Lán Yīng stood frozen.
The man before her didn’t radiate power. No terrifying aura. No pressure on her chest. No storm swirling around him.
He simply poured tea.
And yet—
The world bent around his presence. The way the sunlight slanted perfectly through the leaves. How the flowers leaned toward him. The silence that grew softer, not heavier.
Her siblings knelt instinctively, not out of fear—but reverence.
Yùn Xiāo looked up, eyes as calm as ancient still water.
> “You climbed high,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “That deserves tea.”
He gestured to the flat stone before him.
A second teacup appeared.
---
☕ She hesitated.
> “I… I didn’t come for tea,” she said, voice rough with fatigue.
> “Everyone comes for something,” he replied. “But tea is always the first thing served.”
---
Her hand trembled as she reached for the cup. It was warm. Perfectly steeped. She took a sip.
For a moment—
The pain in her shoulders faded. Her cracked ribs eased. Even the ache behind her eyes, the weeks of fear and sorrow, softened.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
---
🕊️ “Who are you…?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he lifted his own teacup and took a sip. A breeze carried the scent of peach blossoms, though none were in sight.
> “Just someone who grows things. Teas. Trees. Sometimes people.”
He placed the cup down. A small crack ran through the rim — yet it held the tea perfectly.
> “Like this cup. Flawed, but still useful. Still beautiful.”
He looked at her.
> “You came here because you are broken. But broken doesn’t mean useless.”
---
🌿 Her knees buckled.
She fell to the ground and bowed deeply.
> “Please… help us…”
Behind her, her siblings mirrored the motion.
Yùn Xiāo watched them silently, then sighed.
> “Fine. You may stay the night. There are beds inside.”
> “The panda will show you.”
The panda, sitting upright nearby and chewing on floating bamboo, gave a slow nod and waddled toward the cottage.
---
As the children followed, Yùn Xiāo turned his eyes to the sky.
> “It begins again.”
He reached behind the teapot and plucked a single leaf from the tree.
It glowed — faintly, but with endless depth.
> “One leaf… ten thousand realms.”
He smiled to himself.
> “Let’s see what you bring, disciple.”
🌌 That Night...
Lán Yīng lay awake on a bed softer than any silk she’d ever touched.
The house wasn’t large — bamboo walls, low shelves, strange wooden instruments humming with qi. But everything smelled like peach blossoms and warmth.
Her brother no longer coughed. Her sister slept soundly.
But she couldn’t.
She stepped outside into the moonlight.
And saw the garden glowing.
Flowers whispered. A fox with wings slept curled beside a plum tree. Fireflies the size of lanterns floated gently through the mist.
And in the distance, on the far side of the mountain—
Yùn Xiāo stood atop a stone platform, one hand behind his back, the other drawing in the air.
With every motion, stars followed his fingertips.
She watched in silence, not daring to breathe too loud.
> “He’s not just strong,” she whispered to herself. “He’s… beyond.”
And yet—
He poured tea for her.
✨ Flashback: Before the Fall
She remembered another garden.
Smaller. Plainer. The potted herbs behind her master’s hall. Her younger brother tugging at her sleeves, asking what each plant did. Her master laughing, long white beard trembling as he pretended to mistake parsley for poison.
> “The secret to medicine,” he had said, “is knowing which pain you can ease… and which must be endured.”
The smell of steamed dumplings. The sunset turning the mountain copper. The warm hum of qi as her master played his flute by the koi pond—
All gone in a single night.
---
The raid had come in silence.
Poisoned elders. Searing flames. Her master’s blood staining her robes. She’d fought, killed, carried her brother and sister on her back—
But not fast enough.
Her brother’s meridians were damaged. Her sister’s heart shattered. And her own dantian cracked at the edge from overexertion.
They wandered for three months.
Every sect turned them away.
Too much baggage. Too weak. Too dangerous.
Until someone whispered of a mountain above the clouds. A hermit who spoke to beasts. A god in human form.
And now—
She stood among glowing trees, watching a man who summoned stars with his fingers.
---
🌠 Present Moment
She gripped her arms tightly.
> “I’m not enough,” she whispered.
The wind answered with silence.
> “I’m cracked, like his teacup.”
But then—
She remembered the tea.
Its warmth. Its gentleness. The way it made her grief rise, not bury it deeper.
And how he said nothing when she cried.
No pity. No lecture.
Just presence.
---
In the distance, Yùn Xiāo lowered his hand. The stars faded.
He didn’t turn around. But somehow, she knew—
He knew she was watching.
The scent of bamboo broth and dew-laced leaves greeted her before her eyes opened.
Lán Yīng blinked against the soft sunlight filtering through bamboo blinds. The sounds of her sister’s giggles and her brother’s excited chatter danced with the birdsong beyond the window.
She rose slowly, heart uncertain but lighter than yesterday.
Outside, the world looked like a painting.
The garden glowed with soft mist. Silver-leafed trees bowed toward the sky. Sunlight filtered through crystalline blossoms that seemed to breathe with qi. A pair of jade-furred deer grazed beneath a tree with purple glass fruit. And in the middle of it all — her siblings, barefoot in the grass.
Her sister chased after a glowing feather twirling through the air like a drifting star.
Her brother marveled at a caterpillar made of light, crawling across a blossom.
At the edge of the garden stood Yùn Xiāo, white robes fluttering, hair loose in the wind, pouring tea into wooden cups carved with ancient runes. A spirit bird, blue and gold, sat on his shoulder, chirping softly as he fed it glowing seed pods from his palm.
---
“You’re awake,” he said without turning.
Lán Yīng bowed instinctively. “Forgive me for oversleeping—”
But he raised a hand gently.
“There is no rush on this mountain. Time listens here.”
She blinked at his words.
Then he handed her a small jade gourd. It shimmered with qi, vines carved around its edges, and a soft hum resonated within it.
> “The Lanxiang Dream Vines have not bloomed in decades,” he said. “They need more than water. Sing to them. Only truth wakes them.”
She stared at the gourd, then at the glowing trellises of sleeping vines near the west fence.
“…Sing?” she asked hesitantly.
He simply nodded.
---
Her little sister ran up, cupping something in her hands.
> “Big sis! Look what I caught!”
In her palms lay a feather — silver at the base, golden at the tip, and pulsing faintly with warmth.
Yùn Xiāo’s eyes flickered toward it.
> “Sky Phoenix,” he said softly. “Its feathers fall only when it chooses to bless. That is no toy.”
The little girl held it tighter, suddenly solemn.
Yùn Xiāo knelt before her, meeting her wide eyes.
> “Treat it kindly. With sincerity. And it will guard your family in silence.”
The girl nodded like a warrior receiving an imperial edict.
---
As the morning stretched, Lán Yīng wandered toward the Lanxiang Dream Vines.
The garden was peaceful, the mist rising like incense. The plants listened. The mountain listened.
So she sang.
Her voice, cracked by years and grief, stumbled at first. But the vines shivered. One by one, buds opened — blossoms like tiny windchimes catching sunlight.
Behind her, Yùn Xiāo watched in silence.
Not smiling. Not praising.
But something in his eyes softened — like moonlight falling on still water.
---
That morning, for the first time in years, Lán Yīng felt like she belonged somewhere.
Not as a warrior. Not as a healer.
Just… a person.
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