My name is Liuxing — Meteor — and I'm the courier of Aolai Post.
The relay-post trade goes back to the Tang: a station every thirty li, horses at every station, dispatches riding day and night — horses dropping dead was ordinary. Aolai Post is a small one. I work three roads: north to the county seat, east to the sea, and west — west climbs toward the foot of Flower-Fruit Mountain. Five years on these roads, three horses run into the ground. Don't judge me — they died of miles, not whips. Each one is buried on the slope behind the station, with a stone.
This plague year taught me one thing: the fastest horse can't outrun bad news.
The night the peach woods incident happened, a woodcutter woke me past midnight. I saddled Cloudskimmer, my fastest, and flew to the county seat. Thirty li of mountain road in one watch. Dawn was breaking when I handed over the dispatch. The county vice-magistrate read it through a yawn and said: noted. Go home and wait.
By the time I rode back, the following noon — the yao had already come first. The wall behind the paper-crafter's alley was covered in claw marks.
Since that day I know what I'm really carrying: not dispatches. Lives. I still ride the northern route — that's the salary. But for the west and east roads, if there's so much as a whisper, I ride on my own feed money. People ask what for. I say: one second slower for me might be a lifetime slower for somebody else.
One more thing. Behind the station, beside the horse graves, stands an old thing: a boundary stone, so old it's shedding, every character worn away. My father said it's a Tang post marker. But one night, passing it, I saw lines glowing on the stone — flickering, like someone knocking from inside the rock.
I never told anyone. They'd say the riding drove me mad.
If you need the roads, come to me. Which path runs, which path is closed today — nobody knows better. And if you ever see my old boundary stone light up too —
Tell me. So I know I wasn't the only one.