The Wind Blossom Clan sprawled across a vast, sacred land — a domain nestled between mist-wrapped mountains and ancient rivers, where the essence of nature itself seemed to hum in quiet reverence. Within its boundaries stood not just halls and gardens, but towering sanctuaries — each one a stronghold of legacy and power. These towers, built from spiritwood and stone veined with living essence, were home to the clan elders and the Patriarch's wives, each of whom governed their own domain. Every tower held its own disciples, hand-picked servants, and martial arts traditions — forming miniature worlds within the larger clan structure.
Among them, one stood wrapped in mist and mystery — the Water Tree Tower. Cloaked in hanging willows and veiled bridges, it was the domain of Lady Mizuki, the mother of Mizune Stormvale and one of the most influential women within the clan. Her tower was known not just for its serene beauty, but for the sharp elegance of its cultivation teachings — and the even sharper words of its mistress.
The sun had only just tilted westward, and the sky above was painted in the soft gold of a quiet afternoon when Vern stood before the sacred steps of Water Tree Tower.
The sight before him was otherworldly—like a dream carved into stone and wood. Towering structures rose one above another like the layered petals of a divine lotus, each roof curved in perfect grace, dark tiles gleaming like obsidian feathers under the sky. They did not clash with the mountain, but embraced it—built upon the natural slope, wrapped in wisteria blossoms and mist-veiled pines.
A long stairway, carved into living rock, stretched toward the heavens. It was as if each step asked a question—"Are you worthy?"
The higher he looked, the more tranquil it became, as though silence was a language here, and only the patient could understand it.
The air was fragrant, not with perfume, but with something deeper — spring water mingled with the breath of violet and white petals, floating through the open walkways. Pale vines trailed lazily over latticed railings. Stone lanterns, their centers unlit, sat like watchers along the path, whispering of tranquil evenings filled with cultivation, poetry, and the delicate echo of zither strings.
Vern stepped forward.
His boots clicked softly against the stone, but even that sound felt like a disturbance. It was said the Water Tree Tower had roots beneath the lake and branches above the clouds — and that its very heart could feel the footsteps of those who entered. Some whispered the tower chose its own disciples.
He passed beneath a wooden arch crowned with wind-chimes of translucent silver. They did not move — yet in his ears, they rang faintly, as if responding not to wind, but to his breath… or his spirit.
Disciples moved across the tower like drifting petals — clad in robes of soft green, moon-pale lavender, and tranquil jade. Some walked alone with scrolls in hand, their gazes distant. Others moved in harmony, speaking in hushed tones, heads slightly bowed in discussion or reverence. Servants in indigo robes tended to the gardens and water paths. Nothing here was hurried. Nothing idle. Everything flowed, like a river that had never once broken its course.
Far above, set against ancient pine and wisteria trees, stood the main hall — its doors carved in reliefs of waves and blossoms, the entrance to the Hall of Still Waters, where Lady Mizuki waited.
He knew her — the sharp-tongued wife of his father, the mother of Mizune, who once mocked him before the clan elders as if he were an insect underfoot.
And yet now… she had summoned him.
'Why?'
As he climbed higher, step by step, Vern felt his old emotions fall away — not forgotten, but irrelevant.
This was no longer about hurt pride.
This was a moment of contrast.
A place of reflection.
By the time he reached the midway pavilion, where the stone curved into a platform beneath a flowering cherry tree and the wind curled around its petals like a whispered welcome, Vern paused.
He looked up.
And understood.
He had not come merely to meet Lady Mizuki.
He had come to measure the distance between them.
Between the boy whose mother is dead and has no talent they looked down on… and the woman who gave birth of a genius daughter.
The towering doors of the Hall of Still Waters opened without a sound—as if the very wood recognized the presence of one who had been summoned. No guards blocked the path, no servants announced his arrival. Only the hush of still air greeted Vern as he crossed the threshold.
Inside, the hall was not what he expected. There were no banners, no thrones, no gold. Instead, the space unfolded like a poem written in light and silence. The floors were polished stone that mirrored the sky through open lattice windows, and a thin stream of clear water flowed gently across the center of the hall, parting the space like a silken thread of essence. Small lotus leaves floated atop it, drifting with a rhythm known only to the hall itself.
The pillars were carved from living wood—smooth, pale, and warm to the eye—each bearing subtle engravings of flowing rivers, wind-touched willows, and falling petals. Soft, translucent curtains danced lazily along the walls, catching the sunlight and scattering it like mist. Above, a great circular opening in the ceiling revealed the endless sky, and through it, petals occasionally floated down from a tree growing on the rooftop garden—its blossoms the same violet hue that wreathed the tower.
A quiet breath escaped Vern. It was not reverence alone that held his tongue, but something else—as if the hall itself listened, and demanded sincerity in all things spoken.
Then she stepped into view.
Lady Mizuki.
She did not descend from above, nor rise from behind a veil. She simply walked forward from the inner chamber, each of her steps as measured as a verse of calligraphy. Her robes were layers of moonlight and dew—silver with the faintest lavender shimmer, flowing like morning mist over water. Her hair, jet-black and bound high with a comb shaped like a falling petal, framed a face untouched by time.
Her eyes—calm pools of pale amber—rested on him, and for a moment, Vern felt as if he were standing before an ancient lake that had seen a thousand seasons pass, yet reflected only the present.
She did not smile, but neither was she cold. Her presence was like the wind that moves the surface of water—not forceful, but impossible to ignore.
When she spoke, her voice was low and even, like the rustle of silk across stone.
"You've come."
Vern stepped forward, placing his fist against his palm and bowing low.
"Vern Stormvale greets Lady Mizuki. I have come, as summoned."
As he rose and met her gaze, a ripple moved faintly across his senses—silent, refined, almost weightless. Yet in that moment, his heart steadied and his mind sharpened.
'This woman's aura…
She's at the third stage of the Resonance Realm.'
He masked his surprise. That kind of cultivation wasn't something one stumbled into—it was forged over decades of discipline and attunement. Lady Mizuki wasn't just noble by marriage or beauty—she was powerful. And even her essence signature was like a still lake: profound, placid, but with terrifying depth beneath.
Lady Mizuki gestured with a graceful tilt of her fingers toward a simple arrangement of cushions beside the lotus stream.
"Sit, Vern. This hall holds no ceremony—only truth."
As he took his seat across from her, the faint chimes outside stirred for the first time since his arrival—
as though the tower, too, had begun to listen.