-
A single note from her zither, beautiful as a plum blossom, shook the heavens and hummed with divine strength. Written in Chapter Six, page 13 of the Divine Zither Cultivators.
-
Three years ago.
A soft melody drifted through the breeze coming down from the majestic mountain above, the sound of a zither being played with delicate care. The notes were light yet carried far, like ripples across still water. Beneath the gentle plum blossom tree, a mother and her daughter sat side by side, their robes brushed with fallen petals. The mother's slender hands glided gracefully across the strings, her movements fluid, serene, each note blooming with quiet emotion.
The little girl watched in fascination, her wide peach blossom eyes following every motion. She rested her chin on her knees, humming faintly along with the tune, as though trying to capture the rhythm in her heart.
A short distance away, a man sat under the shade of the same tree, a cup of tea resting by his side. His expression was calm and content, the kind of quiet satisfaction that could only exist in moments like this. He watched his wife and daughter without a word, as the melody and the falling petals wove together into something eternal, a portrait of harmony.
The air was cool and scented faintly with plum and bamboo. The zither's melody rose and fell with the rhythm of the mountain wind, drifting toward the river that wound through the edge of the village. Birds perched along the branches joined the tune with their chirps, as if nature itself had stilled to listen.
It was a fleeting scene, one that would live in memory long after the song had faded. Hua Qingqing sat quietly beside her mother, Hua Mei, beneath the blooming plum tree, listening to the melody that would forever mark her childhood.
-
Hua Qingqing woke to the faint clatter of bowls and the creak of wooden shelves. Her father was already in the kitchen, moving about with the quiet rhythm of habit, stirring porridge, chopping vegetables, stoking the small clay stove. The soft scent of rice and steaming broth drifted through their modest home.
The sun had not yet risen, and the world outside was still cloaked in a dim bluish haze. In Xincheng Village, dawn always came late, the towering mountains kept the valley in shadow long after the sky had begun to brighten elsewhere. The faint song of a morning bird echoed from somewhere near the river, blending with the distant rustle of bamboo leaves in the cold wind.
Rubbing her eyes, Hua Qingqing sat up and looked toward the small bronze mirror by her bedside. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the weak light of the oil lamp. She tilted her head slightly and smiled, her features had softened, her face beginning to resemble her mother's more with each passing day. The same gentle curve of the eyes, the same faint dimples when she smiled.
She dressed herself in a simple yet neat outfit: a pale green hanfu made of soft linen, the fabric slightly worn from daily use but clean and carefully folded by her the night before. A thin sash of white cloth wrapped around her waist, tied in a small knot at her side. Over her shoulders she draped a short outer robe the color of muted jade to ward off the morning chill.
When she stepped into the kitchen, the warm glow of the hearth greeted her. Her father, Hua Shen, looked up from the stove and smiled. His face was rugged from years of labor, yet his eyes were gentle.
"Morning already, Qingqing?" he asked, his voice low but kind.
She nodded, taking a seat at the small wooden table. He placed a bowl of steaming rice porridge before her, with a few slices of pickled vegetables and salted fish. It wasn't much, but it was warm and filling.
They ate together quietly.
After a long silence, Hua Shen spoke, his voice gentle and low.
"You've started to look more like her," he said quietly. "Your mother."
Hua Shen looked toward the window, where the plum blossom tree swayed gently in the morning wind.
"The night before she passed," he continued, "she sat beneath that tree and played her zither. I remember asking her why, the wind was so cold. But she smiled and said, 'The blossoms don't wait for spring to remember beauty.'"
He gave a faint laugh that wasn't quite laughter.
"When I woke at dawn, she was gone. No pain. No sound. The village healer said her spiritual core had collapsed," he murmured, eyes distant. "No one knew why."
Hua Qingqing had woken up to the trembling voice of her father when he called her name, and when she stepped into the room, she saw Hua Mei lying peacefully upon the bed, her lips curved in a faint smile, as if she had simply fallen asleep.
The next day, the plum blossom tree outside the house had lost all of its petals. Villagers whispered that she had once been a cultivator. Hua Shen never spoke of it. He buried her beneath that same tree, where the wind still carried the faintest sound of zither strings whenever spring returned.
Silence filled the room again. The only sound was the wind outside, brushing against the paper windows like a whisper.
"Eat, Qingqing," he said finally. "Your mother wouldn't want you leaving on an empty stomach."
When the meal was done, Hua Qingqing rose from her seat and brushed the crumbs from her sleeve. Her father handed her a small bamboo lunch box wrapped in cloth.
"Be careful on the path," he said.
"I will," she replied, her voice light.
Stepping outside, the chill mountain air touched her cheeks. The village was still quiet, with only a few wisps of smoke rising from distant chimneys. The faint light of dawn peeked over the mountain ridge, painting the mist a soft shade of golden red.
Hua Qingqing tightened her sash and began walking toward the village center, her footsteps light on the stone path.
-
End of chapter 3 - Hua Mei