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Legends say that Xincheng Village was where their fates intertwined, a humble beginning for the beings that touched eternity.
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Long Tianyu looked toward the village that lay nestled at the foot of the towering mountain. A faint haze of mist lingered in the air, drifting lazily between rooftops of bamboo and smoke rising from a few chimneys. As they neared, the sound of distant birds echoed softly from the mountains, mingling with the whisper of the wind that carried the faint scent of damp soil and freshly cut Shadowjade Bamboo.
It was quiet within the village. Most of the children were outside with Teacher Song Ming, while the younger ones stayed home, too small to climb the steep mountain path. The older youths were likely elsewhere, hunting in the forest, gathering herbs, or hauling stones and ore from the mines deeper in the mountain's veins. Life in Xincheng Village was simple.
Long Tianyu's eyes wandered across the houses. They were built from Shadowjade Bamboo, the same mysterious bright green stalks with vertical black lines that grew halfway up the mountain's side. Each bamboo bore faint traces of the axe marks that shaped it, the scars shining slightly under the sun like veins of jade. It was said that bamboo from this mountain grew harder than steel and denser than stone, yet it still carried the fragrance of earth and wood when freshly cut. To bring down a single bamboo tree required great strength.
Zhao Feng, one of the few men in the village known as a bamboo carpenter, had mastered that art. He had lived all his life in Xincheng, though whispers between the old women in the village said he had once traveled beyond the mountain valleys in his youth, learning carpentry from craftsmen of distant cities. His arms were thick from decades of labor. He was the one who helped Tianyu's father build their family's home, a modest bamboo hut at the outskirts of the village, where the forest met a small, crystal-clear river.
As the group reached the wooden gate at the entrance, the familiar creak of its hinges welcomed them. For the children walking behind Song Ming, this humble village was the center of the world, the place where dreams began.
As the group passed through the gate, a few villagers lifted their heads as they passed, an old woman sweeping her porch, a man mending fishing nets, a pair of small children played near a well in the center. Each greeted Song Ming with a respectful nod or smile. In a small place like Xincheng, everyone knew one another.
The path through the village was narrow but well-trodden. Houses lined either side, each surrounded by very small gardens of herbs, vegetables, or flowers that thrived in the moist mountain air.
Hua Qingqing walked beside him, humming a tune she had heard from her mother. Her eyes darted around with childlike wonder. Every so often, she would wave to someone they passed, her smile as bright as the sun above them.
"Ah, back already, Teacher Song!" A man called out from a nearby stall where he sold bundles of herbs. "The little ones didn't give you too much trouble, I hope?"
Song Ming chuckled softly, his eyes kind. "Only as much trouble as I deserve," he said, his tone carrying warmth. "They're lively, that's a good thing. A quiet child learns less."
The man laughed and nodded, returning to his work as the group continued on.
Further ahead, the stone pathway split into several smaller trails leading deeper into the village. To the left lay the farmlands, to the right the small forge where Nong Xuanfeng's parents worked. Faint clangs of metal echoed from there, steady and rhythmic. The smell of smoke and hot iron filled the air, mingling with the scent of bamboo.
As they walked, Tianyu's gaze drifted towards a distant rooftop, his home. He could already imagine his mother tending to the small garden behind their house and his father sitting by the riverbank. A warmth spread through his chest, but also a strange heaviness. He knew the world beyond Xincheng was vast and though the village was safe, it was also small. Too small for dreams like his.
"Teacher," Hua Qingqing's soft voice broke his thoughts. "Do you think there are villages like ours beyond the mountains?"
Song Ming turned his head slightly, his white hair glinting in the light. "Many," he said. "But every village, every city, has its own path. Some rise high, others remain hidden among the clouds. Even our little Xincheng has its purpose in the grand tapestry of heaven and earth".
His words lingered in the air, gentle yet profound.
The group eventually split up, each going their own way. Teacher Song told them to be in the village center by sunrise tomorrow.
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Long Tianyu continued along the stony path through the village, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone. Ahead, his home came into view, a tall bamboo house standing gracefully beneath the dappled shade of Shadowjade Mountain.
The house was sturdy yet elegant, its frame woven from dark-green Shadowjade Bamboo. The roof arched slightly, built to withstand the heavy rains that often rolled down from the mountain. It was large enough for their family to live comfortably, with room to gather, to eat, and to rest after long days of labor. The craftsmanship was admirable, each bamboo joint bound tightly with mountain vine, every plank set with care.
As Tianyu approached, a faint smile touched his lips. He could hear his mother and father talking inside the house. He also smelled something strange, part smoke, part… charcoal?
Long Meilin scrunched her eyebrows, looking coldly at her husband, confused how he could always mess things up.
"Jian! What in the heavens is that smell?!"
Long Jian froze mid-motion, a bamboo spatula trembling in his hand as he stared down at what might once have been rice porridge, now an unrecognizable black paste clinging to the pot.
"I..I thought I'd save you some time, dear. It's just a little… extra crispy."
Long Meilin stormed over, hands on her hips, eyes sharp enough to slice Zhao Feng's hardworked bamboo masterpiece of a house in half.
"You nearly burned down the house! If you want to 'help,' go help the pigs, at least they won't starve after tasting that!"
Long Tianyu snickered quietly from the doorway. His father looked back and gave him a helpless look.
"Tianyu, my boy, next time you help your mother, alright?''
Long Meilin turned at the sound of laughter, her sharp expression melting just enough to show amusement.
"Oh? You find this funny, do you, Tianyu?"
Tianyu straightened instantly, trying and failing to wipe the grin from his face.
"N-no, Mother. I was just... appreciating father's cooking technique."
Long Jian groaned. "Even my own son betrays me…"
Meilin sighed, the corner of her lips twitching. "Hmph. You two are the same, one burns the food, the other burns his tongue with excuses".
She took the pot from Long Jian's hands, setting it aside with a thud, then reached for a smaller clay bowl that sat steaming on the side table. The rich aroma of fresh vegetable porridge filled the air.
"Here," she said, scooping some into a bowl and handing it to Tianyu. "This one's still edible. I made it before your father decided to 'help.'"
Tianyu accepted it with both hands, the warmth spreading through his palms and chest alike. He sat down by the doorway, the sunlight spilling over the bamboo floor.
"It's good, Mother," he said between bites.
Meilin smirked proudly. "Of course it is. A mother's cooking never fails. Only your father's cooking does. "
Long Jian coughed quietly behind her.
Long Meilin looked sharply at her husband.
Her response was so quick and decisive that both father and son froze then burst out laughing at the same time. Even Long Meilin couldn't help but smile as she shook her head.
For a moment, the house was filled with the sound of laughter, the smell of bamboo and warm porridge, and the kind of peace that lingered quietly before life began to change.
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The sun hung low over the horizon when Hua Qingqing reached her home. She had stopped by the village hall to fetch her zither, then sat beneath a willow tree to practice a tune she hadn't played since childhood. The hours slipped by before she realized how late it had become. She returned to the village hall and left her zither inside. The hall had many instruments and tools that anyone in the village was free to use.
The narrow path wound between wild grass and stones, the scent of damp earth lingering in the cool air. "Aunt Zhi Rui must have watered her flowers" Hua Qingqing thought as she looked at the neat little garden beside the path. Dew still clung to the petals, sparkling like tiny jewels in the fading sunlight. A gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of blossoms mixed with the earthy aroma of soil, and the soft rustle of leaves whispered through the air, calm and soothing. For a moment, she paused, letting the quiet of the mountain village settle around her, before continuing toward her home.
Her house stood alone on a slope, a modest dwelling of bamboo and clay, its thatched roof slightly worn from the mountain winds. Smoke rose faintly from the chimney. The sound of chopping wood echoed nearby. Her father was there, as always. His back was slightly bent, his hair more silver than she remembered, yet his movements were steady.
"Father," she called softly.
Hua Shen turned, a smile breaking through his tired features. "Qingqing. You're home."
She nodded and walked closer, noticing the rough patches on his hands and the faint smell of smoke clinging to his clothes. Life had not been kind to him since mother passed, yet he endured quietly, without complaint.
Inside, the house was simple. Her mother's weaving loom still stood in the corner, covered with a thin layer of dust. A half-finished piece of fabric hung from it, frozen in time.
They shared a silent meal, plain rice and wild vegetables. Her father spoke little, asking if she was learning well with Teacher Song. ''Yes, today we learned more about the vegetation in Shadowjade Mountain''. She answered softly, but her mind drifted outside, to the hill behind the house.
When the meal was done, she rose and excused herself. The path behind the house led to a small clearing where a single grave rested beneath a blooming plum tree. The stone was simple, her father had carved it himself years ago.
Qingqing knelt before it, brushing away the fallen petals and dried leaves. From her satchel, she took out a small bundle of flowers she had picked on her way home, mountain lilies, her mother's favorite. She laid them carefully before the grave, her hands trembling slightly.
"Mother…"
Her voice was soft, carried away by the evening breeze. For a moment, the wind seemed to pause, and the scent of the lilies drifted gently through the air.
She stayed there in silence, until the last light of dusk faded. When she finally rose, her eyes were calm, sorrow and strength intertwined.
At the foot of the hill, her father waited, holding a lantern. Its faint glow flickered across his face as he spoke quietly:
"She would've been proud of you, Qingqing."
Hua Qingqing smiled faintly, the light glimmering in her eyes like starlight reflected in water.
"I hope so, Father."
Together, they walked down the path towards their home, their silhouettes blending into darkness of the night.
And behind them, the plum blossoms swayed gently in the mountain wind, as if answering her.
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End of chapter 2 - Xincheng Village