The words of Aunt Lianxi lingered in the air long after they were spoken, sinking into Wynn's heart like stones into a still pond. She sat there, silent, her gaze fixed on the flickering oil lamp that cast long shadows along the wooden walls. Each wavering flame seemed to dance in rhythm with her thoughts—fragile, uncertain, yet stubbornly alive.
That night, sleep refused to come easily. She lay on her thin straw mattress, staring at the ceiling as the wind whispered through the cracks in the walls. Somewhere outside, a lone night bird called out, its mournful song slicing through the silence. Every note reminded her of her parents—the gentle hum of her mother as she worked, the quiet baritone of her father when he told her stories before bed.
If immortals exist… she thought, clenching her blanket. If they really have that kind of power… would they help me? Or would they turn me away?
Her father had once told her about the nature of power—that it reveals the heart of the one who wields it. A good man with power can lift a village from despair. A cruel one can bury it in ruin. She had not understood his words then, but now they felt like a warning.
As the moonlight crept across the floor, she closed her eyes and let the memory of her father's voice carry her to sleep.
---
The next morning dawned pale and gray, with clouds heavy enough to promise rain. The village stirred slowly—merchants laying out baskets of vegetables, children running barefoot along the muddy paths, farmers leading oxen to the fields. Wynn moved through it all like a ghost, her thoughts elsewhere.
Everywhere she went, the whispers followed.
"Did you hear? The hunters who found the cave brought back a stone with strange markings."
"They say it glowed under moonlight… that's the mark of spiritual energy."
"It must be dangerous. Only fools would go looking for it."
Wynn listened quietly, never asking questions but never walking away too quickly. The details came to her in fragments—a cave hidden beyond the Blackwood Ridge, a place untouched by humans for centuries, and a strange energy that made even seasoned hunters uneasy.
By the third day, she knew she couldn't ignore it any longer.
---
The edge of the forest was a place both feared and respected by the villagers. Children were warned never to stray too far, and hunters spoke of creatures that lurked just beyond sight—eyes glinting in the dark, waiting for those who dared to wander.
Wynn stood there at dawn, her bare feet sinking slightly into the damp earth. A fine mist clung to the ground, swirling around her ankles, and the air was thick with the scent of moss and wet leaves. She clutched a small cloth bag to her chest—inside, a piece of bread, a water skin, and a smooth stone her father had once given her.
The stone was nothing special to anyone else, just a small piece of river rock, but it had been in his hand the day he told her: "When you feel lost, hold this, and remember that rivers carve through mountains, not because they are strong, but because they do not stop."
She took her first step into the forest.
---
The canopy above swallowed the light, casting the world into shifting shades of green and shadow. Every sound was amplified here—the rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig, the distant call of some unseen bird. Wynn moved cautiously, her small frame slipping between tree trunks, her eyes scanning for any sign of danger.
Hours passed, and the path became more difficult to follow. Roots clawed at her feet, and low branches snagged at her clothes. But just as her legs began to ache and her resolve began to falter, she saw it—half-hidden behind a curtain of hanging vines, a weathered stone tablet standing taller than she was.
Its surface was carved with strange, curling symbols that seemed almost to shift when she looked at them too long. A faint warmth pulsed beneath her fingertips when she touched it, and for a moment, she thought she heard something—a low hum, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
She stepped back, uncertain. The stories had always said the path to great power was guarded. If this was the beginning, then what lay ahead could be far worse.
---
The sound came suddenly—a soft crunch of leaves behind her. Wynn spun around, heart hammering, and found herself staring into a pair of golden eyes.
A beast stood there, half-hidden in the shadows. Its body was sleek and feline, but its fur shimmered faintly, as though dusted with silver. Two curved horns rose from its head, glowing faintly in the dim light. It was beautiful… and deadly.
Wynn froze. She had no weapon, no cultivation, nothing but her will to survive. The beast stepped forward, its gaze never leaving hers, and she realized something strange—it was not attacking.
It sniffed the air, its ears twitching, and then, with slow, deliberate movements, it circled her once before vanishing back into the undergrowth. Wynn stood there, breathless, her pulse racing.
She didn't know it yet, but this was the first spirit beast that would remember her scent, her presence… and one day, it would come to her aid.
---
The sun was dipping low by the time she reached a clearing. In its center was a mound of earth split open by age, revealing the dark mouth of a cave. A chill spilled from its depths, and the air around it seemed to hum with energy.
Wynn's breath caught. This had to be it—the immortal's resting place. She stepped closer, but the moment her foot crossed the threshold, a sharp, invisible force slammed against her chest, throwing her back onto the grass.
Pain flared through her ribs, but alongside it came something else—a whisper at the edge of her mind, faint and incomprehensible. She couldn't make out the words, but they felt old, impossibly old, and heavy with meaning.
She tried again, and again she was repelled.
Finally, exhausted, she sank to her knees. Tears stung her eyes—not from pain, but from the cruel thought that even when she found the path to power, it still refused her.
But as the first stars began to appear overhead, the symbols on the stone tablet outside the forest glowed faintly in her memory. Perhaps the way forward wasn't brute strength. Perhaps it was understanding.
---
When Wynn returned to the village, the world felt different. The air seemed sharper, the colors brighter, and deep in her chest, that stubborn ember of hope burned hotter than ever. She began to ask quiet questions—about cultivation, about the way spirit energy flowed through the body, about the herbs her father once used to heal.
At first, people dismissed her. She was just a girl, too young and too untrained. But Wynn listened, observed, and learned in silence. She gathered herbs at dawn, studying their scents and textures, remembering the mixtures her father used.
Weeks turned into months, and though she had yet to step back into the cave, Wynn knew she was preparing herself for something far greater.
One evening, as she sat alone on the hillside watching the sunset bleed across the sky, a thought took hold of her—clear, sharp, and unshakable.
She would not simply seek the power for herself. She would build something lasting, something that could protect others from the kind of loss she had suffered. A place where no child would stand alone in a crowd, waiting for comfort that never came.
A sanctuary
The word felt strange on her tongue, but right. She didn't know how, or when, but she would do it.
For her parents. For herself. For every soul who had ever been left behind.
---
That night, as the first fireflies danced in the dark, Wynn stood at the edge of the forest once more. The stone tablet waited, silent and unmoving, but she no longer felt fear.
"Someday," she whispered to the trees, the earth, and whatever ancient force still lingered in the shadows. "I'll be strong enough to walk into that cave… and when I do, I won't be alone."
The wind stirred, carrying her words into the darkness, and though the forest gave no answer, Wynn felt as though something unseen had heard her—and was waiting.