Chapter 2
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Prologue - 1
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The Girl loved the small hill beside the village. It was a gentle mound she could climb to the top of in a mere fifteen minutes.
From atop that hill, she could see the vast golden rice paddies stretching out, ripe with yellow grains brimming with the joy of harvest. Gentle breezes sent waves rippling through the stalks.
It was a bountiful year. At long last, abundance had come. The reward for surviving the wildfire that struck in spring now flourished in the heart of autumn.
In just a few days, they would be able to cook fluffy white rice and eat their fill. Already, people buzzed with excitement all day long, talking of feasts and calling in traveling performers. Having endured such hardships this year, the celebrations were sure to be rowdy.
"This year too, it's thanks to the Mountain Immortal watching over us!"
White-bearded elders chuckled as they said such things. The Girl thought their laughter rang practiced and familiar.
The village had always been said to be full of guardian spirits. They kept evil ghosts at bay, watching over everyone from the peaks above. The Girl quietly brushed her hand over the soil. Beneath the fine grains that tickled her slender fingers lay rich, black earth gleaming with fertility.
A few years back, plague had ravaged the land. It was in this dark soil that she had buried her parents' bones.
The burial grounds overflowed with corpses, leaving no choice but to inter the dead in mass graves. The survivors swept away their grief as best they could.
They leaned on one another to go on. The Mountain Immortal's ways were profound and mysterious, beyond mortal understanding, they whispered through tears. The pain and sorrow would fade in time. The Girl was sharp; she understood. Those left behind had to move forward. No one lived forever.
And yet... and yet...
The Girl fiddled with the humus at her fingertips. Some things never truly vanished.
There were forces in the world that no bountiful harvest, no feast, no raucous troupe of performers, not even the sharp tang of illicit rice wine could drive away. Emotions that clung thickly, seeping deep into the heart.
She turned her gaze to the blue sky.
To the autumn fields, the sparrows flitting above, and beyond to the dense mountains. To whatever sacred presence might dwell within.
If only the Mountain Immortal is taking good care of my parents, the Girl prayed silently, eyes closed as if awaiting a reply.
The Girl had just turned eighteen. She possessed a peculiar talent, and after losing her parents, she had put it to use as the village healer.
This rural backwater lay far from the world's tumults; every other house belonged to a farmer, every other to a woodcutter. Folks often overworked themselves and fell ill, so patients trickled into her home every few days.
"Aigoo, my leg's killing me."
"How did you hurt it?"
"Dunno. Twisted my ankle fetching goods yesterday. But when I woke up today, my shin was throbbing something fierce. Aigoo, aigoo..."
Woodcutter Jang, his beard thick and unkempt, groaned incessantly. His sprawled leg twitched in spasms. The Girl sat beside him, eyeing the swollen limb intently.
As her clear eyes darkened, the woodcutter clamped his mouth shut. He feared saying the wrong thing might invite bad luck.
"Just bear with it a moment."
Her voice was pure and steady as she urged him. Her eyes could see energy—wisps of red and blue like heat haze. Old books called it Qi.
Here, it pooled angrily in his shin, refusing to flow.
She jabbed a slender needle into the clump. His leg cooled instantly. The pain that had plagued him all morning vanished like mist. Woodcutter Jang fished a hefty chunk of doraji root from his bosom.
He'd found it while foraging in the hills—claimed it was better than common ginseng. In Jiangming, seat of the Tian Clan, the wealthy would pay a fortune for it, he said. The Girl smiled and shook her head.
"The Mountain Immortal grants extraordinary gifts for a reason. Doesn't the thought of heading to the cities and making a name for yourself ever tempt you?"
They said masters like the Plum Blossom Divine Sword soared through the skies on beams of sword-light. How dashing that must be. The woodcutter's question as he set out from home had somehow turned into musing aloud. In his youth, he'd dreamed of becoming a wandering hero.
His occasional tales painted a world like clouds in the sky.
She'd been to Jiangming once or twice. A grand city with five-story pavilions. They said the world held far larger ones.
In that vast realm lay the Tian Clan, famed in Jiangming—and beyond them, the Five Great Clans and Nine Sects One Gang, names too lofty even to mention in the same breath.
Stories of righteous wanderers roaming the land, vanquishing villains, and the wicked outlaws who hunted them... they could sound thrilling at times.
Yet the Girl still cherished this land. The autumn breeze sweeping the grass, roadside wildflowers, the warm scent of freshly steaming rice. Smiles that warmed the heart. All the small, precious things that tugged at her soul were right here in the village.
Alone in her empty home, the Girl sat quietly, watching the shadows cast by sunlight. Then she rose.
It scarcely qualified as a market. More like a spot where idle villagers gathered to chat.
"It's a one-chi market, a one-chi!"
Woodcutter Jang had called it that. Not wrong. From entrance to end, maybe a hundred paces at most. In the cramped stalls, inquiring after health outdid haggling for goods. Still, it had everything one needed.
The village's sole silk shop. A butcher who paid well for hill game. An inn that rolled noodles to perfection.
The sky was clear and blue.
The Girl, in her indigo skirt, drifted lightly toward the inn, a certain someone on her mind.
Gangil worked at the inn. His face evoked autumn's crispness. At a glance, one might mistake him for a pampered young master, his skin so fair. But he wasn't some delicate flower; a faint scar marred the skin beneath his eye from a clumsy fall.
Gangil's hands were callused and strong. His forearms thick. His words carried weight without veering into rudeness. She closed her eyes, secretly sketching a little flower.
Does he like me? One petal. Maybe not? Another.
Like, not like. She teetered her heart like stones across a stream. Before she knew it, she stood before the One-Heart Inn. A modest place for passing merchants to overnight. Only two staff: an old cook and Gangil handling guests.
Gangil, leaning by the door, waved.
The Girl scampered up and thrust out her right hand. A large forget-me-not bloomed in her palm.
"Here."
She beamed, pure and bright. Gangil flushed crimson in an instant, glancing wildly around. His quick hand snatched the flower and tucked it into his bosom.
"What're you doing? Acting all improper."
"Just... wanted to give it to you."
She peeked past him into the inn. If it was quiet with few patrons, she'd have grabbed a bowl of noodles. No such luck today. The place was packed.
She swallowed her disappointment and turned to go. Gangil caught her arm lightly.
"You came all this way. At least have some noodles first."
"No seats left."
"There's always room for you."
He led her inside naturally. Pretending reluctance, she followed. His seasoned server instincts proved right: as two patrons bickered by the door, a burly-eyed customer was already rising from a table. The sword on his back clanged metallically. His Qi flowed thick—easily twice that of an ordinary man.
A martial artist.
Such folk rarely visited the village. Long ago, a handful from the Tian Clan had come, shown interest in exercises the elders practiced for health, muttered something cryptic about low foundational Qi, and left. Now they came one, two... already three groups. The cramped inn felt ready to burst.
"Lots of customers."
"No idea why, but they've flooded in these past few days. Father's thrilled—worried he'll dive back into gambling."
"He'll be fine."
"Doubt it."
A steaming bowl of noodles thudded down before the Girl in the corner. She and Gangil shared it, chatting briefly. Neither could linger.
One had no time for dawdling, the other needed to head home before dusk. Still, sipping the warm broth, the Girl smiled. Emotions blooming in stolen moments stretched long and supple. She wished time could freeze like this.
The inn bustled. Delicious aromas tickled the nose. Chatter filled the air. Amid the din, a faint voice drifted on the breeze and fell unnoticed.
So many martial artists. Never seen anything like it.
But the villager's murmur reached no ears. It scattered, clashing against scabbards, spear shafts, and iron fans.