The wind over the Moon Blossom Forest was thin and cold that morning, brushing against the leaves with a hush that betrayed no memory of the chaos that once stirred here. But Mei Lian remembered. She stood still at the very center of the ravaged battlefield, her silvery robes faintly stirring in the breeze, her sleeves clasped behind her back in rigid stillness.
Around her, several scouts from the Azure Sky Cloud Sect knelt near the singed trees and cracked earth, drawing formation markings, comparing qi residues, and inspecting the deep grooves scorched into the soil. One knelt beside a particularly long burn mark.
"The Thunder strikes were precise," the scout murmured. "Too controlled for a beast of that size. And yet—"
"—And yet still wild," Mei Lian finished, eyes half-lidded, golden irises reflecting the broken scene before her. "As though someone wrestled with chaos rather than commanded it."
The corpse of the Three-Headed Thunderhand Tiger lay sprawled under the shade of a jagged cliff edge, stiff and massive, the skin on one of its heads shriveled where a powerful blade strike had landed. Its maw was still twisted in death — not rage, not pain.
Curiosity.
And its core, the source of its power, was gone.
"Strange," one of the cultivators muttered. "The core's not on him. Nor anywhere nearby."
Mei Lian stepped forward. Her hand passed over the tiger's fur, sensing for residual qi. The corruption was still thick, even in death, but there was something else — a faint disturbance. She lowered her palm slowly over its chest where the core should've been.
"It wasn't shattered," she said. "No, if it had been, the spiritual veins around the cavity would have ruptured. But they haven't. Someone removed it…"
The disciples looked at each other, uncertain.
"Do you think Lan Wu—"
"No," Mei Lian interrupted softly, her tone unreadable. "He's not ready. Not for this. Not without injury."
She didn't say it aloud, but she knew the truth: he should be dead.
The pressure of a stage four beast, especially one corrupted to such a degree, should have overwhelmed Lan Wu's cultivation entirely. His survival was a miracle... or a message.
She turned to a silent figure watching from the ridge above — a middle-aged man with dark hair pulled into a jade ring and a stern, tired expression. He wore the robes of a senior cultivator, his qi deep and anchored like ancient stone.
Her senior martial brother — Yan Tian.
He met her eyes and descended without a word, his movements quiet and composed. When he stood beside her, she passed him a scroll sealed with her personal mark.
"This is a personal matter," Mei Lian said. "I need you to check the lower forest towns again. Not for the beast. For Lan Wu."
"You think he's from there?" Tian asked, brow raised.
"No. I'm beginning to suspect he's not even from this province."
She hesitated, glancing toward the mountains in the west, where the clouds hung heavy.
"Take this sketch with you. It's based on what he would've looked like before joining the sect. Ask the herbal shops, apothecaries, caravan routes, port watchers. I want to know if anyone recognizes him."
Tian accepted the scroll and tucked it into his sleeve. His tone, as always, was mild.
"You trust the boy?"
"I do."
"But?"
Mei Lian's golden eyes flickered.
"But he doesn't trust himself."
Days later, the report came back.
Nothing.
No one in the nearby towns, nor the port stops, nor even the old record halls had seen a child matching Lan Wu's description. No lost boy. No caravan accident. No orphan arrival. Not even a mention in passing from beggar or merchant.
It was as if Lan Wu had fallen from the sky.
Mei Lian stared at the empty report under lamplight, the candle's flame flickering in the silence of her pavilion. Her fingers tapped gently against the table.
"He's not from here…"
She should have let the mystery lie. She should have reminded herself that not all cultivators have known origins, and that some fates were simply errant, wind-blown things.
But the look in Lan Wu's eyes — that deep-seated yearning for something lost, something unnamed — haunted her. He was not like the others. He did not seek power for glory. He trained like someone trying to earn the right to exist.
She sighed.
"What sort of past weighs so heavily," she whispered, "that even forgetting it brings no peace?"
Yet as she turned her gaze out into the moonlit courtyard where Lan Wu was resting, healing, dreaming…
She felt something stir.
A blessing… and a curse.
That boy — whoever he truly was — had not simply been delivered by the heavens.
He had been delivered to them.
And something — or someone — was watching.
A week.
Seven days had passed since the forests wept thunder and the trees cracked beneath claws and qi. In that time, the moon had grown thin, then fat again, and the days mellowed into warm, fragrant winds.
And today, in the quiet of the disciple ward, Lan Wu opened his eyes.
His body was sore.
His breath shallow.
But he was alive.
He blinked up at the pale cloth ceiling of the healing quarters, the scent of herbal oils still faint in the air. His thoughts were sluggish at first, caught in a haze. Then—
"The tiger! The corrupted beast—!"
He sat up too fast, a surge of pain racing down his spine, but he didn't care. He clutched his head, images flashing behind his eyes — lightning ripping through the trees, fear numbing his limbs, the moment of desperation where he threw the last of his qi into a single strike...
And then — darkness.
No memory of what came after.
" How did I… survive? he wondered, staring down at his hands."
They trembled slightly. His limbs ached. His robes had been changed, cleaned. His sword rested at the foot of the mat, and his talisman charm, gifted by the elder weeks ago, was gone — burned through.
He didn't know how long he had been out, but one thought pushed through the murk of confusion:
Mei Lian!
Without waiting, he staggered to his feet, wincing as his muscles resisted. He wrapped himself in his outer robes and ran out, past the quiet walkways of the pavilion, ignoring the glances of fellow disciples.
He reached the courtyard just as the morning wind stirred the blossoms.
There she sat.
Mei Lian.
Poised, calm, serene as stone — seated beneath the wisteria tree, cup of tea held in two fingers, the porcelain rim brushing her lips.
She did not even look up when he skidded to a halt before her.
"You're awake," she said plainly.
That was all.
Lan Wu, panting lightly, stared at her — stunned that she wasn't surprised or stern, just… drinking tea.
And without another word, he hugged her.
Awkwardly, not tightly — just enough to show it came from a place of gratitude, guilt, and warmth. Then he fell to his knees.
> "I'm sorry, Teacher. I—I didn't mean to cause trouble. I should have asked for help. I didn't think it would be that strong. I'm sorry for making you worry."
His forehead nearly touched the ground.
Mei Lian blinked. Slowly, she set her tea down.
"You're apologizing?"
"I… I failed to complete my mission properly. I put myself in danger, I worried you, and—"
"You nearly died."
His voice faltered. "Yes…"
She rose to her feet, and the wind lifted her robes as she walked toward him, slow and soundless. For a moment, she stood above him, golden eyes unreadable.
Then she crouched down, knelt beside him, and placed a hand on his bowed head.
"Foolish," she said softly.
He flinched.
"Foolish," she repeated, "for apologizing when you're the one who was hurt. Foolish… and kind."
She exhaled quietly, a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her voice was firm again.
"You should have called for help, yes. But I sent you into that forest because I believed in you. You fought with everything you had. That… is not failure."
"But I—"
"Next time, don't die," she said flatly. "Or I'll kill you myself."
Lan Wu's eyes widened — and a small laugh escaped him. That smile returned to his face, sheepish, bright, as he sat upright.
"Yes, Teacher."
She studied his expression in silence.
That smile.
So pure. So eager to please. So genuine that it didn't feel like it belonged in a world like theirs — one of sect politics, corrupted beasts, false virtue, and rising storms.
She should have scolded him more.
But all she could do was sit back down and sip her tea again.
"You resume training tomorrow," she said, tone composed once more. "You'll return to group drills with the outer disciples. I'll oversee your wind spiral revisions again at dusk."
Lan Wu nodded eagerly. "I'll do better. I'll improve, I promise."
He always says that, Mei Lian thought.
He always tries.
He always smiles.
She turned her gaze away from him, staring at the garden's pond as ripples danced across the surface.
What would happen, she wondered, when that smile finally breaks?
When the world is too heavy?
When someone — or something — shatters it?
Would the boy survive it?
Or would something else take his place?