The news reached the village on an autumn morning, carried by a messenger on horseback whose dust‑stained clothes contrasted with the imperial seal hanging from his neck.
Yù Chéng received the man on the veranda of the main house, his fingers trembling as he unrolled the scroll. Zhì Yuǎn and Yù Qíng, who had come for their weekly lunch, watched from the wooden table where Sū Huì served tea.
"The war is over," Yù Chéng said, his voice hoarse. "The empire has won. The northern kingdom has ceded lands south of the border. They will pay reparations for ten years."
Sū Huì let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all those months of waiting. Yù Méi, who had been feigning indifference, let out a muffled cry and threw herself into her mother's arms.
"Thank the heavens," Sū Huì murmured. "Thank the heavens."
Yù Chéng read the scroll to the end, his eyes tracing every line, as if afraid some hidden word might reverse the good news. When he finished, he let the paper fall onto the table and sat down heavily.
"The tribute will return to its previous amount. The mine… the mine is saved."
Zhì Yuǎn saw his father‑in‑law's shoulders relax for the first time in months. He said nothing. There was no need. He simply poured more tea and pushed the bowl toward him.
Yù Qíng, at his side, did not seem to share the general joy. Her eyes were fixed on the scroll, as if searching for something beyond the words.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
"Nothing." She looked away. "I was just thinking that now Father will stop worrying. And Méi will be able to grow up without fear."
"Only that?"
She lifted her eyes to him, and there was in them that light he knew well—the light that kindled only when the matter concerned him.
"The rest doesn't matter."
---
Lunch stretched longer than usual. Yù Chéng opened a jar of rice wine he had kept since his daughter's wedding, and even the grandmother, who rarely left her bench on the veranda, came inside to toast.
"To peace," Yù Chéng said, raising his cup.
"To peace," they all repeated.
The wine was strong, and Yù Méi, who tried to sneak a sip, coughed until tears came, drawing laughter from everyone. Her laugh echoed through the courtyard, and Zhì Yuǎn realized it had been a long time since he had heard something so carefree. The world outside might have changed, but there, at that table, the family still laughed together.
When the sun began to set, he and Yù Qíng said their goodbyes. The walk back through the bamboo grove was the same as always.
"The war is over," Yù Qíng said without enthusiasm.
"It is."
"Father is relieved. Mother too." She walked beside him, her fingers interlaced with his. "That is good."
"And you? Are you not happy?"
She stopped walking. She turned to him, and the light of dusk tinged her face in shades of gold.
"I am happy because you no longer have to worry about the mine. Because they won't threaten to take our family's land." She touched his face. "The rest does not matter to me."
He smiled.
"You are selfish."
"I am." She tugged him forward. "Only with you."
---
The next morning, they set out to explore the bamboo grove.
The sun had not yet broken the mountain line when they crossed the stream and entered the forest that stretched to the southwest. Yù Qíng carried a bag with bread and water. Zhì Yuǎn carried the black bamboo flute out of habit, and the knife he used to cut stalks.
For the first few leagues, everything was familiar. The same stalks, the same ground of dry leaves, the same silence punctuated by birdsong. But after an hour, when they had passed the farthest point they had reached during training, something changed.
The air grew damper. The Qi, which had been merely a faint thread, became denser, more present. Zhì Yuǎn felt every pore open a little wider, as if the world itself were inviting him to breathe deeply.
"Do you feel it?" he asked.
"I feel it. It's as if the air is… thicker. More alive."
"It is the Qi. There is more of it here."
They walked a few more minutes, and then the bamboo grove opened into a small clearing. It was not like the others they had found. The ground there was covered not only with dry leaves, but with low‑growing herbs, a green so intense it seemed to glow. And among them, a few flowers—small, a deep purple, exuding a sweet, heavy perfume.
Zhì Yuǎn knelt to examine one. His inner vision kindled, and what he saw made him hold his breath.
The flower contained Qi. Not the raw Qi he absorbed from the air, but something purer, more concentrated. It was as if the plant had spent years accumulating that energy, transforming it into something that could be consumed.
"It is a medicinal herb," he said. "It has Qi. A lot of it."
"Can we use it?"
He examined it more closely. The Qi in the flower was Yin, pure, but different from what she gave him. Gentler. More… nourishing. Like something that could feed meridians, not merely strengthen them.
"Not for us. Our bodies are already beyond that. But for someone who is just starting…"
He thought of Yù Méi. Of her broken meridians, her damaged receptacle. If this herb could nourish what remained, perhaps…
"Perhaps it can help her," Yù Qíng finished.
"Perhaps."
"You want to help her."
It was not a question. She knew the weight he had carried since discovering her sister's broken meridians. The guilt of having lied. The hope that one day he might repair what was beyond repair.
"I do," he answered. "If it is possible."
She said nothing more. She simply knelt and began picking the flowers with the same care he did.
They gathered dozens scattered across the clearing, as if the place itself had cultivated them to be found. When they finished, Yù Qíng's bag was full.
"We need to go back," she said. "Test them."
"Yes. But first, I want to see what lies further ahead."
They walked a few more leagues, until the sun was high and the bamboo grove began to change appearance. The stalks grew thinner, lighter, and the ground began to slope gently upward. On the horizon, through the trees, Zhì Yuǎn saw something he had never seen from that angle: the profile of mountains taller than those surrounding the village, their slopes covered in mist that gleamed in the sun.
"There," he said, pointing. "There is more. Much more."
"And on the other side?" Yù Qíng asked. "What lies beyond the mountains?"
He thought of the thin man they had killed. Of his words about a brother who had nearly reached the Refined Body. Of his sect, which he had called the "Single Path."
"Cultivators," he answered. "People like us, but who grew up differently. With different methods. With hierarchies. With rules."
"Are they dangerous?"
"The man who touched you was dangerous. The others… I do not know."
She was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on the distant mountains.
"If they are, you will protect me. As you always do."
He did not answer. He only squeezed her hand.
---
They returned home with the bag full of herbs. Yù Méi was not on the veranda when they arrived, but Yù Qíng promised to call her the next day.
"We should test them first," she said, storing the flowers in a clay pot. "If they work, we will tell her. If not…"
"We will not raise false hope."
She looked at him.
"You want them to work."
"I do."
"Then they will work."
He pulled her to him.
"Do you truly believe that?"
"I believe in you." She buried her face in his chest.
---
That night, while Yù Qíng slept with her hand on his chest, Zhì Yuǎn went to sit on the veranda and watch the stars. The sky was clear, and the moon, still waxing, poured its silver light over the bamboo grove.
He thought of the war that had ended. Of the soldiers who would not return. Of the refugees who would never see their homes again. He thought of the cruelty of a world that demanded lives to decide who kept the land.
He thought of Yù Méi, with her broken meridians and her hope intact. Of the herbs they had found, which might help her, or might not. Of the path that opened to the southwest, toward the mountains where Qi was denser, where perhaps there were answers.
He thought of Yù Qíng. Of how she was only his. Of how, for her, the world began and ended with him. And of how that, somehow, made him responsible for everything beyond her.
Why me? he asked himself for the hundredth time.
The Wisdom did not answer. But the stillness of the night, the bamboo grove swaying in the wind, the sound of the running stream… all of it was an answer.
Because you can. Because she chose you. Because the world needs someone who sees beyond.
Yù Qíng stirred in the bed, calling him in her sleep. He smiled, rose, and went back inside.
Tomorrow, they would test the herbs on Yù Méi.
But now, it was night. And she was calling him.
---