"Do you think… there's a chance I might like you?"
"No."
"Oh."
Many truths are spoken as jokes. Both knew it wasn't a joke—yet neither would acknowledge it.
Aini's eyes flickered with disappointment. Even her forced smile looked strained. In the end, she left the courtyard with slumped shoulders, her face crumpled like a defeated child.
How could An Ming not have noticed Aini's feelings? But his heart already belonged to someone else. A direct rejection was the only kindness he could offer them both.
[Age 22: Your third year of confinement. Trapped within the courtyard, your days repeat—forge swords, explosions, cooking, training, forging. Aini, despite your rejection, remains as your guard. "The Alliance pays me anyway," she says. "Might as well keep this cushy job."]
Under the peach tree, An Ming muttered, "No distractions, the sword follows perfection," and picked up the wooden sword on the table. The blade sliced through the breeze, its momentum swirling petals into a pink cyclone.
The petals wove through the air, tracing lines that gradually formed a familiar silhouette.
"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," Aini groaned, resting her chin on her hand. Above them, the petals had arranged themselves into a giant cartoonish head of Fu Xuan, complete with a heart-shaped frame.
Seriously, dude?
Was heartbreak really driving him this unhinged?
Aini's eye twitched. Now both of them were losing it. Neither was a long-life species—no risk of Mara-Struck madness! So why the theatrics?
An Ming looked up, finally noticing the peach-blossom portrait in the sky. So… he couldn't lie to himself after all. Longing was longing. The one his subconscious clung to, the love he'd never forget, the person who mattered most.
His sword swept down, stirring a fierce gust.
Every strike carried her essence.
Even unspoken, it bled through.
"Hey," Aini leaned against the tree, tilting her head. Azure strands fluttered at her ears as she smiled. "What's it feel like… to love someone?"
An Ming paused. "It's… seeing their shadow in everyone else."
"I see." She chuckled, then grew solemn. "I'm leaving."
"Leaving?"
"Resigning."
Aini wasn't joking. Peach blossoms clung to her hair. "We're short-life species. A century is all we get. You've already taken a fifth of mine. I want you to remember me at my best."
She caught a falling petal. "Thank you, An Ming."
"But I… never did anything for you." His smile was bittersweet. He'd respect her choice, even if it hurt.
"Silly." She laughed. "She's waiting. Don't regret it later."
With a casual wave, she walked away. After that day, Aini never returned. The guard duty shifted to Yao Guang—who, of course, didn't bother patrolling. "You're not escaping anyway," his absence seemed to say. Trust, with lethal consequences if broken.
[Age 23: Alone, you grow a small braid. Your forging skills soar. The bomb-scarred walls are repainted. Only the peach tree remains unchanged, blooming tenderly each spring.]
An Ming lounged on a bamboo chair beneath the tree, sunlight filtering through petals. Their scent reminded him of Fu Xuan.
Forging manuals piled beside him. His mastery had evolved, yet Wu Ye—his shattered sword—defied repair. Yao Guang's materials weren't the issue. They lacked resonance. A true divine blade couldn't be cobbled from parts.
The spring breeze warmed him. Memories swirled—fragments of who he was.
The chair creaked, masking approaching footsteps.
Outside the courtyard, a girl hesitated.
Fu Xuan leaned against the gate, staring at the crystal wine cup in her hand. The sake burned her throat—a liquid courage bought from a street vendor.
She'd been avoiding this. Watching from afar. Was this enough?
Her third eye pulsed, a reminder: Fate cannot be rewritten.
So she flipped a coin.
Heads: Face him. Tails: Return to the Luofu, never look back.
The coin soared—then she caught it mid-air and hurled it away.
The answer came the moment the coin left her fingers.
Draining the cup, Fu Xuan kicked open the rotting wooden gate. It collapsed with a crash.
The peach tree still bloomed.
And her An Ming hadn't changed.
Petals swirled, carrying echoes of their past—the beginning she'd defied fate to reclaim.
"An Ming."
Fu Xuan wiped her tears.
"I'm here."