Snow fell in soft layers, blanketing the forest in silence devoid of presence.
A young huntress moved through it—cloaked in white, as quiet as mist. Her steps left only the faintest of traces, her breath barely disturbing the air. She stopped beside a leafless tree, pulled back her bowstring, and gave a soft whistle.
A white hare lifted its head.
A heartbeat later, it collapsed, pierced cleanly between the eyes.
The girl walked forward, slow and deliberate. Her gaze swept upward—her eyes full of wariness. Hawks circled these parts, and they would not hesitate to steal her kill.
She reached the hare. With a singular swift move, she pulled the arrow from its skull and set it aside. Her hands moved fluidly—skinning, gutting, and carving with precise familiarity. She left the entrails behind, red against the snow. A silent offering, left for whatever creature might find them.
Only once the pelt and meat were securely tucked in her satchel did the girl breathe freely. The subtle tension throughout her body faded and her pale pink eyes softened.
A smile touched her lips as she began to hum.
It was an aimless tune, but warm against the winter forest as she turned toward home. Her thoughts wandered—not to glory—but to stew, and to the thought of her mother eating something nourishing for the first time in days.
The girl returned to a palace nestled at the outskirts of the territory, nearly forgotten by the others. Its walls were worn and grandeur long dulled by time—but to her, it was home.
Inside the kitchen, the girl placed the hare on the aged wooden table and lit the stove. The flames flickered weakly, casting shadows across the stone walls. She drew water from the well, one bucket for the stew and the other for herself—then she slipped into her room.
There, the girl racked her hunting equipments and entered the adjoining bath. Her blood-stained clothes were peeled away, replaced by a damp cloth and cold water washing over her body. She shivered and continued until she was clean.
When she emerged from the bath, cold but thoroughly cleansed, the girl donned plain black robes and returned to the kitchen.
The stew would take time, so she rolled up her sleeves and began swiftly.
First, the girl laid the hare neatly on the table. Her cleaver—small but well kept—cut smoothly through the muscle. She separated and cracked bone from flesh, her process smooth as she set each part in its place.
The bones were lightly roasted above the flames before going into a pot. The rest of the meat went in with it along with measured water.
After rinsing her hands with the rest of the water, the girl drew another bucket. She washed winter yams and cabbage, slicing them into manageable cubes. After skimming the pot, she entered the small storage room. There, she searched for ingredients she could use for the stew. Some dried and moderately fresh herbs, well stored ginger root and onion, but most importantly—not hidden but still tucked away—were jars of ground spices and salt. There were precious few left, but she did not hesitate to grab them.
She skimmed the pot once more before chopping ginger root and onion—then placing them into the mortar. She added dried herbs and spices, pounding everything into a coarse paste. She transferred the paste into the pot, followed by salt, the cubed yam, and cabbage. Finally, she covered the pot with a lid and set a heavy stone on top to keep in pressure.
Hua Li rested for only a moment before moving again. She wiped down the table, cleaned the mortar and pestle, and dried the cleaver. She swept the kitchen floor, stored everything in its place, and finally sat beside the warm fire—adding wood as needed.
Her thoughts wandered through the steady sound of crackling fire and bubbling stew. Hua Li had been hunting since early daybreak and returned just past midday. Even after returning, she moved restlessly and her eyes felt heavy. By the time she stirred again, the fire had subsided.
The girl yawned and stood up. She slid the stone aside and lifted the lid, revealing the stew beneath. A cloud of steam and rich aroma overwhelmed her for a moment, but she smile. It was perfect.
She ladled most of the stew into a ceramic bowl and topped it with fresh herbs then added a spoon. She wrapped the bottom with cloth and stepped into the quiet hall.
She slipped into her room and gathered the last of her smokeless charcoal from her basket, tucking them into a pouch. She walked silently down the corridor toward her mother's room.
The door creaked softly as she opened it.
A stillness lingered within, broken only by the shallow rise and fall of Bai Liyan's chest beneath the thick quilts. Her figure was elegant even in frailty; her beauty dimmed, but not lost.
"Mother," the girl whispered.
Hua Li stepped forward, the bowl held carefully in both hands.
"I made stew."
Bai Liyan opened her eyes. They were dim, touched with exhaustion—but they softened
when they landed on the child.
Hua Li set the bowl on the small table beside the bed. Then, she fed the smokeless coals into the brazier before turning to embrace her mother.
"You hunted again," she murmured.
Hua Li nodded silently and separated from the embrace. She lifted the bowl up with care and scooped the stew with the spoon.
"You shouldn't have gone alone," Bai Liyan said, her voice faint but firm.
"I know." She lifted the spoon to her mother's lips, and she accepted it without resistance.
"You're so young… barely ten."
"I know," she said again, adjusting the flame just slightly. "But you haven't eaten properly in three days."
Bai Liyan fell silent. Her gaze lingered on the bowl.
Hua Li brought another spoonful to her mother's lips.
Steam rose faintly between them. The broth shimmered with pale oil—the meat was tender, the vegetables soft.
Bai Liyan smiled, her eyes closed as she swallowed.
"It's better this time," she said softly.
Hua Li smile tugged, but didn't let it show too much.
"I added the last of the salt and spices," she whispered, as though revealing a secret.
Silence passed between them.
Bai Liyan opened her eyes again. "I wish you didn't have to take care of everything."
"But I want to."
"No… you need to. It's not the same."
Hua Li looked down. Her hands, though small, were steady as she raised another spoonful.
"I'm not tired," she said, somewhat defiantly.
Her mother didn't answer, accepting the next bite. Her daughter was such a good child—except in those rare, impossible moments of stubbornness.
Bai Liyan wouldn't trade it for anything else.
"Don't stay out late," she said after a while. "Always think about your safety and don't hunt larger creatures."
"Yes." Hua Li didn't argue about this.
"Promise?"
Hua Li nodded.
When the bowl was empty, she set it aside and pulled the quilts higher around Bai Liyan's shoulders.
Her mother's hand, cool and light, touched hers.
"I worry," she said. "I don't want you to get hurt."
"I'm very strong," Hua Li said with a hint of boastfulness. "Remember when I took down a deer?"
"And most of it went to waste. You didn't know how to field dress it, and we couldn't finish it all."
Hua Li winced at that memory. That was the first time she saw her mother truly angry at her. The carcass sat out in the summer heat, untouched, until she arrived to finish it.
Bai Liyan's eyes shimmered. She pulled her daughter into an embrace. They remained like that until she kissed her gently in the forehead.
"Off you go now."
Hua Li nodded meekly. "Yes."
She gave the brazier a final stoke, gathered the bowl, and turned to leave. She glanced over her shoulder—long enough to see her mother's eyes close, breath slowing down.
She returned to the kitchen with slow steps.
Hua Li poured what was left of the stew into her own bowl and ate slowly. She felt a coiling knot in her heart.
Why did her mother deserve to live in a forgotten palace? Why couldn't they get medicine when she got sick? Why did she not get to eat full meals, and gave the best parts to her instead? Tears rolled down her cheeks—quiet sobs resonated.
Each spoonful was warm and delicious. Each bite and breath, calmer.
By the time Hua Li set the bowl down, the fire had dimmed—and so had she. She washed the pot and bowls carefully, then placed them back where they belonged.
The moment she put the last bowl down, she paused—faint concern creasing her brow.
Then she remembered.
The arrow—she had left it.
Hua Li wrapped herself in her white cloak again, pulling the hood over her hair. The wind outside had grown sharper, but the snow had stopped falling. The light had dimmed into a pale blue—cloudless as the sky became painted with flames.
Hua Li walked with quiet urgency, retracing her steps from earlier. They had nearly vanished beneath the snow, but she could still trace them. She also scanned the trees for marks, confirming her path.
The arrow lay just where she had left it—half-sunk into the snow, its fletching dark with dried blood.
She let out a breath and knelt to retrieve it.
But the entrails were gone.
The snow near where she had left the offerings was pristine. No prints marked the snow—only her own. It was as if it had vanished, the impression on the snow left undisturbed.
Hua Li stared for a moment, taking the arrow into her hands before standing up. She made a quiet note to be more wary of hawks in the future. Thinking nothing more of it, she turned back toward home.
—
Earlier, a man in black robes had passed by that same arrow.
Zhan Zheng stood still beside a tree, his hands folded behind his back. He saw a peculiar arrow, and entrails beside it.
His gaze lingered. "An offering?"
A faint smile touched the corner of his lips.
What remained was quiet, but the meaning behind it lingered—intent and action folding into the snow. He saw an arrow forgotten in earnest, and entrails left as a gesture of reverence.
He stood, lifted his fingers, and let his Qi ripple outward—quiet, light, and refined.
In place of the entrails, an essence now lingered—a breath of spiritual Qi gently suspended within the air.
Should the person return, the Qi would greet them—quietly strengthening their life. If not, the clearing would flourish, fulfilling the wish in their place.
His steps left no trace on the realm as he moved toward the palace. It was nestled in a quiet space some distance from all others.
When he reached it, he did not knock. He entered Bai Liyan's room directly.
Bai Liyan had sensed him long before the door opened. She sat up slowly, her back resting against the cushions.
"Why are you here?"
Zhan Zheng's expression, as always, was unreadable.
"Your name is fading from the Jade Registry," he said simply. "Your sister's name—it has been gone for some time."
Bai Liyan exhaled a soft breath through her nose. "I don't care."
"I can tell you why you were cast down."
"Of course there's a reason," she said with a scoff. "There isn't any possible reason in my father's noble wisdom and your Pavilion's endless righteousness."
"Your sister angered the Heavens."
She paused, stunned for a moment.
Zhan Zheng continued. "She stole a beloved child from the Ninth Heaven and placed it in the Underworld. She died before the Heavens noticed, and you were the closest connection to her."
Bai Liyan clenched her hands and asked simply, "Why?"
Zhan Zheng was quiet for a moment, then answered. "It relates to her unique physique. Regardless, the Heavens do not care for any reason."
Bai Liyan didn't know how to feel. She couldn't be angry anymore, not especially about the punishment.
Silence settled between them.
"You're sick."
She didn't respond—wasn't keen on that remark.
"The upper Heavenly Realms are in turmoil. The Divine Beasts are moving again."
Zhan Zheng conjured a cup and filled it with spirit wine. He raised the cup toward her. Bai Liyan refused with a glance.
He sighed. "If only you stayed… even under the Heaven's wrath, there wouldn't be so much divide."
He held out the cup again. "This will rejuvenate your broken cultivation. Take it."
Bai Liyan thought for only a moment. There was no doubt in her mind.
"No. I no longer care for whatever happens elsewhere."
Zhan Zheng's eyes narrowed. "What could possibly anchor you here to the Mortal Realm?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He scanned the palace and froze. He saw no one else, but signs of another remained. "A child?"
Zhan Zheng was momentarily stunned, but Bai Liyan left no room for misunderstanding.
"She is not of my own blood… but I cherish her more than the Heavens themselves."
Zhan Zheng said nothing. He put away the cup and spirit wine, left only to contemplate her conviction.
"If that is the case… there is nothing more for me to do here. Would you like me to alleviate your illness? It will allow a few more decades with her."
Bai Liyan held a pained expression. Just hearing those words—she thought it would be so nice. To be with her daughter for many more years… tears welled in her eyes, but in the end, she refused.
"It will affect her karma too much. I must find mortal methods that will work."
The room was silent, save for Bai Liyan's quiet tears.
They both understood—she would never find a cure in the Mortal Realm. She had fallen from the Eighth Heaven, her cultivation shattered by the wrath of the Heavens themself. Even the offer to cure her illness was generous.
Zhan Zheng's lips pressed together. He knew the she was stubborn—and nothing he could say would change it. He turned toward the door.
"May the Heavens have mercy on you."
Nothing more was said between them, and he stepped out the palace. When Zhan Zheng reached the gates, he stopped as they opened.
A small girl in a white cloak stepped through—arrow in hand, face slightly flushed.
When she saw him, she froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
Zhan Zheng glanced down at her, and said nothing. Hua Li could only stare.
He was taller than anyone she had ever seen. His robes flowed like mist. His presence felt distant—unreachable. His eyes were not cold, but sharp—carved from steady discipline.
She didn't know if he was terrifying or beautiful.
"Who are you?"
Zhan Zheng didn't answer. He saw the same forgotten arrow, the same filial reverence, and now youth with vast potential. This was Bai Liyan's anchor, her daughter.
He knelt, lowering himself to her height. "I am Zhan Zheng. I was acquainted with your mother."
Hua Li's eyes lit up. "You're a friend of mother? Rarely anyone visits."
The girl bowed deeply. "I'm Hua Li!"
Zhan Zheng smiled. "I was checking on her situation. Her condition is dire."
Hua Li furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"She won't live much longer—not past the coming season."
The girl instantly became agitated, and she rushed past the man. "Excuse me!"
"Wait."
She stopped and turned around with an inquiring look.
Zhan Zheng fished what looked like a black stone slab from his sleeve. He offered it forward to the girl. "Bring this to your mother."
Hua Li took it, giving another bow. "Thank you, mister Zhan."
Then she scurried into the palace. She entered the room and found her mother half asleep, the brazier smoldering.
Bai Liyan opened her eyes, catching the worry on her daughter's face.
Hua Li set the arrow and stone aside and nearly collapsed into her mother's arms.
"Mister Zhan said you won't live much longer!"
Bai Liyan was still for a moment before embracing her daughter. She soothed the girl with gentle strokes of her hair and said softly, "I don't have much time left."
Hua Li tightened the embrace, trembling as she nearly broke into sobs—until her mother gently held her head and looked into her eyes.
"Remember when I said I worry? If you cry all day, I'll worry greatly. Then we won't have time to be with each other."
Hua Li nodded, slowly calming beneath her mother's gentle touch. Eventually, she let go and picked up the stone slab, presenting it to her mother
"Mister Zhan told me to give this to you."
Bai Liyan accepted the slab, her eyes narrowing in recognition—black jade. It was ordinary in her eyes: without Qi, and not especially rare. What surprised her were the characters carved into it.
She looked up at her daughter, wondering why Zhan Zheng had left such a message. Why would he offer to watch over her?
For the first time, she peered into her daughter's body and soul.
Bai Liyan was shaken, but didn't let it show. Instead, she simply smiled.
"It's time I teach you about the Heavens."