The Shunan Bamboo Forest stretched endlessly beneath the soft morning light, a quiet ocean of green where the wind carried songs of forgotten times. Few dared to venture deep into its heart. For it was said that a witch lived there, a woman both feared and revered.

Her name was Mei Xinyi.

To the world beyond the forest, she was a mystery wrapped in rumor. Some said she could call the rain with her voice; others whispered she could take a man’s life with just a glance. Yet those who had truly met her spoke of someone different. A girl with soft eyes, calm hands, and a voice that could ease even the most troubled heart.

Mei Xinyi’s home was a small wooden cottage hidden beneath the shadows of tall bamboo, surrounded by a garden that never seemed to wither.

Herbs of every kind grew there… mint, mugwort, ginseng, bellflower. Each one tended to with care and devotion. She knew their scents, their bitterness, their secret cures. With them, she could heal wounds the palace physicians could not, or craft potions that made dreams last longer than sleep.

Her beauty was quiet but undeniable, skin like moonlit porcelain, dark hair falling like a river down her back, eyes deep and steady as the forest pond she often sat beside. But what truly set her apart was something no mirror could show the ancient blood of witches flowing through her veins.

It was a gift, and a burden.

When the moon was full, that blood called to her. She could feel the world breathing, the heartbeat of the forest, the hum of the earth beneath her feet. Sometimes, when she whispered the old words passed down through her lineage, the bamboo swayed as though bowing to her voice. She didn’t always understand her power, but she respected it. Never using it to harm, only to protect.

Still, not everyone saw her kindness.

To some, Mei Xinyi was a witch, dangerous, untamed, a reminder of an old world the empire had long tried to erase. They feared her beauty, her wisdom, her strength. To others, she was a healer, a quiet savior who lived where light and shadow met.

She never sought the world’s approval. The palace was far away its golden towers nothing but a distant gleam on clear days. She had long given up wondering what life might have been beyond the bamboo. The forest was her home, her shield, and her companion.

But peace has its limits.

In recent nights, Mei Xinyi had begun to sense a shift in the wind, a tension that did not belong to the forest. Her herbs bloomed before their season, the pond rippled though no breeze stirred. Something was approaching, quietly but surely, threading its way through fate toward her secluded world.

Mei Xinyi lifted her gaze to the horizon that morning, feeling the air grow still.

The world she had avoided for so long was coming for her.

And when it did, the Witch of Shunan would no longer be just a whisper in the forest. But the beginning of a story that could change the empire itself.

The forest was alive that night.

Bamboo leaves shimmered under the pale moonlight, swaying softly as if they too were part of a quiet song. Fireflies floated in the air like fragments of fallen stars, their golden glow reflecting on the still surface of a pond that mirrored the heavens above.

At the edge of that pond, a little girl danced barefoot. Mei Xinyi, no more than eight years old. Her laughter rang like silver bells, pure and light, as petals and leaves swirled gently around her. The air itself seemed to breathe with her, the bamboo bending closer, the flowers blooming brighter wherever her feet touched.

“Careful, Xinyi,” her mother called, smiling from the doorway of their cottage. Her voice carried warmth, yet her eyes held the quiet wisdom of someone who had seen too much. “You’re waking the spirits again.”

“They like it,” Mei said, grinning as a small light, a firefly brighter than the rest landed on her palm. “See? They’re not afraid.”

Her mother laughed softly, brushing a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Perhaps they know you’re one of them.”

For a moment, it was perfect, a scene of peace woven with moonlight and love. The world seemed still, almost sacred. Mei twirled once more, the water rippling beneath her, glowing faintly as if answering her movement. Magic hung in the air, gentle and alive, not from a spell, but from the bond between mother, daughter, and the ancient forest that sheltered them.

Then, the night shattered.

A sudden crash broke through the silence. The sound of glass and fire colliding. The sky blazed orange for an instant as a bottle of burning oil smashed against their cottage wall. Flames erupted, devouring wood and herbs in a single breath. Mei froze, her tiny hands trembling as the air filled with smoke and the scent of destruction.

“Mother!” she cried.

Her mother’s eyes widened, not with fear, but with sorrowful resolve. She knelt before Mei, gripping her shoulders firmly. “Listen to me, Xinyi,” she whispered, her voice trembling only slightly. “You must live.”

From the shadows of the burning forest, a soft growl echoed, a white fox with golden eyes emerged, its fur gleaming in the flickering light. The creature bowed its head before Mei’s mother, as if understanding the words she had not yet spoken.

“By the ancient oath,” the woman murmured, raising her hand as a faint silver light enveloped them. “Guard her. Raise her as your own until the day her power awakens. Protect her… even if it costs your life.”

The fox barked once, a sound sharp and sorrowful. Magic flared, swirling around Mei like a gentle wind before pulling her away. The last thing she saw was her mother standing before the flames, arms outstretched, her power rising like a storm to shield her child one final time.

Then, darkness.

When Mei awoke, the forest was quiet again. The fire was gone. Only ashes remained and beside her, the white fox curled close, eyes gleaming softly in the dawn light.

Seven years had passed since the fire that swallowed her home.

The Shunan Bamboo Forest had grown even denser, its emerald stalks stretching high enough to touch the clouds. The morning mist curled lazily between them, carrying the scent of dew and earth. Deep within this quiet paradise lived Mei Xinyi, no longer the frightened child of that tragic night, but a young woman whose presence seemed almost otherworldly.

She knelt by the mossy ground, her slender fingers brushing against the leaves of a wild herb. A soft blue light flickered from her palm, and the plant bloomed instantly, releasing a faint, soothing fragrance. Mei smiled, a gentle curve of her lips that made the forest seem to breathe easier.

Her magic had grown.

It flowed naturally through her veins now. Controlled, and powerful. She no longer needed chants or gestures. The earth responded to her touch; the water bent to her will. Every jar, bottle, and scroll her mother had left behind, she had mastered. Her shelves overflowed with potions that glowed faintly in the dark, medicines that could heal wounds in hours, and powders that could lull restless spirits into sleep.

Still, Mei lived simply. Her cottage, rebuilt with her own hands, stood surrounded by flowers and herbs that grew with impossible vitality. The forest had become her companion and her protector.

As she gathered another handful of leaves, a familiar voice echoed softly behind her.

“You’ve been up since dawn again,” it said… calm, deep, and tinged with amusement.

Mei looked up and smiled faintly. Standing a few paces away was a tall man dressed in white robes that shimmered faintly under the sunlight. His eyes gleamed gold, the same shade as the fox who had once watched over her.

“Good morning, Yao,” she said, straightening up and tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “You didn’t have to follow me.”

The man chuckled, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Follow you? You’ve wandered halfway across the forest before breakfast. I thought you’d get lost.”

“I never get lost here,” Mei replied softly. “This forest remembers me.”

He stepped closer, glancing at the herbs in her basket. “Wormwood and ginseng again? What are you making this time?”

“A new batch of healing salve,” she said, crouching to inspect another plant. “A traveler came by two days ago with a fever. I want to be ready if anyone else visits.”

Yao tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes narrowing. “You always think about others, even though most of them fear you.”

Mei’s smile faded a little, her gaze turning to the horizon where the mist parted over distant hills. “Fear is easier to live with than pain,” she said quietly. “If they come to me, it means they’re desperate enough to look past what I am.”

The fox spirit studied her for a long moment, the way the light caught her hair, the calm resolve in her eyes. Seven years had turned the frightened child into something both fragile and formidable. A witch of rare grace, powerful enough to make even spirits bow their heads.

“You’ve grown, Mei,” Yao said softly. “Your magic feels… different.”

She met his gaze, the faintest spark of mischief dancing in her eyes. “Maybe yours just feels weaker.”

He laughed. A sound rare and genuine. “Careful, little witch. You forget who kept you alive all these years.”

“I don’t forget,” Mei said, standing as the wind lifted her hair. “I remember everything about my mother's voice, her magic, and her wish for me to live.” She looked back toward her cottage, her tone softening. “That’s why I heal people, Yao. It’s how I keep her memory alive.”

The fox spirit’s expression gentled. “Then I’ll keep protecting you, until the world no longer needs to be healed by your hands.”

The wind slipped through the tall bamboo, carrying the scent of crushed leaves and distant rain. Mei Xinyi sat by the window, her sleeves rolled up, carefully mixing a paste of crushed herbs and honey in a small porcelain bowl. The forest around her breathed slowly, peaceful, familiar.

By her feet, Yao lay curled in his fox form, his white fur catching the sunlight that filtered through the wooden slats. His tail flicked lazily, golden eyes half-open, pretending to nap.

Then came the sound… faint at first. The hurried rustle of small feet. The snap of twigs.

Mei froze, the wooden spoon still in her hand. The sound grew louder, closer, until suddenly, the door burst open.

A little girl stumbled inside, eyes wide with fear, her face streaked with dirt and tears. She could barely catch her breath. “Help me,” she choked out. “Please, they’re coming—”

Mei’s heart tightened. She set the bowl aside and rushed forward, catching the child before she fell. “Who’s coming?” she asked softly.

“T-they hurt my brother… they’re looking for me,” the girl sobbed. “I—I ran, but…”

Before Mei could speak again, Yao was already on his feet. His fur bristled, ears perked. Without a word, he dashed outside and disappeared into the mist, the faint shimmer of his magic trailing behind him.

“Shh,” Mei whispered, guiding the girl behind her worktable. “Stay here, and don’t move. No matter what happens, don’t make a sound.”

The girl nodded, trembling. Mei took a deep breath, pressing her hand to the floor. A faint light flickered beneath her fingers, a small barrier spell, gentle but strong. The air around them thickened, hiding the child’s presence completely.

Moments later, heavy footsteps echoed outside. Voices are harsh and impatient.

The door swung open again. Three men stepped in, their armor dirty, their faces shadowed by exhaustion and anger. The one in front, a soldier, by the look of him, glared at Mei.

“You,” he barked. “Have you seen a girl? Small, around seven, dark hair. She came this way.”

Mei straightened slowly, her expression calm. “A child?” she said softly. “No. I’ve been alone all day.”

The soldier narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie. People say you hide things, strange things in this forest!”

“I hide nothing,” she said evenly, though her voice carried a quiet edge. “And the forest hides only what it chooses to protect.”

Something flickered in the shadows outside, two golden eyes. Yao. His low growl rolled through the mist, deep and warning. The soldiers shifted uneasily, their confidence faltering.

The leader scowled. “You witches are all the same,” he spat, and turned to leave. “If we find out you’re helping her, you’ll regret it.”

They left as quickly as they came, their boots crunching against fallen leaves until the forest swallowed their noise.

Mei exhaled slowly. The glow beneath her hand faded. The child blinked back into sight, still shaking.

“They’re gone now,” Mei said gently, kneeling beside her. “You’re safe.”

The girl’s lips trembled. “T-thank you… I thought—” The girl closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

“It’s alright,” Mei whispered, brushing the girl’s hair away from her face. “No one will hurt you here.”

Yao stepped inside again, shifting silently into his human form. His white robes trailed softly on the wooden floor. “That was close,” he said, his tone calm but serious.

“I know.” Mei picked up a cloth and gently wiped the dirt from the girl’s hands. “But I couldn’t just let them find her.”

Yao watched her for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze. “You can’t save everyone, Mei.”

“Maybe not,” she said quietly. “But I can save one.”

Mei looked up at him, her voice calm but firm. “Yao, bring her to the bed. She needs rest.”

He hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “She’s light as air,” he murmured as he bent down and lifted the girl carefully into his arms. She stirred, whimpering softly, then went limp again against his shoulder.

Mei led the way to the far corner of the room, where a low bed sat beneath the window. The sheets were clean, smelling faintly of herbs and warm linen. Yao set the child down gently, his movements surprisingly tender for someone who usually met danger with teeth and claws.

“She’s burning up,” he said, his brows furrowing. “Fear and exhaustion.”

Mei touched the girl’s forehead, her palm glowing faintly with a soft blue light. “And a bit of fever. Nothing too deep,” she murmured, more to herself. “She’ll be fine once she sleeps.”

Yao stepped back and crossed his arms, watching Mei work. She dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water, wrung it out, and laid it across the girl’s brow. Then she placed her hands just above the child’s chest, whispering something under her breath, words the fox spirit had long grown used to hearing but never fully understood.

The air shimmered faintly. The child’s breathing steadied.

After a while, Mei sat back, her expression softening. “There,” she said quietly. “She’ll sleep for a while.”

Yao watched her in silence, the lines of concern in his face easing slightly. “You’re still the same,” he said after a moment. “You see someone hurt, and you forget how cruel the world can be.”

Mei didn’t look at him, her eyes lingering on the small form curled up beneath the blanket. “If I forget that,” she said, “then I forget my mother too.” Her words hung in the air, fragile but heavy. Yao said nothing more.

Outside, the forest whispered softly, the bamboo swaying in a rhythm that felt almost protective. Mei stood, walked to the window, and looked out into the mist. For a moment, she thought she saw faint glimmers of foxfire between the trees, not from Yao this time, but from the spirits who watched silently from the shadows.

“She’ll be safe here,” Mei said, more to herself than to Yao.

The fox spirit stepped closer, his voice low. “And if those men come back?”

Mei’s eyes darkened, her reflection in the glass shifting, calm, but unyielding. “Then they’ll learn,” she said softly, “why people fear this forest.”

Yao said nothing more. He only looked at her for a moment, at the quiet strength in her face, the calm born from both kindness and pain. And then turned his gaze back to the sleeping child.