The prince stood motionless, the soft morning breeze toying with the ends of the white silk cloth that wrapped gently around his eyes. The mask he once wore had been set aside today, only that simple cloth shielded his gaze from the world.
Before him stretched the garden a secluded, quiet place where time seemed to slow. In its center stood a grand marble statue, carved with exquisite detail. The figure, tall and graceful, held a single red rose between its slender fingers. Like the prince, the statue's eyes were hidden behind a sculpted band of marble cloth, covering its sight but not its spirit.
The sunlight bathed both figures The man and stone in a pale, dreamlike glow. The gentle trickle of the nearby fountain filled the silence, weaving a delicate sound between the blooms and the leaves.
For a long moment, the prince and the statue faced each other, two blindfolded souls divided only by breath and stone.
The prince let out a faint sigh, the sound almost lost to the soft gurgle of the fountain.
Slowly, he reached out toward the marble statue, his fingertips brushing the cold, stone hand that held the red rose.
With a careful grip, he tried to pluck the flower free…gentle at first, then a little firmer.
But no matter how he tugged, the rose remained stubbornly fixed, as if it had rooted itself into the marble.
He paused, feeling the resistance. A small frown crossed his lips under the blindfold.
If he pulled any harder, the delicate statue the work he'd once spent so many painstaking hours carving might shatter. Realizing that, he let go, his hand falling back to his side.
After a long, silent moment of facing the unmovable rose, he turned away and quietly went to sit at the fountain's edge. There, he absentmindedly dipped his hand into the water, swirling and splashing it, sending droplets scattering into the air like tiny, glittering crystals.
A few steps away, hidden behind the trimmed hedges, three palace guards stood watching him.
They huddled close together, whispering with furrowed brows.
"I still don't get it," the first one murmured, scratching his head. "Why does His Highness always try to take that rose? He's the one who carved it there in the first place, isn't he? If he didn't want it there, why did he even make it?"
The second guard, older with a drooping mustache, sighed heavily. "I've been watching this for years," he said. "Every year, he makes a new statue older than before just like that. It's like…" he trailed off, voice lowering with a strange fondness, "it's like watching the statue and His Highness…grow up together."
The third guard, a young man with tearful eyes, sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Every time I see him like this," he said, voice thick with emotion, "I just wanna run up and give him a rose myself!"
The other two stared at him for a moment.
Then the mustached guard jabbed him with an elbow. "Go on then," he said dryly. "Go give His Highness a flower and see if you come back with your head still attached."
The younger guard instantly paled and shook his head violently. "I-I was just saying! Not actually gonna do it!"
The three of them quickly hushed as the prince stirred by the fountain, flinging a handful of water in their direction without even turning as if somehow he knew they were there.
The guards yelped and scrambled back behind the hedge, bumping into each other like clumsy geese, causing a sharp hiss of "Idiot!" "Watch it!" "You're stepping on me!" to rise and then vanish into the morning air.
Meanwhile, the prince only sat quietly by the fountain, a faint ghost of a smile curling at the corner of his lips but as soon as they formed they faded, replaced by a shadowed, unreadable expression. He pulled his hand from the water, droplets trailing down his fingers, and slowly stood up.
The air around him seemed to shift, growing heavier, like the hush before a storm. Even the fountain's soft gurgling now sounded distant, as if holding its breath.
The prince turned his face toward the statue again, the white silk blindfold fluttering slightly with the breeze. He took a single step closer, standing tall before the marble figure his own creation, Then he spoke, his voice low and clear, slicing through the stillness.
"Next year… I won't carve a rose."
The words were simple, but they hit the space like thunder. The prince continued, his tone firm, almost solemn,
"Next year… I'll carve a sword in its place."
For a moment, only the sound of water echoed around them. His fingers brushed lightly over the rose once more, almost tenderly, before he dropped his hand and turned away from the statue.
He walked slowly along the edge of the fountain, water splashing faintly under his boots, the trailing ends of his robe catching the morning light.
The day slowly passed, and the golden light of the afternoon began to stretch longer across the floor. In the small, tucked-away study room, Daita sat hunched over a low wooden table, a towering rack of ancient books stacked in front of him like a barricade.
He flipped through yet another heavy tome, his brows furrowed deep in frustration. Slamming the book shut with a loud thud, he muttered under his breath,
"Nothing new… nothing at all!"
He shoved the book aside and grabbed another, scanning its pages with frantic urgency.
But once again, disappointment sank into his features.
"Grandpa might already know all of these already," he grumbled, dragging a hand through his hair in exasperation. "I should find something new! Something surprising! Ugh, not these boring old methods that even a beginner knows!"
The stack of untouched books seemed to mock him, each promising answers he couldn't seem to find. He leaned back, slumping against the wall, tapping his fingers impatiently against the spine of a closed book.
"I don't have much time left either…"His voice dropped, muttering as if trying to convince himself. "I might have to return before the Second Bloom. Uncle Emperor will get suspicious if I disappear for too long without informing anyone."
He imagined the Emperor's cold, sharp gaze and shivered.
Then a worse image popped into his mind: Master Ginkgo-Mira, red-faced and furious, shoving scrolls toward him.
"And if Master Ginkgo finds out…" Daita buried his face in his hands, groaning,
"He might not just make me write sutras hundreds of times… but thousands! Thousands until my fingers fall off!"
He dropped his head onto the table with a loud thump, earning a scolding glance from a passing elder who promptly shook their head and shuffled away. Daita peeked up tiredly from between his arms, mumbling,
"Heavens, please do bless me with a miracle…"
But the books just sat there silent, heavy, and full of everything he already knew. Then Just as if the heavens had actually heard him, a loud thud echoed across the room. Daita flinched, lifting his head sharply to see a familiar figure slamming a thick book onto his table.
He blinked, narrowing his eyes at the unexpected visitor, before muttering under his breath,
"…Seiya?"
The person scoffed, crossing his arms.
"Wrong. I'm Seirou and the one you said is just a 'face copy' of mine, but an idiot."
Daita tilted his head lazily, watching as Seirou immediately sat down, flipping open the book and diving deep into its pages with intense focus.
For a moment, Daita thought about saying something, but instead sighed and tried to concentrate on his own search again. Hours crawled by, and still nothing. Each new book was just another disappointment. His forehead rested back against his palm, frustration bubbling under the surface.
Finally, Seirou, who had been sneakily watching him out of the corner of his eye for a while, leaned in a little and asked casually,
"What exactly are you searching for?"
Daita gave a long, exhausted sigh, staring blankly at the mountain of books in front of him as if they had betrayed him. He slumped deeper into his chair, rubbing his temples.
"I'm looking for anything with medicinal quality," he muttered. "Something rare and useful. Something new. But I couldn't find anything here. Every book is filled with the same information I already know."
Seirou leaned back lazily against his chair, resting one arm behind his head and watching him with a calm, almost amused look. Then, in his usual unhurried tone, he said, "If you're searching for something rare and new, how can you expect to find it in books that are filled with what's already known?"
Daita sighed, his shoulders dropping. "You're not wrong…" he groaned, slamming a book shut. "But where am I supposed to search then? It's not like I'm sitting in the sacred library. I can't find anything other than these dusty old books." He flopped his arms down on the table, adding under his breath,
"Only if someone knew everything and could just tell me where to find it right now…"
Seirou, who had been idly twisting a strand of his braided hair around his finger, gave a light chuckle before saying, "Maybe… if you ask nicely, I can be of some use."
Daita slowly lifted his head, frowning suspiciously at him but then, after a moment, nodded, deciding he had nothing to lose.
Seirou pushed himself up from the chair with a small stretch, his braid sliding over his shoulder as he stood tall. "Just tell me," he said, dusting off his sleeves, "what kind of medicinal qualities you're looking for."
Daita looked up at him, his brows furrowing in thought. He tapped his finger on the wooden table for a moment before answering seriously, "Something… that can bring back the dead. Or at least, something that can increase the lifespan."
At that, Seirou raised an eyebrow, the playful glint in his eye sharpening into something more thoughtful. He crossed his arms and asked in a slower, almost warning tone, "Something that can bring back the dead?"
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice, "Don't you think that's… going against the balance? The cycle between life and death isn't something to meddle with so easily."
He turned away, tapping his chin in contemplation, his steps slow and deliberate. "But…something that can increase life span… now that's different."
He turned back to Daita, his braid swinging lightly behind him, and added, "There is something… something rare. A quality that's said to exist, but not many have actually seen it with their own eyes."
Daita straightened up immediately, his full attention fixed on Seirou.
Seirou's lips curved into a small, knowing smile as he said, "There is a flower… a rare one and I call it the Night of the Snow Blossom."
Daita's eyes widened slightly as Seirou continued, "It only blooms once every hundred years, at the very beginning of spring. Even then, it's hidden beneath the snow on the peak of Mount Baiyunya, The mountain stays frozen throughout the year, covered in endless layers of snow."
Seirou lifted his hand, drawing a small circle in the air lazily. "The flower is said to have brilliant white petals… except for a single one…a golden petal, glowing faintly like starlight."His gaze sharpened as he added,
"Only the golden petal holds the life-extending essence. But be warned….once the golden petal is plucked, the rest of the flower withers and dies instantly. It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance."
Daita, who had been listening intently, sat up straighter, excitement sparking in his chest — only for Seirou to casually add, "And for your luck… Mount Baiyunya isn't too far. It's toward west and You just might take about three days to reach it from here."
The light in Daita's eyes dimmed immediately. His excitement crumbled like sand as he thought grimly, "Three days just to reach there… and the second bloom is only three days away. There's no way I can return in time…"
Seirou, noticing his fallen expression, leaned closer, speaking almost in a whisper,
"But…" he said, voice laced with something else, "if there's someone who can move as fast as the wind, maybe… just maybe, they could reach it in a single day."
Hearing that, a slow, sly smile tugged at Daita's lips. But Seirou wasn't finished. He straightened, folding his arms behind his head as he said with a low chuckle,
"Even so… obtaining it isn't a simple game. Since It's guarded by a nine-hundred-year-old
demon….Bingya, the White fanged…..Spider, always like to stay In the heart of snowstorms. It's said to tear apart anyone who dares touch the flower without proving themselves worthy."