a true bandit. He seemed out of place here, as if he had once been something else before being swallowed by this life.

She reached for the bowl, but this time, instead of silence, she spoke.

"Ling Yue."

He blinked. "What?"

"My name," she said, her voice steadier than she expected. "It's Ling Yue."

The young bandit was silent for a moment, then his lips curled into a faint smile.

"I'm Han Sheng." He tilted his head slightly. "I guess we're not strangers anymore."

She didn't reply, but something in her chest eased just slightly.

She was still trapped in an unknown world, surrounded by danger.

But at least, now, she had a name.

And at least one person she knew.

Han Sheng didn't ask about her past.

He could have—anyone else would have—but he didn't.

Maybe it was because of how they had found her, wandering lost in the desert, half-buried by the sands. Maybe it was because she still looked unsettled, as if a single wrong question might shatter the fragile calm she had managed to hold onto.

Or maybe, deep down, he knew that some things were better left unsaid.

Instead, he spoke of other things.

"The desert can be cruel," he said, glancing at the tent flap as if he could see past it to the endless dunes beyond. "But this time of year, it's not the worst. The nights are cold, but the days aren't unbearable yet. When summer truly arrives, you'll understand why we travel mostly after sunset."

Ling Yue listened quietly, sipping the warm broth.

"You're lucky we found you when we did," he continued. "A few more hours alone out there, and the heat would have killed you by noon."

She lowered the bowl slightly, her fingers tightening around it. It wasn't something she liked to think about, but she knew he was right. She had barely been conscious when they found her. If they hadn't, she might not be here now.

"Life here isn't easy," Han Sheng went on, his voice carrying a strange mix of acceptance and weariness. "We move often. Never stay in one place too long. That's how we survive."

Ling Yue finally looked at him. "Why?"

He gave a short laugh. "Because we have no choice."

There was no bitterness in his voice, just simple fact.

"The leader makes the decisions," he said. "He's careful. Smart. Not the type to act recklessly. That's why we're still alive." Han Sheng paused before adding, "And he's not cruel. Not to the innocent, at least."

Ling Yue raised an eyebrow slightly.

Han Sheng sighed, as if he knew what she was thinking. "I won't lie and say we're good people. We do what we must to survive. But the leader has rules. We don't kill unless necessary. We don't take pleasure in hurting others."

Ling Yue wasn't sure what to say to that.

Bandits had their own sense of morality, it seemed.

Han Sheng smiled faintly at her silence. "You don't believe me."

"I don't know what to believe," she admitted.

"That's fair." He leaned back, stretching his arms. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."

She studied him carefully. Han Sheng was different from the others—gentler, more thoughtful. He didn't seem to belong among the rough men outside, yet he was here all the same.

"Why are you with them?" she asked.

For the first time, his easy expression faltered.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Like I said… sometimes, we have no choice."

Ling Yue didn't press further.

The past was a heavy thing. She understood that now.

And perhaps, like her, he had his own burdens to carry.

The morning stretched on, the camp slowly coming to life around them. The other bandits moved about, preparing supplies, checking weapons.

Somewhere outside, the leader stood, watching over them all.

And soon, a decision would be made.

What to do with her.

How long she would stay.

And whether her presence would bring them luck—or disaster.

For the first time in weeks, she was having a real conversation.

Not just scattered thoughts in her own mind.

Not just questions with no answers.

She was talking to someone, and someone was talking back.

Ling Yue hadn't realized how much she missed this.

She had always been a cheerful girl—lighthearted, talkative, full of curiosity. Time had been cruel to her, stripping away the comforts of the past, forcing her into silence and solitude. But it hadn't erased her nature.

Hardships had changed her, but they hadn't broken her.

And as she sat there, sharing words with Han Sheng, a warmth stirred in her chest—something she had nearly forgotten.

Happiness.

It was small, fragile, but it was there.

She smiled faintly, resting her hands on the bowl of warm broth. "It feels strange."

Han Sheng tilted his head. "What does?"

"Talking to someone," she admitted. "After so long, I almost forgot how."

He chuckled. "Well, you're doing fine."

She exhaled, her fingers tightening around the bowl. "I used to talk a lot. Maybe too much. But then…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Time changes things."

"It does," Han Sheng agreed, his voice quieter now.

"But I think," she continued, gazing at the flickering light outside the tent, "no matter how much time changes things… some parts of us never truly disappear."

Han Sheng studied her for a moment before nodding. "You're right."

Silence stretched between them, but this time, it wasn't heavy or uneasy.

Ling Yue had learned something valuable in her struggles.

Life was fleeting.

Everything was temporary.

There was no use in dwelling too much on the past or fearing the future. The only thing she could do was focus on the present—find satisfaction in the little things, even if they were small.

Right now, that meant a warm meal. A conversation. The simple comfort of hearing her own voice, of knowing she was still here, still alive.

She smiled again—just a little.

For now, that was enough.