No matter how many lives he lived, Haruki Ashveil never got used to goodbyes.
As the old wagon rumbled down the winding path to Mistral Hollow, he looked back once more at the mountains behind him—snow-dusted peaks melting into fog like memories he could no longer sort.
The world had changed. Again.
And so had he.
This was his 1,001st life, or so he had determined after tracking dreams, visions, and an absurd number of tea leaves over the centuries. Most people feared death. Haruki feared repetition.
He had tried being a hero. A scholar. A soldier. A gardener. A tyrant (briefly, and it ended poorly). A frog, once.
This time, he would be something simple.
A herbalist.
The winds blew softly in Mistral Hollow, a sleepy village nestled beneath one of the low-hanging branches of Yggdrasil—the World Tree that stretched from horizon to horizon. At dawn, the mists wrapped the village like a shawl, and the scent of earth, lavender, and honeyed pine filled the air.
"A quiet life. That's all I want," Haruki muttered to himself as he stepped onto the dirt path leading into town. "No hero's journey. No demon lord. No ancient prophecy. Just... a slow life and maybe a good nap."
It wasn't that he hated adventure—though, to be fair, he was allergic to dragon blood after his 472nd life—but after living as everything from a cursed prince to a sentient sword, all Haruki wanted was to be left alone with his herbs and awkward thoughts.
At the village gate stood a crooked wooden sign that read: Mistral Hollow – May You Find What You're Not Looking For
"...Cryptic. I like it," Haruki said, tipping his wide straw hat.
Haruki followed the winding road through rows of mossy stone fences and sleepy houses with slate roofs and flower boxes spilling over with bluebells. A few villagers peered at him from behind laundry lines or half-opened shutters, and one goat trotted alongside him for half a block before deciding he wasn't edible.
Eventually, he reached the village square, where a crooked gazebo stood proudly beside a notice board littered with old festival posters, hand-drawn maps, and a flyer offering five silvers for anyone who could help find someone's missing duck. The duck was also apparently a known thief.
A stout man with a thick mustache and a belly that suggested a lifelong love affair with cinnamon rolls waved at Haruki from beneath the gazebo. He wore a sash that said Mayor Wendel, though the letters were faded and some frosting had somehow made it onto the 'W'.
"Ah! You must be the herbalist the courier bird mentioned!" Mayor Wendel beamed and hustled over, wheezing faintly with every step. "Haruki Ashveil, is it?"
Haruki gave a polite bow. "Yes, sir. I was told there was space for an herbalist in Mistral Hollow."
"Oh, plenty of space, my boy," Wendel said cheerfully, patting his shoulder. "Especially after the last herbalist turned into a turnip. Long story. Very tragic. Also slightly delicious." He cleared his throat. "Anyway! We've been needing someone who knows their way around roots and poultices."
Haruki smiled shyly. "I'm more of a quiet garden type."
"Perfect," Wendel said, leading him down the path. "We're not big on noise unless it's festival season or Gilda burns her stew again. Now then—let's get you settled. I'll take you to the cottage at the edge of town."
They passed a stone well, a bakery that smelled like toasted honey, and two children arguing over whether ghosts wore socks. Wendel waved at everyone and gave short explanations as they walked.
"That's the library no one uses—Yuvaria might change that. That's Mokuri's hut—don't go there unless you enjoy your eyebrows being singed off. And that" —he pointed to a pristine meadow— "is where Rincael arranges flowers so delicately that even bees feel shy about landing."
Haruki looked around, heart softening. The village was odd, warm, and strangely alive. It reminded him of a life he once lived... before that one ended in a pumpkin avalanche.
"You'll like it here," Wendel said, clapping his back. "You've got the look of someone who's been running too long."
Haruki nodded. "You could say that."
"Then rest. Mistral Hollow's good at that. It grows on you."
The old herbalist's cottage "on account of it being haunted, abandoned, and mostly still standing." It sat at the very edge of the village, where the wildflowers grew freely and bees buzzed lazily between trees that whispered to one another.
Haruki knelt beside a patch of overgrown rosemary and smiled. "This place has good soil," he whispered, pressing a hand to the earth. "A little weeding, a little pruning... and no exploding witches nearby. Perfect."
The door creaked loudly as he stepped inside. Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight, and cobwebs lined every corner. The shelves were still stocked with ancient scrolls and bottles labeled things like Essence of Regret and Do Not Drink Twice.
"I can work with this," Haruki said optimistically—and promptly sneezed when a spider dropped from the ceiling and landed in his teacup.
By noon, rumors had already begun circulating through the town square.
"Did you hear? A mysterious man just moved into the edge cottage." "They say he's a herbalist. And handsome, too." "But also suspiciously... quiet." "Maybe he's a prince in hiding?"
That evening, as twilight descended and mist slithered between trees like sleepy cats, Haruki stood in his new herb garden—such as it was—staring at a patch of angry-looking mint. The plant hissed. He hissed back.
And then…
Something stirred at the edge of his vision.
He turned.
A figure walked silently along the mist-covered trail just beyond his fence. A woman, tall and regal, with a cloak embroidered with tiny bees. Her hair shimmered pale silver, glinting like moonlight against storm clouds.
She didn't look at him. Didn't speak. Didn't even seem to notice him standing there.
But Haruki felt something. A chill down his spine, a hum in the air. The kind of presence that didn't belong in a sleepy village full of cabbage and goats.
She was gone in the next blink—swallowed by fog.
"...That was weird," Haruki muttered.
The mint plant hissed again, as if in agreement.
He set to work.
Rule one: Don't draw attention.
He organized his satchels quietly, planted calming herbs near the fence, and avoided talking to anyone unless absolutely necessary.
Rule two: Keep routines.
Tea at sunrise. Notes on soil and temperature. Speak to the plants (not because it helped them grow, but because after a thousand lives, you had to talk to something).
That night, he sat by the fire with a cup of mugwort tea, thumbing through an old notebook from life #447.
He paused.
On a page half-filled with fragmented lines and herbal notes was a sketch.
A woman in a cloak. Bees embroidered along the hem.
Her name had long faded.
But the feeling hadn't.
"She's still here," he murmured.
"Maybe this time," he whispered, "I won't die violently. Or tragically. Or ironically."
A breeze rustled the leaves.
"...And maybe this time," he added with a small, hopeful smile, "This is the last."
Then the wind whispered something else. It sounded a lot like snickering.
From the nearby grove, Lira watched with glowing eyes and a smile.