Days passed in peace.
The newcomers blended quickly into the rhythm of Anning Village — tending fields, helping with repairs, joining in the laughter that echoed through the mornings. The eldest youth, Han, proved skilled with tools; the quiet girl, Lian, knew herbs; and the youngest, Bao, had a knack for soothing the village's restless chickens, which made everyone laugh.
Achu watched them quietly, offering advice when needed. She never asked more about their past, and they never asked about hers.
It was a mutual silence — gentle, unspoken, and safe.
But at night, when the rest of the village slept, Achu's peace thinned like mist.
The full moon rose high one evening, spilling silver across the quiet roofs. Achu sat outside her home, sipping tea, her gaze wandering toward the dark line of the forest.
The "eyes" were there again. Not one pair — several. Hidden within the shadows, too disciplined to make sound, too still to be animals.
So they finally came closer.
She placed her cup down silently.
A soft breeze stirred her hair as she stood, adjusting the ribbon that held her braid. Her movements were fluid, precise — not rushed, not fearful. Just... ready.
She walked down the path that led to the fields. The moonlight turned the rice paddies into mirrors, and her reflection gilded beside her — a calm woman in plain robes, but with the quiet bearing of someone far more dangerous.
At the edge of the woods, she stopped. The night air was cool, thick with the scent of pine and damp soil.
"I know you're there," she said softly.
For a long moment, nothing moved. Then, a faint rustle — three shadows detached themselves from the darkness.
Men in dark travel robes, their faces half-covered. Cultivators.
Their spiritual energy was faint but trained — mercenaries, perhaps, not masters.
"You've been following this village for days," Achu said. "What do you want?"
The tallest man stepped forward. "We seek someone," he said. His voice was low, polite, but carried the sharp edge of caution. "A woman who left the capital. Our orders are to find her — or proof that she's still alive."
Achu's lips curved faintly. "And if you find her?"
"Then she must be taken back to the Emperor's court. For judgment."
The night seemed to still.
Achu tilted her head, her eyes unreadable in the moonlight. "Judgment, you say?"
"Those are the orders."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then — the soft sigh of wind through the grass.
And Achu moved.
Not fast — not in the way mortals perceived speed — but in that fluid, impossible grace only true cultivators possessed. One moment she stood before them, the next she was gone, her form melting into air like mist.
The mercenaries froze, sensing danger too late. A flicker of energy brushed past their faces, so sharp it sliced a strand of hair without breaking skin.
From behind them, Achu's voice came — calm, unhurried, like a teacher correcting her pupils.
"Rule one of survival in the mountains," she said. "Never turn your back on what you don't understand."
The men spun around. She was leaning against a tree now, arms crossed, her expression as gentle as ever.
"You're cultivators," she continued. "So you should know what kind of ground you're standing on. This land listens to me. It breathes with me."
A faint pulse rippled through the soil — subtle but deep, like the mountain itself responding to her call. The grass shimmered faintly, and the men staggered, as if gravity had suddenly shifted beneath them.
"Tell your master," Achu said softly, "that the woman they're looking for no longer exists. Only the guardian of this village remains."
Her words carried no anger — only certainty.
The men exchanged nervous glances. One bowed deeply. "We understand."
Achu waved her hand gently. "Go."
They vanished as quickly as they came, their auras fading into the distance.
When silence returned, Achu stood still for a long moment, her eyes tracing the moonlit line of the forest.
Her expression softened. "You're still watching, aren't you?" she murmured to the unseen presence beyond the trees. "Old habits die hard."
She turned and walked home, the night air settling behind her like a sigh.
Back in the village, Ran and Chen were asleep, their soft breathing mingling with the crackle of the hearth. Achu sat by the doorway, wiping a faint smear of dust from her sleeve.
Her hands — strong but delicate — showed no sign of the power she'd just wielded.
She looked out at the sleeping village and smiled.
"Let them come," she whispered. "The world can look, but it cannot touch this peace."
And beneath the calm rhythm of night, the soil pulsed once more — the mountain answering its quiet protector.