The words hang in the air before the girl's face breaks into a bright smile. She slides forward on her stool, hair falling over her forehead as she leans across the table.
"Oh—this bread looks warm," she says softly, plucking off a small piece. "Sorry! You were staring at it like a strange stone, and my stomach's been rumbling since the creek bed."
She chews slowly, humming a tune before tilting her head at Lin Yun. "You look like you're not sure if you're awake or dreaming. Did the mist lead you astray? Or did 'Master Baby' take a wrong turn again?"
Lin Yun's cheeks flush—he wraps his hands around his tankard, shoulders relaxing just a little.
The old man lets out a lilting laugh, flicking his wrist like scattering stardust as he brushes a crumb from her cheek. His fingers move like a bird hopping across branches, and his voice rolls like pebbles in a brook:
"Ho ho—easy there, little carp! No need to bolt like a hare through sharp grass~ Sit slow, let warmth wrap 'round your frame—good gifts soothe, they don't tame! Like songs on morning breath, or dewdrops on new heath!"
He sweeps his arm wide, pulling out a curved flute carved from mountain iris. Twirling it like a falling leaf, he brings it to his lips—the notes leap and twirl through the tavern like butterflies on a breeze. Then he and the girl sing together, hands moving in gentle waves:
Time curves through space—no start, no end,
Winds through hills where stars descend.
Space holds light, wraps day and night,
Stretches wide where paths take flight.
Thread pulls tight, lost finds its way,
Stream and star forever sway!
The note fades. The girl drums her fingers, holding up her bamboo hat with a grin. "Coins for the singers! We say streams whisper tales—though half the time we spin them new for extra stew!"
The old man chuckles, tapping his temple then winking as he waves a hand in airy loops. From his robe, he pulls out a glowing flask that shimmers with blue, amber, and silver—like light through stained glass. He holds it to the fire as a young woman leans forward, curious.
"Excuse me—what is that? I've never seen a drink glow like this."
"Ah, sweet friend!" He flourishes the flask with a quick spin. "This is 'Brook-Song Gold'—made from blooms that wake when thunder's bold, sap from boughs that kiss the sky! Traders bring it from paths that wind like verses in a rhyme—one sip, and streams show where their currents climb!"
A merchant leans over. "What do your words mean?"
The old man's eyes twinkle like stars on water. He cups his hands as if holding a stream, gaze settling on Lin Yun:
"Meaning? Like catching clouds in your palms—clench too tight, and they slip through sand! It dances free in sun and shade—never still, never made to fade! Some roads are wide as meadow green; others twist like vine on tree! Where the stream turns sharp and deep… hidden wonders sleep!"
The girl scoots closer, holding out fresh bread. "See? No need to look lost—food makes everything better. Try this—it's warm!"
Lin Yun takes the bread, warmth seeping into his fingers. As he bites into it, the old man claps once, voice bright:
"Eat your fill, young heart—let strength grow in your bones! Warm flames chase away cold stones! The world may bend like willow bough, but streams know how to bow—where dark holds treasures yet to tell!"
He tucks the flask away, tracing a small circle in the air as he turns to the girl:
"And that's today's tale! Come, little carp—we've dawdled long enough; mountain paths don't walk themselves!"
The girl hops off her stool, tying her hat snug under her chin. The old man gives Lin Yun a playful salute, then they head for the door—robes and hair flowing like water behind them. They vanish into the misty evening, but Lin Yun feels their eyes on him long after the door swings shut.
The tavern bursts back to life. Lin Yun sits frozen, watching the space settle into rhythm. Nearby, three men in cloud-embroidered robes huddle over a map, pointing with jade pins. Across the room, travelers in patched rags share porridge, laughing as one makes a small flame dance over their palm. By the hearth, two warrior women with claw-marked armor discuss trade routes with a portly merchant. Even the cook wears a belt of herb pouches and polished bones—signs Lin Yun has never seen before.
A chill runs down his spine: this is a world of cultivation, where power weaves through every corner of life.
Then images flash fast—seven heartbeats total: Wu Lan's face twisted in fear… rain lashing a hospital window… Yang's laugh mixing with a stranger's voice… a green-glowing bird lantern… hands clutching a warm stone… dirt in his mouth…
Memories crash together. His brother's name tumbles out in a gasp: "Yang—"
The room spins. Noise blurs into a roar. Pain sears his temples, and he slumps forward—forehead hitting the table with a dull thud.
Patrons jump up to help. Outside, water rushes down gulleys, carrying the song's fading echo and hints of something waiting below.
When Lin Yun's eyes flutter open, he's lying on a straw mattress in a small room—walls lined with dried herbs, shelves stacked with clay jars. The air smells like mint and roasted grain, a single lantern casting warm shadows.
Thump—
Yang stumbles through the door, holding a half-empty ale jug and crooked bread. Ale sloshes as he sways, face pink as a sunset rose, his scar curving into a wiggly line.
"C'mooooon, Lin-Yunny-boy!" He slurs, tripping over the doorframe and slamming into the wall. Plaster dust puffs up. "Rise an'… shine-y! See what I did there?!"
He tugs Lin Yun up, pulling him outside into cool night air. Hooves thunder down the road—two horses gallop straight for them, Yang already leaping onto a saddle, laughing wildly.
"C'MON KID—RUN!" Yang shouts, skidding his horse. A massive red-faced man barrels after them, arms flailing, while the old bard and girl trot behind playing off-key flute and humming.
"MY HORSES!" the man bellows.
Lin Yun lunges for the second horse's reins, swinging on in a messy leap. His body moves faster than expected, muscles sturdier than they should be—he clings to the saddle as Yang cackles and kicks forward.
Dust trails behind them as they gallop north past Sunfire Clan fields, Yang humming off-key the whole way. They camp by the river that night, stars stretching endless above as Lin Yun's head spins—no memories to cling to. Every so often, he feels a faint cold pressure in his chest, but brushes it off as tiredness.
By morning, they follow the water past Dragon's Scale Herb Gardens—Yang darts to snatch a leaf before a wild boar sends them scrambling back to their mounts. Lin Yun dodges the charge with speed that makes Yang pause. Mist wraps the hills as they bed down near Earth Spirit Sect's walls.
When sunlight breaks through, they take the upper route past Misty Cloud Sect's glinting pagoda. By midday, they crest a hill and see Grass Valley Village spread below—smoke rising, kids running in the lanes.
Yang pulls his horse to a stop and hops off, his grin fading. His eyes narrow, a faint silver glow flickering—sign of a cultivator attuned to spiritual energy.
"Your spiritual energy… it's not the same," Yang says, voice low. A wave of Foundation Establishment pressure rolls out, pressing Lin Yun back against a tree. Leaves swirl around them.
I can feel it—this energy isn't his own. His eyes are clear, but his demeanor's different. Why does it feel like I'm staring at a stranger in my friend's skin? Did something in the woods alter him? Or did I never really know him?
He leans in, scar twisting dark. "What happened to you out there? You're not the same."
Lin Yun trembles, cold sweat beading his forehead. A pressure builds in his head—fragments flash through his mind: lecture halls, textbooks, gym punching bags… and his younger brother from his world, grinning as he asks to learn to punch.
The fear's real. Whatever changed him wasn't on purpose—but this energy shouldn't be possible.
Then the pressure vanishes. Yang claps his shoulder, laughing loud: "I'm just messing with you! You've been out of it since we fell in that ravine—must've hit your head hard! Head home—your folks will flip when they see you're okay."
He turns and disappears into the shadows, the silver glow flashing once more.
Trembling, Lin Yun slides off the horse and walks downhill into the village. Thatched roofs line narrow lanes, and the air carries wood smoke, bread, and a faint hum of spiritual energy—present in every tree and stone.
"Young Master is back!" call farmers, dropping their grain sacks. An old weaver pauses, her face tightening as she senses his unusual energy.
Guard Da Peng hurries over, relieved: "You're alive! We've doubled patrols—a rogue cultivator is near." Lin Yun admits he can't remember where he is, and Da Peng guides him toward the family estate, explaining the rogue is on the run from the Sect Alliance.
A low hum shakes the air—the rogue's chaotic energy snaps a tree branch toward children at the well. Without thinking, Lin Yun releases a wave of earthy-gold energy that stabilizes everything. Da Peng kneels in awe: "You couldn't sense energy last week—this power is rare!"
Old Chen the shrine keeper steps forward, nodding warmly: "The young master's return is a blessing—we've kept watch while most cultivators are away at sects or traveling."
At the estate, Lin Yun's gaze drifts to a wooden training dummy. Muscle memory kicks in—he shifts his weight like he has a thousand times, hands up in a boxer's guard, circling it. He throws a sharp cross punch, then a front kick to the dummy's midsection.
Da Peng stands beside him, mouth twitching as he tries not to laugh—the movements are nothing like proper cultivation forms.
Just then, Lord Lin Wei and Lady Mei Lian ride into the courtyard. Both freeze at the sight of Lin Yun's strange stances, eyes wide with shock.
Lord Lin Wei strides forward and smacks the back of his head, voice sharp with anger and confusion: "I told you to stay away from that thief Yang! Every scrap of trouble you've been in came from running with him! And what are those ridiculous stances? They look like street brawler's nonsense—not what a Lin heir should do! Have you learned nothing?"
Footsteps pound the stone path as a young girl with braided hair rounds the corner—wooden sword on her back, dirt on her robes. She freezes, jaw dropping.
"Brother?" she breathes, then breaks into a tearful smile and sprints forward, hugging his waist. "You're home! I just got back from delivering herbs—Mother said you were missing…"
Lin Yun stiffens for a moment, then eases as he feels her steady grip and faint Qi Condensation energy. He pats her shoulder gently.
Lady Mei Lian places a hand on her husband's arm, her Foundation Establishment aura rolling out to make him pause: "Lin Wei! The boy just got home safe—look at them." She nods toward the siblings. "And I know you took the long route to check the western woods, Xiao. I let it slide because you were worried, but tell us next time."
Xiao ducks her head, grinning sheepishly.
Lord Lin Wei softens as he takes in the scene. He rubs his neck: "I didn't mean to be harsh—I'm just worried. Those stances really are strange."
He steps closer, letting his energy wash over Lin Yun. When he feels the wide-open meridians, his eyes widen: "I never thought you'd take initiative like this. Our family's waited generations for someone who can cultivate here—and that someone is you… even if your way is strange."
On the sloped tile roof above the courtyard, the old man and the girl watch from the shadows of the pagoda eaves. The old man plays a single flute note, then they sing together:
Time curves through space—no start, no end,
Winds through hills where stars descend.
Space holds light, wraps day and night,
Stretches wide where paths take flight.
Thread pulls tight, lost finds its way,
Stream and star forever sway!
The note fades. In the same blink, both shift simultaneously: the old man transforms into a figure with pearl-smooth skin and robes like moonlight, her presence brightening the stars above, while the girl shrinks to a floating, cherubic form swathed in starlight before softening and reverting to her original self—dark hair tied back, river-stone eyes clear and warm.
As one, they dissolve into silver mist and rippling air. With a single wave-like shimmer, they vanish—only the scent of mountain flowers lingers on the tiles.
Below, as Lin Yun and Lord Lin Wei's hands draw near, a jolt passes between them. Lord Lin Wei stares at their linked hands, his eyes wide with awe as he feels power move between them.
END OF CHAPTER 2