The sky was clear blue, without a single cloud in sight, stretching wide and unbroken over rolling hills still damp with morning dew. It felt as if the heavens themselves were trying to tell everyone that this day was different — something unusual was about to happen. Somewhere beyond the courtyard walls, a rooster called out twice, then fell silent, as though even it sensed the stillness settling over the estate. The wind was soft and gentle, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming plum trees from the garden below.
Suddenly, a voice emerged in a tender tone. "Son… son… wake up… wake up." The voice was filled with excitement, warm as morning light spilling through a half-open window.
"We're going to the place you want to go. Aren't you happy?" The voice seemed to come from the shadows at first, distant and half-formed, yet it grew louder and louder, resolving into something real. Shree Yan suddenly woke up.
His expression was a mixture of fear, confusion, rage, and shock. He lay still for a moment, listening to his own heartbeat, unfamiliar and too fast beneath thin silk sheets. He looked down at his hands — small and soft, fingers unmarked by callus or blade — and his heart skipped a beat as he turned toward the mirror standing near the bed frame.
Shree Yan was stunned.
Slowly, he raised his hand and touched his face, tracing the unfamiliar line of his jaw, the smoothness of skin that had not yet seen seven hundred years of war, as if trying to confirm reality itself. His mother noticed his strange behavior and asked with concern, her brow creasing gently,
"What happened, son? Why are you behaving so strangely?" She had many questions gathering behind her eyes, but she didn't ask them, choosing instead to wait. Shree Yan turned to her and asked quietly, his voice still hoarse from sleep,
"What is your name… miss?"
She froze in shock, one hand still hovering near the edge of the blanket. She had never imagined her son would ask her such a question. Yet she didn't question him in return — only searched his face for something she couldn't quite name.
Instead, she whispered with a faint smile, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, "My dear son, my name is Qing You. I am your mother."
The moment she said those words, tears streamed down Shree Yan's face, sudden and unbidden, catching him as much by surprise as her. Qing You held both of his hands tightly in hers. Her hands were warm — calloused faintly at the palm from years of needlework, yet gentle in their grip. That warmth felt comforting to him in a way he couldn't explain, spreading slowly up through his wrists like sunlight through cold water. She looked at him gently and asked, "Why is my son's beautiful face filled with tears? Tell your mother. I am here. I will listen. Your mother can do anything for you."
With tears trembling in his voice, Shree Yan whispered, "No… no, Mother. I just had a dream… a dream where I died. It was so painful. That dream was filled with nothing but pain."
He replied like a crybaby, voice cracking on the last word, and immediately felt some deep, buried part of himself recoil at how easily the tears had come.
Qing You sat on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight. Shree Yan rested his head on her lap, and the warmth of her, the faint smell of jasmine oil in her robes, the steady rhythm of her breathing — all of it pulled him under, and he soon fell asleep.
She gently patted his head and whispered, more to herself than to him now,
"Son, this is nothing unusual in this world. Every living being must face such things — not just you. Pain, sadness, fear, and even death. All living beings must endure the harshness of the world: suffering, struggle, and the cruelty of society."
Outside, the wind shifted. A single crow called out from somewhere beyond the garden wall, and the plum blossoms trembled faintly against their branches.
Suddenly, voices echoed from outside — sharper now, urgent. Soldiers were calling for Qing You and Shree Yan, boots pounding against packed earth, the distant clatter of horses being readied.
"Son, hurry. We need to go," Qing You whispered, already rising. She left the bed in one fluid motion, opened the door, and stepped outside into a morning that no longer felt as still as it had moments ago.
Shree Yan followed, feet bare against the cool wooden floor. He stopped by a drawer near the wall and opened it, the hinges creaking faintly with age.
He chose a black outfit, plain, neither special nor majestic. It was a traditional long robe, hanfu style, with a V-shaped overlapping collar, the attire of a scholar — simple fabric that felt strange and unfamiliar against skin that remembered, somewhere deep beneath conscious thought, the weight of battle armor.
He looked into the mirror one final time before leaving. His appearance was like carved jade, pale and smooth beneath the dim morning light filtering through the paper screen behind him. His hair fell like a curtain of night — long, straight, and unbound, flowing freely down his back and shoulders. No ornaments restrained it. Only silence and the wind accompanied him.
Each dark strand framed his pale face, as if the world itself had learned to lower its voice in his presence. When the breeze passed through the half-open window, his hair moved gently — neither wild nor submissive — carrying an air of quiet detachment, as though worldly ties had long since lost their hold on him. He opened the door and stepped forward, the morning air cool and sharp against his face.
Suddenly, a man rushed toward Shree Yan across the courtyard, sandals slapping hard against stone. His face was exhausted, sweat covering his forehead and cheeks despite the cool air, his chest heaving from the run. Grabbing Shree Yan's hand, he said urgently, breath ragged between words,
"Young Master, I'm here to take you." He was a disciple of the Rana Clan. His name was Bo You.
Bo You led Shree Yan outside through the main gate, past startled servants pressing themselves flat against the walls to let them pass, where Qing You was already mounted on a horse, her robes gathered tightly around her legs against the wind. Soon, they all began riding, hooves striking the dirt road in a fast, uneven rhythm.
As the horses galloped forward, dust rising in pale clouds behind them, Shree Yan looked at his mother and thought silently, "Mother, in this life, I will protect you."
But fate cannot be changed by human words alone. The sky slowly darkened, clouds bruising purple and grey at the edges as though something vast were pressing down from above.
Aggressive cries filled the air — not human, but something older, wilder. Thousands of birds surrounded them, their shadows spreading across the land like a stain moving over the hillside, wings beating in a chaotic rhythm that drowned out even the pounding of hooves. The senior soldier shouted commands, his voice cracking with effort, urging the horses to go faster. Hearing his orders, all the soldiers drove their horses forward at full speed, leather reins biting into palms already slick with sweat.
Qing You and Shree Yan rode together, her arms wrapped tightly around him from behind. Qing You removed her outer robe with one hand, nearly losing her balance in the saddle, and gently covered Shree Yan with it, shielding him from the sharp, cold wind now cutting across the open plain.
She trembled from the cold, her bare arms exposed to the biting air, yet she didn't care. Her fear was not for herself but for her son. "Don't be afraid, son," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the wind and the birds and the thunder of hooves. "I'm here. I will protect you."
Shree Yan was scared and shocked by the sudden change in nature, gripping the front of the saddle with both small hands, watching the sky churn overhead like something alive and furious. The senior soldier ordered the troops to search for a cave to take shelter, his voice carrying back down the line of riders.
After twenty minutes of hard riding — twenty minutes that felt far longer, the horses' flanks lathered white with sweat — the soldiers shouted they had found one, a dark opening set into a rocky hillside just visible through the gathering storm.
The cave was small, but it was enough to survive. All of them entered, ducking beneath the low stone entrance, boots scraping against uneven ground. Darkness filled the space until the senior soldier struck a fire stick against wood, sparks catching after several attempts, small and stubborn against the damp air. Flames ignited, pushing the darkness away and casting long, flickering shadows against the cave walls. Shree Yan was scared as he thought to himself, "What is going on here. No. Don't be scared."
He looked at his mother, her face lit gold and orange by the firelight, and repeated silently, "But that doesn't matter. What matters is that I protect her." Outside, rain began to fall, gently at first, then harder, the sound of water striking the ground echoing loudly within the cave, a steady drumming that seemed to grow louder the longer they sat in silence.
The senior soldier gathered wood from a small pile near the entrance and placed it in the center of the cave. The fire burned steadily now, casting warmth that barely reached the cave's damp stone walls. Qing You and Shree Yan settled together on the left side of the cave, her arm still wrapped around his shoulders, her robe now serving as a blanket for them both.
The senior soldier and the other soldiers settled on the right, weapons laid within easy reach, eyes occasionally drifting toward the cave entrance where rain fell in silver sheets against the darkening world outside. And outside, beyond the rain and darkness, something unseen was watching — patient, silent, and utterly still, save for the faint, wet sound of something shifting in the underbrush just beyond the firelight's reach.