A hundred years passed like a sigh.
The Empire of Luoyun fell, rebuilt, and fell again. Kingdoms rose like waves, but the river endured — silent, shimmering, patient.
In a mountain village far from the ruins, a young woman named Yun Qian tended to her grandmother's garden. She was simple and quiet, with ink-dark eyes and hair always brushed by wind.
She often hummed a tune no one had taught her — soft, haunting, like something half-remembered from a dream. The villagers said she was born under strange omens: when she took her first breath, cherry blossoms bloomed out of season and the moon turned pale gold.
Sometimes she would wake at night with tears on her cheeks, whispering a name she didn't understand.
"Rong… Wei…"
Far across the mountains, a man walked through the ruins of forgotten cities — a wanderer wrapped in faded armor, carrying a blade that refused to rust. His name was Wei Lang, though he never felt it truly his.
He had lived a hundred lifetimes, or perhaps one that refused to end. Every century, he awoke beneath a different sky, searching for someone whose face he could no longer clearly remember.
The gods had given him immortality as punishment for his defiance, but also as a cruel hope: that he might find the soul he loved again, somewhere, someday.
He carried with him a single crimson petal sealed in glass — still glowing softly after centuries.
When spring came to Yun Qian's village, the mountains turned to seas of flowers. One day, while weeding the far edge of the garden, she found an ancient stone hidden beneath roots. Strange characters were carved into it — elegant, fluid, shimmering faintly under sunlight.
As she brushed away soil, the ground trembled. A whisper drifted through the air: "Remember me."
That night, she dreamt of rivers that sang, of a man whose eyes carried the sorrow of ages, of a guqin string snapping beneath her fingers as lightning struck.
When she awoke, the air around her smelled faintly of plum blossoms. And in the corner of her room lay a single crimson petal.
Her grandmother, Old Mother Lian, saw it and went pale.
"Child… where did you find this?"
"In the garden," Yun Qian whispered. "Why?"
Old Mother Lian trembled. "The Garden of Unspoken Names is not what it seems. It grows upon a forgotten grave — one the gods themselves tried to erase."
That night, Hu Yan—the red fox spirit—walked among the mountains again.
He looked older, wearier. His once-bright tails dimmed like dying embers.
"So, fate spins once more," he murmured, gazing toward Yun Qian's house. "The girl remembers nothing. The man remembers everything. Balance is cruel indeed."
From the mist emerged Lady Zhi, still ageless, her robes glimmering with starlight.
"You should not be here," she said. "Heaven forbade you from interfering again."
Hu Yan smiled faintly. "Then let Heaven watch as mortals prove it wrong."
"You still believe love can rewrite destiny?"
"I've seen it try a thousand times," he said softly, "and I never tire of the trying."
He vanished in a swirl of crimson light. In the village below, Yun Qian's candle flickered as if disturbed by unseen breath.
The next morning, Yun Qian went to the nearby market to sell herbs. On the road, she met a traveler repairing his horse's harness — tall, calm, with eyes that looked both ancient and kind.
"Need help?" she asked shyly.
He looked up — and froze.
Her face, her voice, her very presence struck him like lightning after a century of rain.
For the first time in a hundred years, the crimson petal inside his amulet flared with light.
He bowed slightly. "My name is Wei Lang."
"Yun Qian," she said, smiling. "You look like you've traveled far."
"Farther than you can imagine," he whispered.
As they walked toward the village, plum petals drifted on a wind that had not existed a moment before. The villagers glanced up at the sudden bloom, whispering that the spirits of spring had awakened early.
Over the following days, Wei Lang visited the garden often under the pretext of buying herbs. He told Yun Qian stories of distant lands — of temples that floated upon rivers of stars, of foxes that spoke riddles, of lovers who defied the gods.
Every word felt strangely familiar to her.
One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, he asked her, "Do you believe in souls meeting again?"
She tilted her head. "I… think I dream of such things. But I don't know why."
"Perhaps," he said softly, "because your soul remembers even if your mind forgets."
A single plum petal fell between them, landing on her hand. She stared at it, trembling. "This scent… it makes me want to cry."
Before he could answer, thunder rumbled over clear skies — and all the flowers in the garden shivered as if in fear.
Old Mother Lian ran out, shouting, "Get away from her! You bring storms with your eyes, stranger!"
Lightning split the mountain in two.
The next morning, the village awoke to disaster — half the garden withered overnight, and the crimson petal in Wei Lang's amulet had turned black.
Hu Yan appeared before Lady Zhi in the clouds. "Heaven tightens its grip. The curse reawakens."
"It warned you," she replied. "Their union unravels the seal that binds the River of Echoes."
Hu Yan clenched his jaw. "Then let the river rise again. Let it drown the sky if it must — love will not be undone."
In the mortal world, Yun Qian grew weak, feverish. Her dreams grew vivid — rivers turning to light, a guqin breaking, a man screaming her name.
"Wei Lang," she whispered one night, "why does it hurt when I look at you?"
"Because," he said, tears streaming down his face, "you once swore you'd forget me to save my life."
The world around them trembled. The garden began to glow with golden light, petals swirling like a storm.
The ground split open where the ancient stone lay. From beneath it poured water — clear, endless, and singing. The villagers fled, shouting that the gods were angry.
Yun Qian collapsed, clutching her chest. Her eyes glowed faintly with light — Lan Mei's soul awakening within.
"Wei Lang…" she gasped. "I remember the river."
He caught her before she fell. "Then remember this too — I never stopped waiting."
Hu Yan appeared behind them, voice trembling with both joy and dread. "You fools… you've awakened the River of Echoes itself. It will pull you back to where it all began."
The water rose higher, swirling around their feet like golden serpents.
Yun Qian looked into Wei Lang's eyes. "Then let it take us."
He smiled through tears. "Together, again."
They held hands as the river swallowed them whole.
When the light faded, the mountain was silent. The garden was gone, replaced by a vast, tranquil lake that reflected both stars and dawn.
Lady Zhi stood beside Hu Yan at its edge. "They're gone."
Hu Yan's voice broke. "No. Not gone. Rewritten."
He pointed toward the lake's surface — where faintly, two silhouettes shimmered beneath the water, walking hand in hand toward an unseen horizon.
Lady Zhi whispered, "And what of Heaven's wrath?"
Hu Yan smiled weakly. "Let Heaven watch and learn."
As he turned to leave, a soft melody rose from the lake — a guqin's song, familiar and whole for the first time in centuries.
It was not a song of sorrow, but of peace.
Far away, in another world where time moved differently, a child was born under a sky filled with falling petals. The midwife gasped — the baby's first cry sounded like music.
The mother named her Lian Hua, without knowing that somewhere deep in her soul, rivers were waiting, and a promise older than the stars still whispered her name.
And in the distance — on a hill by the lake — a lone figure watched, immortal and smiling faintly through tears.
Hu Yan murmured, "And so… the thread begins again."
This was the end of part–lV.