It was dark.
Not the kind of darkness that came from nightfall, or the shadow behind closed eyes. This was deeper — thick and hushed, like being submerged in still water. There was no sound. No weight. Just… nothing.
Until something stirred.
A breath, quiet and sudden.
Then — a glow.
It was faint at first, like morning light slipping through a thin curtain. Then brighter. Warmer. It pressed into her chest and behind her eyes until it became all she could feel.
And then — everything snapped.
She gasped.
Air tore into her lungs. Cold and sharp, as though she'd forgotten how to breathe. Her body seized, then jerked upright with the stiffness of limbs long unused. Her eyes flew open.
She blinked up at a crooked ceiling made of old, splintered wood. Light filtered in through slats in the walls, uneven and flickering. Her fingers clawed instinctively at the threadbare blanket tangled around her. Her chest heaved.
She was alive.
But something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Her skin felt unfamiliar. Her bones, too small. Her hands — rough, scarred, calloused in places she didn't recognize.
She wasn't in her body.
She wasn't in her world.
A long pause passed before she even dared to sit up. The room creaked under her movement. It was small — no bigger than a pantry, really — and smelled faintly of musty hay and smoke. Dust floated in golden shafts of light. In the corner, a bunch of dried cabbage hung from a string like someone had once tried decorating and gave up halfway through.
She swallowed.
What… did she remember?
A slow dread curled in her stomach. She clutched her temples. Searched for anything — a place, a time, a face. But it was blank. All of it. Like her thoughts were pages someone had torn out.
All… except one thing.
Qin Lian.
The name surfaced like a pearl rising through murky water. Familiar. True. Hers.
Yes. That was her name.
Qin Lian.
The only thing she could cling to.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared blankly at the wooden floor, trying not to panic. Was this a dream? A punishment? A second chance?
And then—
The door creaked.
She snapped her head toward it.
A man stepped inside.
At first, all she saw was the light — sunlight from behind, catching on the pale shimmer of his robes. His figure was tall, slender, confident in the way people who've seen too much tend to be. His hair was dark, tied loosely at the nape, and a long sword rested easily at his hip.
He looked… wrong for a place like this.
Too clean. Too regal. Too utterly composed to be stepping into a hut where the roof leaked and the furniture was made of overturned crates.
And he was young. Maybe twenty-two, at most.
Their eyes met.
And something in his gaze cracked.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was something far heavier — relief knotted with grief, the kind of sorrow that had lingered too long in the chest. He looked at her like he had been searching for years.
"…Child," he whispered, as if saying the word too loudly might break her.
He stepped forward, and the air changed. It grew heavier, warmer. His spiritual pressure — she didn't have a name for it, but she felt it — draped over the room like a blanket. Her chest tightened.
"I finally found you," he said.
Qin Lian blinked.
He exhaled softly, trying to smile.
"I'm your great-great-grandfather."
"…HUH?!"
The cabbage turned lazily in the breeze.
Qin Lian just stared.
"You're—you're what?" she croaked.
He chuckled, a little sheepishly. "Yes, I know. It's… a lot. I'm Yan Zhenwu. And you… You are the child of my grandchild's child."
She gawked. "But you're—you're like—"
"Too handsome to be an ancestor?" he offered, a little smug.
She squinted. "Too young."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Ah. That too."
There was a silence.
Qin Lian opened her mouth. Closed it again.
He stepped closer, crouching carefully so he wouldn't startle her. His robes pooled neatly around him. He studied her face with soft reverence, like he couldn't quite believe she was real.
"I didn't know," he said quietly. "For a long time. Back when I was a mortal, I traveled… carelessly. I met someone once — a kind woman — but I left the next day to chase swordsmanship. Years later, I learned I'd left something behind. Someone."
He reached into his robes and pulled out a parchment, yellowed and weather-soft. The edges were torn. The handwriting shaky.
She's alone now. Please… come find her.
A letter. Written by someone near the end of their life.
"My granddaughter wrote this," he said. "By the time it reached me, she had already passed."
His voice trembled just slightly.
"I had no family. No one. And then… I found this. Found you."
Qin Lian stared at the letter, her chest twisting.
She didn't know this woman. But the words struck something deep inside. A longing. A grief that didn't quite belong to her — but still clung like a shadow.
"…I don't remember anything," she murmured. "Just my name."
"That's alright," he said softly. "You're safe now."
He stood and looked around the room, frowning faintly at the dust, the broken window, the sad vegetables.
"You've been living here?"
"I guess so?" she said. "I mean. Yes? I don't really—know. I woke up here."
He sighed. "No one should have left you alone like this."
She blinked. "Wait. So… what now?"
Yan Zhenwu straightened, brushing off his sleeves.
"Now?" he said, smiling faintly. "Now, you pack your things. We're going home."
Qin Lian blinked.
"Home?"
"My sect," he said. "I've got a manor there. Lake. A sword cave. Warm food. Spiritual chickens that don't peck at your boots."
She looked around the hut. "But…" she hesitated. "I don't know anything. About cultivation. Or… you."
He tilted his head. "Do you know how to boil water?"
"I—uh. No?"
He smiled. "Then we'll start there."
She gave him a long, skeptical look.
He gave her a warm, patient one in return.
And for reasons she didn't understand — reasons that might've belonged to the girl who came before her — her heart eased. Just a little.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll come with you."
He beamed. It was soft. Awkward. Like someone trying to smile for the first time in a long while.
Qin Lian stood on wobbly legs and glanced around. She didn't have much. A satchel. An empty kettle. One sandal. That was it.
"I guess I'm packed."
Yan Zhenwu reached into the simple jade ring on his finger and pulled out a bamboo basket filled with…
"…Are those radishes?"
He nodded solemnly. "Cultivated them myself. They're for soup."
"You brought soup radishes to meet your long-lost great-great-granddaughter?"
"Well, I didn't want to come empty-handed."
She stared at him.
Then — she laughed.
It was small at first. Shaky. But real.
He smiled wider.
As they stepped outside together, the wind picked up gently, carrying the scent of pine and mountain snow.
A new world waited.
And Qin Lian — whoever she was, wherever she'd come from — took her first step into it.
With a satchel, a sandal, a basket of radishes, and a great-great-grandfather who looked barely older than she did.