Dawn broke softly over Anning Village.Mist curled low across the rice fields, and the air was cool and damp with dew. The faint crow of a rooster echoed from the barn, followed by the chatter of ducks waddling out toward the stream.
Achu rose before the sun fully climbed, as always. She tied her hair neatly, rolled up her sleeves, and stepped into the yard where the soil still carried last night's coolness.
The scent of wet earth, grass, and faint smoke from early fires filled the air — the scent of home.
She began her morning by checking the paddies. The rice was growing well this season, strong and full of life. Bending down, Achu dipped her hands into the muddy water, pulling out a clump of weeds and tossing it aside.Next, she adjusted the water flow from the small canal that fed the fields, using a simple system of bamboo channels she had built herself.
The stream above shimmered faintly in the sunlight, and through it came laughter — high, bright, and unrestrained.
"Ran, wait for me! You can't just jump like that!""Then hurry, Chen! The fish will run away!"
Achu turned her head slightly and smiled.
By the stream, Ran and Chen were splashing barefoot through the shallows, their rolled-up trousers soaked to the knees. A handmade net of thin twine swung between them. The children had spent the early hours chasing minnows and tiny freshwater crabs, their shouts echoing through the quiet valley.
Little Fei sat under a shady willow, gnawing on a piece of sweet potato and babbling nonsense to the ducks. Her cheeks were round, her hair tied in two short tails that stuck out like feathers.
"Mom, look! We caught one!" Ran called, lifting the net with a triumphant grin. A small silver fish wriggled inside, splashing droplets across Chen's face.
"Keep it alive until noon," Achu said, still bent over her work. "We'll grill it for lunch."
"Yes, ma'am!"
The children ran off again, arguing loudly about who had caught it first.
Achu smiled faintly, straightened up, and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Her hands were dirty, her robe sleeves damp — but her eyes shone with quiet satisfaction.
By mid-morning, she had finished tending the rice paddies and moved to the vegetable patch. Rows of greens — bok choy, mustard leaves, and spring onions — rippled gently in the breeze. She sprinkled compost around the roots, checked for pests, then harvested a few tender shoots.
Her motion was steady, unhurried — like someone who had long mastered patience.
As she worked, the villagers began to stir. Smoke rose from chimneys; children ran along the dirt road carrying buckets; a few women waved at her from the fence.
"Good morning, Miss Achu!""Morning," she replied with a nod, smiling.
She looked toward the fields beyond — the newcomers' plots — and noticed Han, the eldest of the new family, quietly observing her. He stood near the edge of his newly plowed land, wiping sweat from his brow.
Their eyes met briefly. Han bowed politely, but his expression lingered, thoughtful.
Something about the way Achu moved — the quiet precision, the strength in each gesture — didn't quite match the life of a simple villager.
When the sun was high, Achu gathered the morning's harvest: a basket of greens, a handful of herbs, and a small pouch of wild mushrooms she had dried the day before. She returned home where Ran and Chen were already tending to the fire pit.
The smell of grilled fish filled the air. Fei clapped her hands, squealing with delight.
"Good catch today?" Achu asked, sitting beside them.
"Two fish and a crab!" Ran said proudly. "Chen fell into the water, though."
"Hey! You pushed me!"
Their laughter mingled with the crackle of the fire.
After lunch, when the others napped, Achu sat beneath the same willow by the stream, sharpening her sickle. Her movements were slow and rhythmic — yet her grip on the blade spoke of someone trained not only for harvest, but for defense.
In the distance, the forest watched — silent and dark.
A faint flicker, almost invisible, moved between the trees. Not close, not threatening, but aware.
Achu's gaze lifted slightly. She didn't turn her head, didn't break rhythm — only let her spiritual sense stretch outward for a moment.
Still watching. But they keep their distance.
She exhaled quietly and returned to her work, the edge of the sickle gleaming under sunlight.
As the day waned, children's laughter echoed once more across the fields. Ran and Chen ran down the slope, carrying wildflowers. Fei toddled behind, clutching a wooden spoon like a sword.
The evening light turned the fields golden, the air soft and warm.
Achu stood at the edge of the paddy, hands resting on the handle of her hoe, and smiled — the picture of an ordinary farmer, her silhouette framed by the fading sun.
Only the faint ripple in the air around her — the whisper of spiritual energy that made the stalks sway without wind — hinted at the truth beneath that peace.
That night, when the stars returned, the "eyes" in the forest blinked once — and retreated farther into the dark.
The guardian of Anning had seen them.And for now, that was enough.