Green Mist Village was tiny—just a bunch of rundown huts crammed at the bottom of the Azure Veil Mountains. Mist poured down from the peaks every single day, so thick sometimes you couldn't see ten steps ahead. Around two hundred people lived here, barely getting by on whatever the mountains and forest decided to throw at them.
A single dirt path cut straight through the middle from south to north. That was the Main Village Path. Huts sat on both sides, built from whatever wood people could drag back, roofs covered in patchy thatch. Smoke drifted up from chimneys all day long—someone always boiling millet or roots because that's what there was.
East of the path, the land sloped up into terraced fields. Rice, millet, veggies—stuff that fought to grow in the thin, rocky soil. Farmer Zhao's house was right there next to them, yard full of tools and racks for drying whatever came out of the ground.
West was nothing but forest. Dark, thick pines that crowded right up to the huts. The safe part was the Western Forest Edge—where normal people went for firewood and easy herbs. Push farther on the Deep Forest Path and you were asking for trouble. Spirit beasts lived deeper in.
A cold mountain stream ran north to south, slicing the village in half. A few shaky plank bridges crossed it. Kids splashed around the lower one on good days, but their moms always hovered nearby, nervous.
Down south, the path opened up a little—that was the Village Entrance Path, the only way out to the real world. Merchants showed up maybe once every few months, and the whole village crowded into the little Village Square to trade.
The biggest hut belonged to the Village Elder. Elder Lu lived there with his family. It actually had real tiles on the roof instead of thatch—fancy for this place.
Healer Wang's Hut was easy to spot—herbs hanging everywhere, drying in bundles. She knew which plants fixed what. Lin Chen sold most of his stuff to her.
Hunter Li's Hut sat close to the western forest, walls covered in antlers and pelts. Li was huge and quiet, gone hunting for days at a time. When he came back with meat, everybody ate like kings for a week.
Old Widow Zhang's Hut was a bit off by itself near the stream. She'd lost her whole family to beasts years ago. Now she just wove baskets and sometimes left food on doorsteps when she thought someone needed it.
And way up at the northern end, where the path got narrow and the mist never really lifted, was the smallest, most beat-up hut in the whole village.
That one was Lin Chen's.
Lin Chen was sixteen. He looked skinnier and younger than he was—years of not-quite-enough food did that. His skin was rough from wind and sun, black hair long and messy, always tied back with a ragged strip of cloth. His eyes were dark, quiet… empty most of the time.
He had nobody.
Everyone knew the story. Fifteen years ago, during a small beast attack, his mom went into labor too early and died giving birth right there in the hut. His dad—a hunter—carried the newborn to the village square, handed him to Old Widow Zhang, then walked north into the mountains with his bow and knife. Never came back. Probably dead. Maybe he just couldn't take the pain. Nobody searched hard. Life here didn't leave room for that.
Lin Chen had been alone ever since.
Some days that emptiness sat heavy in his chest, like a cold stone he couldn't cough up. He never cried about it anymore—he'd run out of tears years ago—but sometimes, when the wind howled at night, he felt it ache.
His days were always the same. Same routine. Same quiet.
He woke up at first light, mist still thick outside. The hut was cold. He sat up on his straw mat, rubbed his face, and just stared at the wall for a minute. Another day. Same as yesterday.
He swept the dirt floor with his twig broom. Checked the roof for new leaks. Patched them with mud or old cloth if he had any. His hands moved automatic—didn't need to think.
If there was anything left from last night, he ate it cold. Usually there wasn't. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He was used to it.
Then he grabbed his bamboo basket and sickle and headed out.
Mornings were for his tiny patch behind the hut. Barely enough space for a few rows of sweet potatoes and tough greens. He knelt in the dirt, pulled weeds by hand, carried water from the stream in leaky buckets. Birds came for the seeds; he waved his arms and yelled till they flew off. Sometimes he muttered under his breath, "Go on, get out of here…" voice flat, tired.
By late morning he walked west to the forest edge. Picked up dry branches for firewood. Searched for herbs—silver leaf, cloud-ear mushrooms, whatever he could find.
Some days he got lucky. Most days he didn't.
He kept his head down when he passed people on the path. Nodded if someone nodded first. Didn't talk unless he had to.
Healer Wang was the only one he spoke to regular. "Got some silver leaf today," he'd say, voice low. She'd nod, count out a few coppers. He'd pocket them without a smile and leave.
Afternoons were for heading back, sorting his stuff, drying herbs, stacking wood.
Evenings were the quietest.
Tonight it was raining—steady, soft drops on the roof. Lin Chen sat by his little fire pit, cracked pot heating up.
Same thing every night: thin soup.
He peeled three small sweet potatoes, cutting off the bad spots. Hands moved slow, careful. Into the pot.
Washed greens three times—hated the grit between his teeth. Tore them up, dropped them in.
Sliced the mushrooms. Added them.
Pinch of silver leaf last.
Stirred slow, watching it bubble.
The hut smelled like wet dirt and smoke. Rain kept coming down outside.
When it was ready, he tasted it.
"It tastes okay," he said to the empty room, voice soft, almost surprised. A tiny warmth spread in his chest—not much, but something. Warm food on a cold night. It was enough to make the emptiness feel a little smaller for a minute.
He added the last grains of salt, stirred again.
Ladled it into his chipped bowl.
Ate slow. Didn't want it to end too fast.
Halfway through, rain started leaking through the roof—drip, drip, drip.
He sighed quietly, moved the bowl, put his empty bucket under it.
"Patch that tomorrow," he muttered, a flicker of annoyance in his voice. Tired of fixing the same spots over and over.
Finished the soup. Scraped the bowl clean.
"It's enough," he whispered, staring at the empty bowl. His throat felt tight for a second. Enough to keep going. Enough to not feel like he was disappearing.
Cleaned the pot with sand. Banked the fire. Trimmed the lamp wick.
Lay down on his mat, pulled the thin blanket up.
Stared at the dark ceiling while rain drummed overhead.
The emptiness came back—slow, heavy, familiar.
"Tomorrow the forest again," he said into the dark, voice barely there.
"If the rain stops… maybe find something good."
"If not… still go."
He said it like a promise to himself. The only person he had to keep promises to.
Sleep came slow, like always.
Outside, mist wrapped tighter around his little hut at the edge of everything.
The mountains stayed silent.
And in the smallest, loneliest hut in Green Mist Village, Lin Chen slept—one more ordinary night.
But ordinary wouldn't last much longer.