Qing He’s hand trembled slightly as she brought the teacup to her lips, savouring the warmth that seeped through the delicate porcelain. Her shop, filled with neatly stacked books and the faint scent of aged paper, was brightened by the sunlight pouring through the window.

The gentle steam rising from the tea seemed to swirl in harmony with the rhythm of her thoughts, as if time itself had slowed to match her leisurely pace.

Her gaze drifted to the window, where the city’s chaos was visible. The laughter of children, the cries of merchants hawking their wares, the clattering of horse-drawn carts— all the familiar sounds of a mortal city busy with its daily routine. She observed it as one might view the ripples on a distant lake, present yet removed, the mundane happenings of a world she had once left behind and had returned to.

Time, she mused, moved so swiftly for mortals— ten years, gone in a blink.

In the world of the mundane, seasons changed, children grew, and elders passed on. But for her, a decade was no more than a brief interlude, a period where no great disturbances rocked the heavens or stirred the silent flow of her qi. There had been no furious rival sects to contend with, and no ancient blood feuds revived. Just quiet days, evenings filled with novels, and the simple pleasure of anonymity.

She sipped her tea again, feeling the warmth trickle down her throat.

Her lips curled slightly, a rare smile that creased her otherwise serene features. She thought of the grey-haired men who sometimes lingered near her stall, attempting to catch her eye with their clumsy charm. Oh, how they tried— offering small gifts, their flattery almost amusing even in this age. She did not desire their company; they were as uninteresting as stones by the roadside. Yet, she relished the attention, that small acknowledgement of her existence and charm that hadn't faded away even with wrinkles.

After all, who among those who once sought to ascend to the heavens could resist a little admiration? Even the most aloof cultivators, draped in their robes of mystery, couldn’t resist the allure of fame.

That was why they competed in endless tournaments, displayed their prowess for the masses, and even paid bards to spin stories of their exploits. Half of the novels cluttering her shelves were ghostwritten by such cultivators, fainty disguised exaggerated accounts of their own lives.

They claimed to be above mortal affairs, yet how many of them yearned for the reverence of those they dismissed as insignificant? The truth was, even the lofty required validation from the masses they deemed beneath them.

She sighed contentedly, closing her eyes to bask in the warmth of her tea and her thoughts. “A good life, a peaceful life,” she murmured to herself, savouring the words like a fine cup of tea. It was a mantra she had repeated so many times over these quiet years, almost convincing herself that it could last forever.

But then, the door creaked open, slicing through the tranquillity of the moment. Her eyes snapped open, her gaze sharpening as she peered at the shadowed figure standing at the threshold. Qing He’s brow furrowed, her grip tightening around the fragile cup, a small crack spreading through the porcelain.

There he stood— the uninvited guest, the one who could shatter this peace she had worked so hard to weave.

He appeared unassuming enough, dressed in simple robes, his expression as neutral as a calm lake. Yet she could sense the faint, irregular hum of his dantian beneath his surface, like a flame flickering in a breeze. He wasn’t much— no prodigious talent, no aura of destiny swirling around him. A cultivator of middling rank, barely a foot into the path that defied heaven's will.

She narrowed her eyes, scrutinising the barely perceptible ripples of energy emanating from him. A third star body forging cultivator, perhaps, or fourth if she was generous. Nothing that should pose a danger to her.

Her lips twisted into a thin line. The youth was no danger on his own— just another hopeful soul chasing the promise of immortality, like so many others who had come before him.

But then she saw it, lurking behind him— a shadow moving with liquid grace. A sleek, pristine white cat, its fur slipped past the door frame, padding soundlessly into the room. The cat's eyes gleamed with an unsettling intelligence, too bright and knowing for any ordinary beast. Qing He’s heart tightened at the sight.

That cat. A creature that did not belong in this mortal city.

Qing He’s gaze lingered on the spot where the white cat had last been seen, her pristine form slipping away with unnerving ease.

A spirit beast— she was sure of it. And not just any lowly creature that prowled the edges of town, but one with a strength that could hide itself even from her senses. At the very least, it was a peak foundation realm beast, possibly even at the elusive meridian expansion realm. She didn’t like either option; beasts of such calibre didn’t casually wander into mortal settlements like this, let alone follow around a cultivator of such modest talent.

Yet, the most curious thing of all was the beast’s behaviour. Instead of ruling over the weaker being, it followed him, acting like a pet, docile and obedient.

She had seen the cat nestling against his legs, her eyes glinting with a peculiar amusement, almost as if she was playing a game Qing He couldn’t quite decipher. And now, for the last two days, she hadn’t seen the hide or hair of either the cat or the young cultivator. She had almost convinced herself that they’d moved on, leaving her to her simple life once more.

"So, it comes to this," she muttered under her breath, the tea cooling in her hand, her gaze never leaving the visitor who had just stepped into her quiet corner of her shop.

He strode toward her, a bright smile on his face that was almost annoyingly cheerful.

She straightened, letting out a slow breath to steady herself. “Why are you here today?” she asked, her voice clipped as she peered over her cup of tea. “Back for more books?”

The young man shook his head, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “No, Senior Qing He. I’m here to fulfil my end of the bargain.”

She frowned, setting her teacup down with a faint clink. “Oh?” Her tone held a trace of curiosity, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. “So, you wrote a novel?”

His grin widened, pride shining in his eyes. “Yes. Enough to become a big hit with the young girls.”

She chuckled dryly, the noise escaping through her nose. “A big hit, is it?” She studied him for a moment, then reached out as he handed her a thin, bound volume. Qing He’s hands brushed the rough pages, feeling the weight of the book and, perhaps, the weight of his ambitions. She squinted at the title and flipped open to the first page.

“Very well then,” she said with a touch of amusement in her voice. “Let me read.”

The young cultivator watched eagerly as she scanned the opening lines, leaning in slightly as if hoping to catch her first reaction. Qing sighed softly, her fingers tapping the edge of the book. What could this child possibly write, being so young and naïve? she wondered.

Her mind drifted back to the tales she’d read over the decades— stories of grand battles, tragic love, and ascension to heights no mortal could fathom. Surely, he would not grasp the depth that such stories required.

Yet as her eyes traced over the words, a flicker of surprise crossed her face. Her reading slowed, and she glanced up at him, a wry smile tugging at her lips.

“‘Liang Shan’ and ‘Hua Yun’—” she emphasised the names in a tone thick with the cadence of her region, rendering his words awkwardly, “Who is this Sha Ke Per anyway that's credited as the writer of the original?”

The young cultivator’s grin faltered slightly, but he regained his composure quickly, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Shakspeare. It’s an old tale from my place of birth,” he explained. “I just adapted it to be about cultivators. The original story was about two mortal families who ruled a city, and their children... well, they fell in love despite their families’ feud.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

She scoffed lightly, a note of disbelief creeping into her voice. “Mortal families ruling a city? What nonsense. How could such a story capture anyone’s interest? Mortals can barely keep a village in order, let alone a city.”

“It’s just a story, Senior Qing He. It’s not meant to be taken so seriously. And I made it different, you know— added some of those ‘forbidden techniques’ and ‘ancient bloodlines’ that I saw around the books in your shop.” He smiled and his words held a hint of pride.

Qing He’s lips twitched, and she found herself not knowing whether to take him seriously or not. “Hmm, we’ll see if your little story has any depth to it. A tale of love and conflict, adapted to the realm of cultivators… It's not an easy thing to write.”

She returned to the pages, immersing herself in the story of clashing clans, forbidden cultivation techniques, and tragic love. Yet even as she read, she kept one eye on the young man, observing the eagerness in his expression. He watched her reactions carefully, as if seeking validation— not so different from those old men on the street, pining for a bit of her attention. And perhaps, in that small way, he was a true cultivator after all.

Yet in the back of her mind, the shadow of that spirit beast lingered, reminding her that things were never as simple as they seemed.

Qing He adjusted her glasses, the faint flickering of candlelight casting shadows over her face as she began to read the first page of the young cultivator's manuscript. The story started with two rival guardian sects— one, the Skyshroud Sect, known for their mastery of sword qi, and the other, the Verdant Stream Sect, masters of spirit arts. The protagonists, a young man from Skyshroud and a woman from Verdant Stream met under a red maple tree that grew on the boundary between their sects.

Despite the tension between their factions, the two found themselves drawn to one another, their chance meetings turning into whispered conversations about the nature of cultivation, their dreams, and the harsh duties they bore for their respective sects. Qing He smirked as she read this part, recognizing the telltale signs of a budding romance, laced with the tension of forbidden encounters. It was the kind of tale that drew in young hearts, the thrill of love crossing boundaries.

As she read further, the sect elders grew suspicious of their young disciples' secret meetings. The lovers, caught between loyalty to their sects and their feelings for each other, decided to meet one last time under a legendary maple tree. The young cultivator wrote of a moonlit night, where spiritual energy shimmered around them, and the air was thick with unspoken words and regrets. He captured the scene well, she had to admit— his prose managed to evoke the coldness of the night and the warmth of their last embrace.

But, as such stories go, tragedy soon followed. The elders of the Skyshroud Sect struck first, unleashing a storm of sword qi that tore through the forest where the two met. Not to be outdone, the Verdant Stream elders retaliated with devastating spirit arts, turning the moonlit scene into a battlefield of clashing auras.

The couple tried to escape the carnage, but their enemies would not relent. With a final, desperate use of forbidden techniques, they turned their power inward, choosing to end their own lives rather than let the sects tear them apart.

As she reached the last lines, describing their hands clasped together, their qi fading like the last breath of the maple leaves around them, Qing He realised her tea had long grown cold. She set the manuscript down, feeling the heaviness, and bittersweetness of the story settle in her chest. Slowly, she raised her gaze to the young cultivator, who watched her with a hopeful, yet nervous, smile.

“This is actually pretty good,” she said, her voice tinged with reluctant admiration. She leaned back, fingers tapping on the armrest of her chair. “How were you able to write something like this?”

The young man’s smile grew wider, though he maintained a humble air. “It’s an adaptation, like I said. I heard it as a tale rather than read it whole. Took some time to adapt it properly— to make the dialogue flow and fit the immortal world, you know? But it turned out well.”

She studied him for a moment, tapping her finger thoughtfully against the book. “It might actually work. You should consider a career as a writer rather than a cultivator. I’m sure many sects would be willing to sponsor someone who can weave stories like this. It’s rare to find a talent like yours.”

He chuckled softly, scratching the back of his head. “I’ll think about it. If my current path doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll take up your advice.” He paused, and then his expression turned serious as he shifted the topic. “About the book... are you satisfied with the one that I wrote? Will you give me what I seek?”

Qing He glanced at him, then back at the manuscript he’d written. “It’s nicely done, even if I haven’t had a chance to test whether the young girls would find it captivating. But the writing is solid, so I’ll give you a chance.” She stood up, smoothing out her robes. “Besides, I found a book that might interest you. Come with me.”

She led him to a narrow stairway at the back of the tea shop, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath their feet. The white cat appeared again, slipping through the shadows to follow them, its eyes glinting with that same amused intelligence. The young man followed her, his curiosity piqued as they made their way to a small room, where a worn bookshelf stood against one wall, filled with ancient tomes.

She motioned to a simple chair by a small table. “Sit. And don’t touch anything,” she warned, casting him a stern look before turning to search through the bookshelf.

He sat obediently, watching as she thumbed through dusty scrolls and leather-bound volumes until she found what she was looking for. Carefully, she pulled out a thin, worn book and placed it in his hands.

“I think this one might be to your liking,” she said, her tone softer than before as if a hint of nostalgia touched her words. “But remember, I don’t give out my treasures lightly.”

With that, she left him in the room, heading back down the creaking stairs. As she reached her desk again, she couldn’t help but glance once more at the manuscript he had left behind. She traced a finger over the cover, considering the young man’s story. It had been a while since a tale had stirred something in her— something that made her want to read it again, to see if she had missed any layers beneath its simple telling.

She settled back into her chair, opened the first page, and began reading once more, this time savouring each word and searching for the subtext that might lie hidden beneath the prose. Because she was sure, there was more to it than what was presented.

And she always liked a good, calm challenge.

***

In the comparatively dark back room, Chen Ren took a moment to survey the shelves, his eyes glinting with curiosity. It was clear that Qing He had more information tucked away than she let on. Ancient scrolls and old tomes, their spines cracked with age, filled every inch of the wooden shelves. He felt a twinge of excitement, knowing that this place held more than just dusty records— it held secrets.

He sat down at the small table and glanced at the book Qing He had handed him. Its cover was simple and unadorned, but the faded ink on the spine read The Tinge Flora and Hidden Beasts by Wu Yanshi. He flipped open the first page, the scent of old parchment wafting up, mingling with the faint aroma of incense from the shop below.

The book started with an introduction about the author, a wandering cultivator who had spent decades exploring remote regions, recording details about plants and creatures seldom seen in the more civilised parts of the realm. It was a rare find— one that could easily be overlooked by someone less knowledgeable.

As he read through the pages, Chen Ren skimmed past the sections on rare herbs that grew deep in spirit-infused mountains and hidden valleys, focusing instead on what could be found closer to the city.

His goal was clear: herbs with pleasing fragrances. If he could find a plant that had properties to soothe the mind or to subtly ward off lesser spirit beasts, even better. And then there were the beasts themselves— any parts that could be used for their alchemical properties would be a bonus.

He paused at a passage about hoofprint fern, a rare plant known for its golden-veined leaves that glowed in the moonlight. It had calming properties, often used by cultivators to enhance meditation. But it thrived only near ancient, undisturbed lakes— far from the bustling life of the city.

Next, he found a description of violet dawnroot, a bright red herb with a subtle, citrusy scent. It was said to help focus the mind when burned as incense. It grew on the sunlit slopes of hills, needing space and elevation. He frowned— while not impossible to acquire, it was not the convenient solution he sought.

Flipping a few more pages, he found a section on spirit beasts, each profile painstakingly recorded with details of their habits and habitats. A sketch of a nightstalker lynx caught his eye— a creature known for its shadow affinity and prized for its dark-furred pelt, which could be used in making concealment talismans. But it was far beyond his current strength, even if he did manage to track one down.

He moved on, noting its properties but knowing it was out of reach.

After a while, he stumbled upon a simple entry: silvermist blossom. The name didn’t seem particularly grand, but the more he read, the more it piqued his interest. It was a humble herb, found near riverbanks, with delicate petals that shimmered faintly in the morning mist.

The blossom emitted a gentle fragrance that was said to calm nerves and aid in sleep. But more than that, it had a subtle effect of repelling lesser spirit beasts and pests, making it valuable to protect those who worked with other, more temperamental herbs.

This was the kind of plant he had been looking for— something easy to find locally, with practical uses that could enhance the atmosphere of his quarters and keep unwanted pests at bay. He traced a finger over the illustration, imagining them blossom along the rivers that wound near the outskirts of the city.

***

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