The bandit recognizes Qiubai. It was during a summer five or six years ago, when he saw a dying girl lying on the ground in the barrens. The clothes she wore did not appear local, resembling the style of Jiangqi more. 'That's thousands of li away; how did she end up here?' He looked around and found she had nothing with her—no money, no food, no water—yet despite so many people passing by, nobody was willing to help her. Any other time, and he would've walked away like all the others. But business had been flourishing, and he was in a good mood. Watching the poor girl before him, he couldn't help but think of his own miserable days, when he wished someone would help him... To save someone is an act of great kindness, and today he was more than glad to be a good person and help this girl. He untied the waterskin from his waist, gave her a few sips, and dragged her into the shade of a boulder. After a while, she opened her eyes. He cracked a satisfied grin, patted her on the shoulder, and left her a few coins. 'Don't cry, girl. Live on.' Qiubai recognizes the bandit. It is winter now. Several corpses lie in the sand, covered by a thin layer of powdery snow. Recently, bandits have been quite active outside the village, and the villagers pooled together their money to hire her to take care of them. They said that after a string of Catastrophes, the harvests in the area were disappointing. With poor harvests came poor business. With no money in their purses, bandits began to sprout up like weeds. After all the whining and complaining, they began to praise Qiubai's skills. The bandits knew they were at the end of their rope, so they took the village's children hostage. Yet she seized the opportunity and struck, slaying them all in a single strike. She does not say a thing. She recognizes the waterskin—or rather, the wine pouch, from which a murky and choking liquor flows—dangling from the waist of a corpse. She thinks back to the man's smile just a few years ago, and to the few sips of water and coins that had kept her going until she could reach the next town. The corpse still holds in his hand a knife—modified from a farming sickle—blackened by layers of blood both new and old. As for her own blade, it had yet to be wiped clean, and still drips red with fresh blood. She sets down her bamboo snow hat in front of the waterskin, and folds into it a plum blossom.