The morning light hadn't completely dispelled the mist, and the path behind the mountain was already damp and gleaming coldly.
Hua Yin was dressed in plain gray coarse cloth, a bamboo basket tied at her waist, the bottom of which was covered with an old handkerchief—the usual attire her family sent their servants to gather herbs. Her steps were extremely light; her shoes trod over fallen leaves almost silently, like a wisp of mist disappearing into the deeper fog.
Lin Hua Yan didn't personally see her off, only sending two rough maids to follow at a distance, a smirk playing on their lips. They assumed that this Ninth Miss was always delicate and lacked spiritual power to protect her; the back mountain was teeming with low-level demonic beasts and thorny vines, and the slightest mistake would result in festering wounds and the inability to gather the herbs. Ideally, she would return crying in fear, never to be able to hold her head high again.
Hua Yin, however, seemed oblivious to the two pairs of eyes watching her from behind.
She followed the narrow path upwards, the fog thickening, the scent of grass and trees mingling with the sweet, earthy aroma, lingering in her nostrils. Thorns grew thickly on either side, their long, black thorns tipped with tiny barbs; occasionally, dewdrops rolled down, reflecting fragmented sunlight like countless tiny tears.
She stopped, reaching out to touch a thorn.
Before her fingertips touched it, the thorn seemed to come alive, trembling slightly before slowly bending its tip to make way. A fleeting shadow of a flower appeared in the fog; a tiny white flower silently bloomed at the base of the thorns, its six petals almost transparent, a pale gold glint in the center, like a light from a distant memory.
The faint burn mark on her palm warmed slightly again.
"So, you recognize me too," she murmured, her voice as soft as a soliloquy, yet also like a greeting to a very old friend.
The white flower gently closed, disappearing again into the depths of the thorns, as if it had never existed.
The two maids watched from afar, the fog too thick to see what the Ninth Miss was doing. They only vaguely saw her stand for a moment, then continue upwards, the path clear and unobstructed, without thorns scratching her, vines tripping her, or even a speck of mud on her clothes.
They exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with suspicion, yet they dared not approach.
At the end of the path lay an abandoned medicinal garden.
Legend had it that a hundred years ago, this was a spiritual field cultivated by the Lin family's ancestors, its soil of exceptional quality. Later, due to the shifting of the earth's veins, the spiritual energy was depleted, leading to its abandonment. Amidst the ruins, weeds grew rampant, except for a central blue stone tablet, its surface covered in moss, the inscription blurred, only the two characters "Peach Blossom" faintly discernible.
Hua Yin walked to the tablet and raised her hand to wipe away the dust.
The moment her fingertips touched the cold stone surface, a tremor deep within her chest intensified, as if something extremely subtle was quietly breaking free from its shell beneath the soil.
She closed her eyes. In a fleeting moment of disorientation, she seemed to see herself standing in another world: peach blossoms hung like snowflakes, a giant tree's roots reaching upwards, its branches and leaves pointing downwards, a rain of petals, each petal bearing a dark red mark of calamity, like a vow stained with blood.
The wind howled, and someone called her true name from afar, the voice gentle yet tinged with despair.
"Yin—"
She opened her eyes abruptly.
The fog thickened, almost imperceptible. On the blue stone tablet, the two incomplete characters suddenly glowed with a faint golden light, then faded.
In the bamboo basket, a withered peach pit had appeared.
The shell was cracked, the lines fine and intricate, like the wrinkles at the corners of an extremely old eye, yet deep within the cracks, a faint, flickering red light shone.
She tucked the peach pit into her bosom, closest to her heart.
From within the mist, the faint panting of a low-level demonic beast could be heard, heavy and greedy, like a damp tongue licking the air. The two maids, already terrified, shrank back in the distance, too afraid to follow.
Hua Yin, however, turned and walked towards the source of the sound.
Her steps were extremely steady, as if attending a preordained rendezvous.
As the mist parted, a gray-furred demonic wolf slowly appeared, its fangs dripping with venom, its pupils crimson. It should have pounced to tear her apart, but the moment it saw the girl, its body froze, a low, whimpering sound escaping its throat. Then, it slowly lowered its head, tucked its tail between its legs, and took three steps back, making way.
In the mist, the shadow of a flower flickered again.
Countless tiny white flowers bloomed and closed silently among the grass, like countless tiny breaths, paving a silent path of flowers for her.
She walked past the demonic wolf, her fingertips lightly brushing its rough fur.
The demonic wolf trembled, but did not move.
Only when her figure completely disappeared into the deeper fog did it raise its head, its crimson pupils reflecting a distant, golden light, as if it had seen an ancient king.
Deep in the back mountains, the wind suddenly picked up.
It dispersed the fog, and with it, the faint fragrance left by the girl.
That fragrance was like a peach blossom that someone had once tucked into their fingertip in a very, very distant memory.
When the fog cleared, she stood on the edge of a higher cliff.
Below her was a bottomless abyss, a sea of clouds churning, and distant mountain peaks like swords piercing the sky.
She looked down and saw the small white flower in her palm bloom quietly once more, its six petals now much brighter in the center, like a tiny yet tenacious star.
She pressed it to her lips and chuckled softly.
The smile was faint, yet it carried the certainty of finally finding her way home.
The wind whipped her long hair, like a black waterfall cascading down the cliff edge.
At that moment, she was like a flower that had finally remembered how to bloom.
Ending poem:
Thorns lightly pierce the misty back mountain,
A peach pit hides the heart, a mark of calamity born.
A white flower blooms silently,
I have awakened from my first dream of the mortal world.
The wind rises at the cliff's edge, clouds surge like a sea,
Golden eyes reflect old feelings.
Flowers bloom and fall without intention,
Who knew that reincarnation would recognize me first.