Day 2, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Shuishang Province, Huadu Sect
By midafternoon, we arrived at the House of Spring. The place buzzed with chatter and air was thick with the sweet scent of jasmine candles. Afternoon sunlight spilled through stained-glass windows, scattering a kaleidoscope of colours across the marble floor.
Naturally, something had to ruin it.
Whoever was responsible for the theming needed to get their act together. Pitting a rich, violet bellflower against a glaringly vibrant yellow rose wasn’t just a crime against colour theory. It was an aesthetic catastrophe waiting to happen.
And don’t get me started on the symbolism. Bellflowers for constancy, yellow roses for betrayal? Together? In the same arrangement? Was the goal to confuse the audience with emotional whiplash? Maybe it was intentional sabotage. That was the only charitable explanation.
And to tie up the disaster, none of those flowers matched the annual floral theme of serenity. Was it that hard to follow a brief?
I scanned the room for a possible culprit. Someone had made this mess, and they needed immediate botanical re-education. My eyes landed on my shījiě, whose exasperation radiated like heat off sun-baked stone. She was barking orders, turning this way and that, clearly in crisis control mode. Of course, she was in charge. I wouldn’t have expected her to make such a garish error, but then again, stress did strange things to otherwise competent people.
Even to Ju Ying.
“Blossom Chief Ju,” I called out.
Silence. She didn’t flinch, didn’t turn, didn’t even blink in my direction. A rather impressive commitment to ignore me.
“shījiě,” I said, this time only a few feet from her.
Still no response. She was far too invested in fiddling with the contestant roster.
I sighed. “Ju Ying!”
Her head snapped around so fast I nearly stumbled back. For a moment, I was genuinely concerned her neck might twist clean off. Her glare could’ve scorched a blooming orchid into mulch.
I gestured toward the floral decorations, the ones slinking down the marble pillars like they were trying to escape the shame of their colour atrocity.
She muttered something to another organiser. Then, to me, she hissed through clenched teeth, “I thought we talked about etiquette—no, not there, the candle goes to the left—yes, that’s right—never contradict me in front of other people. And never call my name.”
Right. Because uttering the name ‘Ju Ying’ apparently triggered divine wrath.
She pressed her palms to her hips, surveying the room like a general preparing for war. “And yes, I am aware that the current décor, doesn’t suit your tastes,” she added before I could say anything. “But it has its purpose.”
Of course it did. Teachers never admitted to mistakes. In class, they were quick to correct. Outside, they used words like intentional juxtaposition and thematic contrast to cover the same sins.
She preened one of the violet petals, smoothing it between her fingers like she was ironing away guilt.
“If you’re so free to critique, you can be free to help. When I give the signal, change the décor.”
Then everyone will be impressed.
Ah. There it was. Her party trick. That’s who I was.
She eyed me like one would a broom left leaning against the wall. Useful, but only when needed.
“Go on. Get to your place. I don’t have time to deal with you.”
A simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed. Or even a ‘please.’ But no. That would imply she actually wanted my help, rather than conveniently exploiting my presence.
Why couldn’t she be more direct if she just wanted help?
She returned to her post and settled amongst the panel of judges.
One by one, the higher officials of Shuishang trickled in, robes swishing and voices full of honeyed bows and flowery greetings. The kind of crowd that measured worth by posture and pedigree.
I stayed back near the judge’s table.
Two joss sticks of time passed. Ju Ying stood up.
“In line with the past ceremonies,” she said, in that commanding, rehearsed tone of hers, “I will recite a verse from a famous poem, and participants will have some time to grow the flower described. All flowers must be grown to full bloom. To prevent cheating, entrants must also write down the name of the poem and the poet before growing their flower.”
Things were going exactly on schedule. Trust Ju Ying to turn a flower-growing ceremony into a bureaucratic trial by verse. It wouldn’t surprise me if she conducted random soil inspections next or made us submit a thesis explaining the poet’s emotional state when writing the poem.
She clasped her hands behind her back, looking very pleased with her own rules, then glided toward the participants.
“Let the first round begin.”
Right, here we go.
The Blossom Cultivation Ceremony was Shuishang’s annual tradition, and like all things that appeared serene and beautiful, ruthlessness sat underneath. The competition worked in three rounds that I called: The Cull, The Scrape, and The Final Bloodbath.
The Blossom Chief unrolled a parchment and recited:
“Such radiance of green, so casual and composed;
The tint of her dress,
Blends crimson with pink.
The heart of a flower is nearly torn with grief:
Will spring’s brilliance ever know her heart?”
The Cull was for low-level cultivators, whose biggest concern was matching metaphors to flower petals. They were given simpler poems and softer symbolism. The goal? Show promise, don’t embarrass yourself, and—if the heavens smiled—advance.
Ying Yue stepped up first. Her posture was painfully stiff, like a scroll that had never been read. Her face scrunched with concentration, a single bead of sweat sliding down her temple like we were in the final act of a war epic. She turned her wrists, whilst cupping her hands in the lotus position. A pale-yellow beam streamed into the pot, and a flame-tipped red bloom rose from the soil with theatrical flair.
“Ying Yue has grown a red peony,” Ju Ying announced.
Ying Yue’s lips drew up. This was too easy for her. If she hadn’t grown a red peony, I would’ve personally investigated for identity fraud. Ying Yue was Blossom Chief Ju’s personal attendant. She could recite those poems in reverse while balancing a pot on her head. What could it be except Red Peonies composed by Wang Wei?
Ju Ying strolled over to another.
Xue Wan’er looked like she’d wrestled with a wind demon and lost. Hair stuck out in wild curls, and her hairpin held a fraction of her ponytail. Her hand positioning was completely incorrect, and I was surprised she was even capable of producing a flower. Her plump cheeks beamed as the Blossom Chief made her examination.
“A red carnation,” Ju Ying declared, with the neutral tone of someone trying not to judge.
The Blossom Chief floated from one contestant to the next, delivering micro-judgments in her usual “I’m not mad, just disappointed” tone. But the winner was obvious from the start. It wasn’t fair, even as they pretended to make it seem. It was a pageant, and the winner had already been crowned in the womb.
The judging panel finally held up their paddles, revealing three numbers. Only three contestants had correctly grown red peonies. The Blossom Chief gestured them forward.
“Which of you can tell me the poem and the poet?”
Ying Yue immediately stepped forward like she was being knighted. She handed over her paper with the kind of radiant smile people usually reserve for engagement photos. I flashed a grin in return. She deserved it.
Ying Yue is correct. The poem is Red Peonies written by Wang Wei,” Ju Ying declared. But her smile was wavering slightly and her brow furrowed at the edges again. She might’ve been proud, but it was the kind of pride you wore like armour—tight and heavy, and only convincing from a distance. Is something wrong?
The Scrape was when things got dicey. It included both the successful entrants from the first round and mid-level cultivators. The poems grew more abstract, the symbolism more layered. If you couldn’t differentiate Tang poets from Song scholars; or your magic well had run out, you’d grow weeds.
Not surprisingly, Ying Yue breezed into the third round like it was nothing. Sure, her cultivation level wasn’t the highest, but with her encyclopaedic knowledge of floral meanings, it didn’t matter.
Then came Round Three. The final test. For those who made it through Round Two and the high-level cultivators who’d been waiting in the wings. My division.
We lined up and a ceramic flowerpot was placed before us, filled to the brim with wet chocolaty soil. A tidy set of miniature gardening tools lay beside it, all polished and pristine, as if they were going to be used. Which, of course, they wouldn’t be. Anyone worth their cultivation rank knew that real cultivators grew plants with qi, not trowels. Still, the props gave everything a certain air of professionalism, or at least the illusion of it. Which was on point for the ceremony: all spectacle, minimal sincerity.
I was seated at number seven. Ying Yue had seat number two. Blossom Chief Ju stood at the head of the room and made the smallest gesture at me. Her gaze rested my hands. Time for me to be her party trick.
I flicked my wrist under the table. With the gentle hum of qi, purple and pink peonies blossomed along the walls, curling in tandem with white lilies and soft-blooming carnations.
A gasp echoed through the room, rippling from the crowd like a synchronised intake of breath. Of course they would be impressed. They always were. Flashy flowers and clean execution would do that.
Yet the Blossom Chief remained unbothered. Her face didn’t move. Not even a twitch of pride. Would she ever smile at me?
Blossom Chief Ju stepped forward to announce the next round. She unfurled a new scroll and recited the poem in her best ceremonial voice:
“Out of the turbid waters, it stands pure and unsullied,
It transcends the crystal waters to show purity,
Unclogged on the inside as it is upright on the outside,
Devoid of creepers and branches,
Dispersing its fragrance far and near
Standing elegant and crisp.”
Ah. That one.
Ying Yue squeaked. A very audible, very distressed squeak. She was staring at her palms as if they had personally betrayed her.
Of course. That poem. It demanded a spiritual bloom. Something nearly impossible for a low-level cultivator like her. She could quote poetry in her sleep and rearrange flower symbology like a painter mixing pigments but none of that would grow a spiritual flower. Her internal qi reservoir simply wasn’t big enough.
“Tang’er?” Ju Ying’s voice came from just above me.
I blinked and tilted my head. She was leaning over my pot, her hair cascading like waterfall silk and nearly dipping into the soil. As if to make up for all the times she had frowned at me, she had the biggest milky-white smile on her face. Even so, the wrinkles around her eyes had not disappeared.
I eyed the parchment that contained the poem in her clenched fist. Completely crushed. What are you up to?
I averted her gaze. “Yes?”
“Are you going to grow something?”
Not if I can help it.
Ju Ying’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened. “Did you forget your promise?” she whispered.
No, I didn’t forget the promise you coerced me into making: to come to this dreaded flower show. I stared at the barren soil in my pot. It looked back, equally bored. Across the room, cultivators were already performing their little rituals, channelling qi with precision, and summoning flowers that would garner the favour of the audience and the judges.
On paper, the Blossom Cultivation Ceremony was a fancy tradition about poetry, cultivation, and spiritual harmony. In reality, it was the way for mentors to pick new disciples. Impress the judges and you might get a new connection. Fail? You’d be lucky if anyone remembered your name outside the mess hall.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
But thanks to Ju Ying, no one ever dared to pick me. I prodded at the wet soil. There was a time when lots of people had wanted to pick me. But that was nearly one-thousand years ago. Right before Ju Ying started causing awful mishaps whenever I tried to bloom something.
She tapped my pot, as if that would encourage me to do something. Ju Ying lowered her voice even further. “Su Tang. Don’t make me ask you twice.”
I’m not your child. I don’t want to be here.
But you really look like a whiny brat, Su Tang.
I had pride. And right now, her judgemental expression was completely destroying it.
Fine. I rotated my hands slightly and released a clean, unwavering beam of white qi. A tinge of purple bled through the soil, creeping up like a bruise. I grimaced and twisted my wrists sharply to the left. The colour flushed away. In its place, a white bloom emerged; its petals the pale sheen of moonlight on still water, delicate yet precise. At its heart sat a golden pearl, gleaming like a secret. Each petal tilted upward, curving as though in silent prayer, cupping the air like a pair of hands holding an invisible chalice.
A sharp stinging pain rang through my left wrist as Ju Ying slapped me. Now what.
“OW!” I shouted. I shook my wrist and sucked in my bottom lip. The levitating, glowing flower was half formed now.
“Don’t do that,” Ju Ying whispered. The wrinkles on her forehead had fully returned, looking more like a crinkled smock.
Why does she look more worried than pleased? Shouldn’t she be happy that she had once again ruined my chances? Then again, it was unlike her to be so brazened to literally tamper with my flower.
In all the other years, she had gotten someone else to accidentally destroy it. Last year, whilst they were moving the pots to the judging table, someone threw a candle into my pot.
Was this her new game? Or something else? Was it the flower? But that is the flower that matches the poem, Ode to the Lotus composed by Zhou Dunyi. It was the only right answer. Why?
I held back my hand. Barely. The qi trembled at my fingertips, but I forced it still. Across from me, the Blossom Chief’s eyes wobbled. Not many people would’ve caught it, but I’d memorised that look. Ju Ying’s eyes only did that when she was about half a breath away from spiralling into a panic attack.
“What’s going on here?” came a voice, smooth as oiled silk. I turned. It was Minister Yu Haifei (禹海斐). The Grandmaster of Shuishang Province. I knew that this event drew highflyers; cultivation masters who sought apprentices with potential. But I didn’t know the governor would come here.
His smile collapsed the moment his eyes landed on the flowerpot.
There’s going to be trouble.
Ju Ying was already moving. She swept in front of my display like a curtain being yanked closed on a scandal. “Just conducting a contestant check,” she said sweetly.
She’d recovered fast. Too fast. What are you hiding? What are you playing at now?
“Is that báilián (白蓮)?” said Minister Yu Haifei. He brushed past her like she was a doorframe and jabbed a finger in my direction. “You! Name yourself!”
That... was not the line I was expecting. Usually, this was the part where someone shouted ‘disqualification’ or ‘rule violation’ followed by Ju Ying dramatically sighing like she’d tried so hard to rein me in. Instead, I was getting a direct callout from the highest official in the province.
“I am Su Tang,” I said, careful to neutralise my tone.
He squinted, already gathering conclusions like dust on a windowsill. “You’re only a low-level alchemist, aren’t you?”
And you’re just an old fart with expensive shoes. I inclined my head without a word.
His eyes widened until they were the same size as a full moon. What was so shocking? Was I supposed to apologise for existing?
“Liar,” he barked, as if the word could physically knock me backwards. “How can you—some random—grow the sacred báilián, the White Lotus Flower?”
I rubbed my sweaty palms together. This was not good. Not good at all. Minister Yu Haifei was a bigshot. Minister Yu Haifei wasn’t just a bigshot—he was the bigshot. The kind of man small potatoes like me were supposed to impress. Smile politely, bow deeply, and hope—pray—that someone like him would pluck us from mediocrity and dub us worthy of mentorship.
But now that he was staring me down, eyes like sharpened pins and a finger like a tree root aimed squarely at my chest, I realised I didn’t want his attention at all. Maybe Ju Ying had been doing me a favour all these years, by sabotaging my flowers before anyone with authority could see them. Especially if this was the kind of reaction I was going to get.
What to do, what to do.
“Blossom Chief Ju taught me,” I blurted, throwing her under the wagon. Ju Ying’s head snapped toward me so fast I thought I heard a vertebrae pop. Her eyes were two sharp needles. If she had sewing thread in hand, I think she actually would’ve stitched my mouth shut right then and there.
“The flower also matches the poem Ode to the Lotus,” I added. Since I started digging a hole, I might as well dig my grave.
My shījiě took a poised step forward and laid a hand on Minister Yu’s shoulder like a dutiful disciple. But I could see through that gesture like rice paper in the rain. It wasn’t reassurance. It was damage control. Her forehead was folding in on itself, wrinkle after wrinkle forming like waves in a storm.
“zōngzhǔ,” she said, voice clipped, “she is a low-level alchemist. This isn’t the real báilián—just a holographic trick. We’ve been teaching basic illusion spells this week.”
It was such an obvious lie that I wanted to raise my hand just to recuse myself from the narrative; even though I was the one who started the lie. Everyone knew I wagged classes, and spiritual flowers weren’t taught to randoms or small potatoes. Ju Ying insisted the spells were far too difficult and had the books hidden from us. If Ying Yue hadn’t stolen a book for me, I wouldn’t have known that they even existed.
Minister Yu seemed unconvinced, probably because my face mirrored that of a codfish. A single crease formed above his brow, and I could feel his scrutiny sinking deeper into my skin.
“Trick or not,” he said finally, “her spiritual cultivation does not match her listed immortal status. I believe she is the default winner.” The other judges silently nodded their heads.
That was strangely anticlimactic.
“No!” Ju Ying blurted out, a crack in her ever-graceful composure. “zōngzhǔ, that would violate the rules.”
Oh. The annual tradition, of being publicly accused of misconduct, continued. Strangely comforting, really. Naturally, I should have hated those dreaded words she spoke every year. But this was the only predictable thing that had happened since that flower had sprouted. but this was the only normal thing that had happened since I had grown that flower. báilián was it?
But something was different this time. The audience didn’t rally behind her like usual. There was murmuring.
Ju Ying pushed on, grasping for control. “See, the flower has died. It never fully bloomed.” She gestured sharply at the pot like a magician revealing a flawed trick.
As I had said. I was just some party trick.
I knew she wouldn’t give me really give me that book.
I stood. My voice was flat. “I’m leaving.”
Ju Ying glare darted to me, sharp as a thrown blade. “Where is your courtesy, Su Tang?”
I pointed at the pot, where the once-luminous bloom was now sagging into itself. “Right here.”
***
Yǒnghéng Táomù—the Eternal Peach Wood—glowed like a dream someone never quite wakes from. Every branch weighed with blossoms, yet somehow, petals endlessly fell as soft as sighs. They littered the pathway in thick layers, yet not one seemed dull or crushed, as the forest refused to let even a single flower lose its dignity.
After the disaster that was the ceremony, I’d stormed straight to An Lingqi’s (安泠岐) residence.
If anyone could soothe my freshly scorched pride, it was her.
The staircase leading up to her manor curved like a calligraphy stroke; clean, poised, carved from elm and tied together with twine that didn’t look rustic so much as intentional. Like her.
“Qi Qi!!!” I called, slamming the door open with all the subtlety of a collapsing bridge.
Immediately, I regretted it. Several blank faces turned toward me. Blank, then shock. For those seconds, no one moved. They just stared at me like I’d grown three heads and a tail. The silence rang out louder than my entrance.
Her gaze flicked up. In one elegant movement, she pulled her hand from Ze Yijun’s grasp, crossed the room, and wrapped her arms tightly around me. Her embrace was warm, solid, familiar.
I let myself be held.
She whispered in my ear, “Thank you for coming.”
I pulled away. Her cheeks, perfectly smooth as lacquered porcelain, accentuated her radiant smile. But it was her eyes that caught me, as they always did. Even dulled by irritation, those golden-flecked irises shimmered as if God himself had decorated her irises with golden drops. If Qi Qi wasn't the most beautiful maiden in the realm, then the heavens were blind.
“shīmèi! I’m still hurt! Please heal me!” came the wheedling cry from Ze Yijun. Built like a soldier and soul sculpted from a sack of damp moss. Under the lantern light, his tan skin glowed with the illusion of heroism. As I often told Qi Qi, if he just didn’t talk, he’d make a lovely garden topiary.
She flashed golden eyes at him. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“shīmèi, if you say so, I’ll believe you. You’re always right.”
His flirting always fell with the velocity of a kicked stone. He’d tried this on half my classmates back in the day, and most recently his target was my best friend. That is, if ‘most recently’ could be defined as the past three millennia.
He aimed high. I’ll give him that.
The Blossom Deity lifted her eyes. There was a small grimace plastered on her lips. But even if she distorted her face like that, she still looked gorgeous. Enchanting. Alluring.
I peeked behind her. A few other young men stood like wax statues, trying to lean against her furniture in ways they probably thought looked casual and seductive. It was hard not to laugh. I giggled behind my sleeve. This was the price of her face. A face like that didn’t just turn heads—it uprooted kingdoms. I’d never envied her for it. Honestly, I was grateful to not be cursed with such a glow. With her celestial face, she attracted everybody.
She turned on her heel and her auburn hair bounced like satin ribbons as she faced her uninvited guests.
“I’ve checked all of you,” she said crisply. “Please leave. My friend here is seriously ill, and I must attend to her.” She glanced sideways at me.
I blinked. Oh. That was my cue.
I slumped to the floor like a sack of yams. “Ow,” I groaned, clutching my ankle dramatically. “My... ankle. I think it’s sprained.”
“Oh no!” she said, with the acting skills of a tree stump. Still, she hurried to my side. “See? She’s injured.”
Ze Yijun squinted. “Where?”
Qi Qi dragged me over and planted my foot in front of him.
“Right here.”
Ze Yijun tilted his head. “It doesn’t look broke—”
He couldn’t finish his words on the account that he became a blushing mess, as my friend drew her face close to him.
“Didn’t you say that ‘I’m always right’?” she said, her voice sweeter than ambrosia.
He blinked. Then swallowed. “Yes. Yes.”
“And you wouldn’t want to stop me from doing my work, otherwise I’ll never, ever finish.”
“Yes. Yes.”
She leaned closer, her divine face inches from his. I could see the poor boy’s brain short-circuiting.
“And if I never, ever finish,” she added, voice velvet and thorns, “I can’t ever spend time with you.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“You should leave.”
“Yes. Yes—wait what?”
“Thank you!” she said brightly, grabbing the nearest two by their sleeves and herding them to the door like sheep. She shut it with a satisfying thud. Then, she sagged against it, head tipped back, as though hoping the ceiling would absorb her.
I collapsed into laughter, the absurdity of it all finally cracking through me like a river over ice.
“You’ve got to stop being this perfect,” I managed between giggles. “You’re attracting wildlife.”
Qi Qi offered a frown, which had the exact opposite effect to her intentions.
At last, my friend walked off to the kitchen, muttering something about getting refreshments, and I meandered to her living room and collapsed into the sofa, face-first into a pillow.
She soon returned, balancing a tray of steamed osmanthus cake and a porcelain tea set with effortless grace. I leaned forward, snatched the teapot before she could pretend to be polite about it, and poured myself a cup. Then I curled my legs underneath me like a self-sulking cat.
She took a seat, arranged her skirts, and clasped her hands in her lap. She faced me with an expression containing a mixture of elegance, curiosity, and composure, that only she could pull off. She didn’t have to say anything; she rarely needed to, given how her charm usually turned any tight-lipped soul into a blubbering mess. But eventually, she tilted her head slightly.
“Why are you here today?”
It was a rather redundant question and we both knew that. Ever since she had relinquished her position as the Blossom Chief, most of our conversations had been about one thing. Or one person.
I sipped at the tea for two reasons. Firstly, I needed the stall. Secondly, I needed something to blame when the heat scorched my tongue. I retracted, hissing through clenched teeth, eyes watering from more than just emotional damage. I blew furiously into the teacup like it had personally betrayed me, watching steam curl upward like a taunt.
Across from me, my friend remained statue-still. Just her hands clasped loosely on her lap.
“What did you do?”
“Why do you assume I did something?”
She raised a perfectly curved brow. Gosh dang it! Baited again!
I clicked my tongue and began tapping my teacup with one nail in quiet frustration. She read me too easily. Her posture leaned forward, an almost imperceptible eagerness in her poise—if only I had good gossip to reward her with. I flicked my eyes up.
Fine. Might as well spill the compost heap.
Now that I had started, there was no point of concealing.
“Fine, you’re right,” I sighed, “but it was mostly Ju Ying’s fault.”
A flicker passed over Qi Qi’s face. Subtle. Controlled. But I saw the slight shift in her eyes and the way her fingers briefly hesitated as she adjusted the pleats of her skirt.
I stared into my teacup. Su Tang, you should be more careful with your words. How would you feel if she kept complaining about Lao Zhe’s incompetence?
I pressed my lips together. There was a reason Qi Qi had chosen Ju Ying. Even if she was about as warm as an ice bath and as pleasant as a root canal. But still…I wanted her to get it. To understand why I was spiralling.
“She did it again,” I muttered. “She tricked me.”
I doubt she even has The Thousand Petals Diary. She probably just brought a fake so I would listen to her.
I tore the hairpin from my head—the one Ju Ying always made me wear—and flung it to the ground.
“What does she even want? What did I do to her? I just—” I pressed my heads into my hands, “I don’t know. I don’t know what she wants me to do.”
Qi Qi’s fingers tightened around her teacup. Her eyes didn’t narrow. Her voice didn’t raise. But something in her tone had cooled to a low, even hush.
“Maybe she has her difficulties.”
I paused. Those weren’t the words she wanted to say. They came out shaped like diplomacy, but they tasted like doubt. Qi Qi wasn’t defending her. She was buying time. Or biting her tongue.
Either way, the heat that had just left my face returned full force.
“Difficulties?” I repeated, voice sharp. “You know what she did? She was being sneaky on purpose. She deliberately chose a poem the could only match a spiritual flower. How many people there would be able to grow a white lotus?”
My hands flailed now, my temper scattering logic. “We grow grass in our spare time. We would be cheering if we managed to bloom a Chinese bush-clover and that’s a weed we feed to pigs!
I pointed to myself. “Even I wouldn’t have grown it if it weren’t for your secret lessons.”
She gently placed her cup down, looking into me with those impossible golden-flecked eyes that always made me feel like she was seeing something I hadn’t yet figured out.
“I know.”
And yet she didn’t react. Didn’t cheer or scold. Just… “I know.”
I stared. “That’s it?” Qi Qi. You are a tier-five deity, a tier-9 alchemist, the celestial maiden and you’re only seven-thousand years old! How would you feel if you’d been withheld from cultivation?
“Su Tang,” she said calmly, “you’re angry. I understand. But have you thought about what you do have?”
“Pffft.” I dumped my teacup onto the table with a clink.
Gratitude? Towards that woman? I’d rather kiss a cactus.
Her fingers found their way to my cheeks as she gave a pinch. Lightly. Playfully. Familiar. “Tang Tang.”
That one landed. It was her. The real her. No veils. No courtly pleasantries. The warmth returned to her voice like sunlight peeking through clouds.
“I’m not saying you have to endure her forever,” she said, “but there’s a right way to handle things. Kicking her into a mud pit might sound cathartic—”
“It does.”
“—but it won’t fix the problem.”
I curled into myself, clutching my knees, letting the heat burn off inside me. She was right. She was always right. And I hated that she was always right.
“You’re frustrated,” she said, “I hear you. But I also think…she must have her reasons.”
I snorted and looked sideways. I knew what she was trying to protect. Ju Ying must’ve had something redeemable buried beneath that frigid exterior. Else my friend wouldn’t have picked her.
Still didn’t mean I liked it.
“I want to know why. That’s all,” I muttered.
She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. The kind that didn’t push, didn’t scold, didn’t preach. It only reminded me that I wasn’t alone.
“No one says you have to know everything.”
“Yeah, I know,” I whispered, sinking back into the cushions.
I knew. But that didn’t make it easier.
IMPORTANT LOCATIONS AND XIANXIA TERMS (AND OTHER RANDOM THOUGHTS)
- qì (氣) — a spiritual force that exists in all creatures; specifically for this story, amount of qi is a measure of the magical capabilities of an individual.
- qīnggōng (輕功) — described as the martial arts lightness skill which involves using qì to elevate oneself, jump long distances, fly, etc.
- yīn (陰) — often associated with darkness, passivity, receptivity, the feminine, the moon, the earth, cold, and the inward. It is also linked to the even numbers, valleys, and streams.
- yáng (陽) — often associated with light, activity, assertiveness, the masculine, the sun, the heavens, warmth, and the outward.
- Tianxia (天下) — the world that the provinces reside in. Also known as the Heavenly Realm
- Taishan (太山) — a fictional province where the Tiān’ān (天安) Sect, Yè’ān (夜安) Sect, and formerly Liántái (蓮臺) Sect resides. It is ruling province of Tianxia.
- Shuishang (水上) — a fictional province to the south of Taishan, containing a single prefecture named as Shānhú (珊瑚). Shānhú Prefecture contains the capital city Sānshuǐ (三水) and formerly the alchemist cultivator sect Huādū (花都). Shuishang is politically divided: Shānhú Prefecture submits to Taishan’s ruling council, but Huādū Sect does not.
- Yǒnghéng Táomù (永恆桃木) is the Eternal Peach Wood, which is fictional forest on the outskirts of Huadu Sect. It is the primary residence of An Lingqi, the Blossom Deity.
- Shuǐjìng (水鏡) is the Water Mirror, which is a fictional dam located in the Eternal Peach Wood. People cannot accidentally stumble into it: they must know its location. It is the entrance between the mortal and immortal realm: where immortal souls go to reincarnate.
- Zhouwei (周魏) — a fictional province to the west of Taishan, containing a single prefecture named as Mìngyùn (命運). The prefecture contains two sects: Yùyán (预預) Sect and Huángdàodài (黄道带) Sect. Hóngchén (紅塵) City is the capital city of Zhouwei.
- Xuanji (璇璣) — a fictional province to the east of Taishan, containing a single prefecture named as Fēngyǔ (風雨). This prefecture is ruled by the Lin Household of the Wind (Lin Sect). Tiānqì (天氣) City is the capital city of Xuanji.
- Huoqing (火慶) — a fictional province to the north of Taishan, containing a single prefecture named Línxiáng (臨翔). This prefecture is ruled by the Sui Household. Huǒyàn (火焰) City is the capital city of Huoqing.