Three days passed.
Chen trained quietly—Stormbreath smoothing his Qi, Veilwalk making his steps silent as mist. He helped Zhao Lei refine Thunderclap Palm not with force, but with breath. He sat with Bai Rong in the archives, listening as the alchemist pored over Fragment II of the Primordial Manual.
"It's not about ingredients," Bai Rong murmured, tracing a line of script. "It's about intent. The cure for Qi Deviation isn't a pill. It's a promise—to the body, that it's safe to heal."
Chen nodded. "Like the ginseng. It didn't fight the stone. It just… grew."
Bai Rong smiled. "Exactly."
But Chen's thoughts kept drifting east.
Home.
He wondered if the ginseng lotus still bloomed.
If Xiao's frost had grown steadier.
If his father's cough had eased—even a little.
He didn't say it aloud.
Then—a courier arrived at noon.
Not Sect staff. A boy in Greenpine colors, dusty and breathless, holding a sealed scroll.
"For Lu Chen," he said, bowing. "From the Lu household."
Chen's heart jumped.
He broke the seal.
Not his mother's neat script.
Not Yan's bold strokes.
Xiao's.
Small. Careful. Ink slightly smudged—like she'd written fast.
Chen-ge,
The courier says this is urgent, so I'll be quick.
Father collapsed yesterday.
Not coughing. Just… fell. His Qi is tangled—like vines strangling a tree. Elder Lin says it's "Deep Deviation." He won't wake.
Yan's guarding the house. Mother hasn't slept.
I tried using the lantern. It helped… a little. But the mark on my chest burns when I do.
I'm not scared.
(I am.)
Come home if you can.
—Xiao
P.S. The ginseng flower is still white. It glows at night.
Chen read it three times.
His hands didn't shake.
But his breath did.
Zhao Lei appeared beside him, reading over his shoulder. "We leave at dawn."
Chen shook his head. "I can't. The Sect—"
"The Sect values truth," Zhao Lei said quietly. "And this? This is yours."
Before Chen could answer, Bai Rong rushed up, eyes alight.
"I finished it."
He held out a small jade vial—filled with liquid light, swirling with gold and white.
"The Dawnroot Tincture," he said. "Not a cure. A bridge. It won't fix the Deviation. But it'll hold him steady—long enough for real healing."
He pressed it into Chen's hand.
"Take it. And this."
He handed Chen a folded paper—Fragment II, copied in fine script.
"In case Elder Lin needs to understand."
Chen looked at the vial. At the letter. At Bai Rong's earnest face.
He didn't say thank you.
He placed a hand on Bai Rong's shoulder—firm, warm.
Then he turned to the courier.
"How fast can your bird fly?"
The return journey was a blur.
No scenic paths. No quiet dawns.
Just speed.
Chen rode the Sect's wind-hawk—a great, silent bird of pale feathers—while Zhao Lei followed on a borrowed cloud-skipper (a disc of polished jade that hummed over the treetops).
They didn't speak.
Chen held the jade vial in his lap.
The liquid pulsed—steady, calm.
Like a heartbeat waiting to be answered.
At dusk on the second day, Greenpine's walls rose ahead.
No cheers at the gate.
Just old man He, standing taller than ever, nodding as Chen passed.
"Go," he said. "They're waiting."
Chen didn't run.
He walked.
Through the market—stalls half-closed, voices hushed.
Past the temple—incense smoke thinner than usual.
To the Lu compound.
The gate stood open.
Yan stood in the courtyard, sword in hand, eyes red-rimmed but sharp.
He didn't smile.
Just stepped aside.
Inside, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Madam Su sat by the bed, holding her husband's hand. She didn't look up.
Xiao stood by the window, the Stellar Soul Lantern cradled in her arms. Her face was pale. Exhausted.
But when she saw Chen—her eyes lit up.
"Chen-ge."
He crossed the room in three strides.
No words.
He knelt beside the bed.
His father lay still. Breath shallow. Skin grey. His Qi—or what was left of it—twisted in his meridians like black vines.
Elder Lin stood nearby, face grim. "Deep Deviation. The poison's fused with his core. I've slowed it… but he won't last the week."
Chen unscrewed the jade vial.
"Try this."
Elder Lin frowned. "What is it?"
"A promise," Chen said.
He helped his mother lift Lu Zhong's head.
Dripped three drops onto his tongue.
The liquid glowed—soft gold—then sank in.
For a moment—nothing.
Then—
Lu Zhong's chest rose.
Deeper.
Steadier.
The grey faded from his cheeks.
His fingers twitched.
And his Qi—those black vines—softened. Not gone. But… loosened. Like roots finding water.
Elder Lin gasped. "This… this is impossible. The Deviation's receding!"
Madam Su sobbed—once, sharp—then pressed her forehead to her husband's.
Xiao rushed to Chen's side, lantern held high.
"It's working," she whispered. "Look!"
The lantern's blue flame flared—bright, warm—and cast light over Lu Zhong's chest.
There, beneath his robe, a faint spiral mark glowed: azure, serpentine.
Azure Veil.
And as the Dawnroot Tincture worked, the mark pulsed—in sync with his heartbeat.
Chen's breath caught.
The cure isn't just for him.
It's for both of them.
Night fell.
Chen sat on the roof—the same spot he'd sat on the night the System awakened.
Below, the house breathed easier.
His father slept—deep, calm, healing.
His mother rested beside him, hand over his heart.
Yan stood guard at the gate, posture relaxed for the first time in days.
Xiao practiced frost patterns in the courtyard—lighter, freer.
Chen pulled out Xiao's letter.
Reread the last line:
The ginseng flower is still white. It glows at night.
He smiled.
Then—a soft chime.
The jade scroll glowed:
[DAILY SIGN-IN AVAILABLE]
Streak: Day 12
Rewards:
🔸 1 × Spirit Stone (High)
🔸 Herb: Dawnroot (Rare — base for tincture, now extinct)
🔸 Echo of the Distant Heart
Note: A gift given far away… returns just as far.
He chose Echo of the Distant Heart.
The scroll shimmered—warm, golden.
✅ Reward: Shared Calm
For the next 24 hours, all blood relatives within 100 li experience:
— Steady Qi flow
— Restful sleep
— Clarity of purpose
Effect: Passive. Undetectable. Unbreakable.
No fanfare.
No light.
But in the house below:
Lu Zhong's breathing deepened—no more catch, no more pain.Madam Su's shoulders relaxed—years of tension melting away.Yan's fists unclenched—his Crimson Tiger Qi settling like a river at dusk.Xiao's frost patterns bloomed into perfect snowflowers—no strain, no fear.
Chen closed his eyes.
Felt it—not as Qi.
As peace.
Then—the System added, softer than ever:
"You didn't just send a cure.
You sent a homecoming."
At midnight, Xiao climbed to the roof.
She sat beside him, lantern in her lap.
"It's warmer tonight," she said.
"Yeah."
She was quiet a long time.
Then: "The mark… it hums when he's near. Like it knows him."
Chen nodded. "It does."
"He's not just Father, is he?" she whispered. "He's… part of it. The Veil. The First Giver's line."
Chen looked at her—really looked.
Not at the prodigy. Not at the burden.
At his little sister.
"Does it scare you?" he asked.
She thought. Then shook her head.
"No. Because you're here. And you don't see the mark when you look at me."
She smiled—a real one.
"You see me."
He pulled her into a hug.
"Always."
They sat in silence.
Then—she held out the lantern.
"Take it back. You'll need it more."
He shook his head. "It's yours. It always was."
"But—"
"Xiao," he said gently. "The lantern isn't the key. You are. And the key isn't for unlocking power."
He touched her chest, over the mark.
"It's for remembering: some things are worth protecting."
She leaned into him.
Below, the ginseng lotus glowed—brighter than ever.
White light spilled across the courtyard, pooling around the family's doorstep like a promise.
Chen lifted his father's flute.
Played one note.
And far away, on a mountain peak, a shadow circled—wings wide, watchful, waiting.
He wasn't alone.
He never had been.
And now—neither was she.