CHAPTER 8: OF NAMES, NIGHTS, AND MYSTICAL BIRDS

They say the night hides many truths, but if you ask me, it simply lets the world hum its song uninterrupted. When the sun retires, and the moon takes its post, everything slows down—except insects. Those tireless musicians seem to think their nightly serenade is the only thing keeping the stars from falling out of the sky.

I leaned back in my chair, watching the faint moonlight filter through the wooden slats of the tavern. The girl sat across from me, finishing the last spoonful of the stew. She had devoured it with such relish that I almost wondered if she’d mistaken it for a celestial elixir.

The night was serene, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the rhythmic hum of crickets. It was the kind of quiet that made you reflect on life—and by reflect, I mean wonder how a girl like this ended up passed out in a beast-filled forest.

She set the empty bowl down with a satisfied sigh, her expression softening under the glow of a single lantern hanging in the tavern. “I just realized,” she said, her voice tentative, “I never introduced myself.”

“Well, better late than never,” I said with a shrug. “Go on, then.”

“I’m Mei Yun,” she said, dipping her head slightly. “I live in the village at the foot of the mountain. Thank you for saving me.”

“Nice to meet you, Mei Yun. I’m Li Wei,” I replied, leaning forward with a grin. “But since this is a tavern, you can call me Tavern Master Li. Sounds more official, doesn’t it?”

She chuckled softly, her eyes briefly meeting mine before darting away. Her gaze wandered around the tavern again, and I could tell she was still trying to piece together the enigma that was this place—and, apparently, me.

As Mei Yun looked around, her thoughts were practically written on her face. Her brow furrowed slightly, her lips pursing in curiosity. She was trying to reconcile the plain man sitting before her with the profound craftsmanship that surrounded her.

She was a cultivator, or so she’d mentioned earlier. Not a powerful one, by any means, but her spiritual sensitivity had allowed her to gather rare herbs and earn a living. Her talent gave her an edge in a village where most people wouldn’t know a Spirit Bloom from a weed.

But despite her beginner status, she could sense something extraordinary about this place. The carvings, the furniture, even the atmosphere—it all resonated with a depth she couldn’t quite grasp.

Her gaze landed on a wooden bird perched on a shelf, its form so lifelike that it seemed ready to take flight. She stood, her footsteps hesitant as she approached it.

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The bird called to her—not with sound, but with a pull that seemed to tug at her very soul. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and touched its smooth, polished surface.

The moment her skin made contact, the world shifted.

She found herself standing in an unfamiliar place, a landscape both majestic and surreal. Towering mountains rose like ancient guardians, their peaks shrouded in mist. Rivers wove through valleys like silver threads, their surfaces glimmering under a golden light.

And then there was the bird.

It was no longer wooden but alive—divine, even. Its feathers shimmered with a greenish-white glow, each plume radiating a gentle brilliance. The bird flew with an elegance that defied description, its movements so graceful that they seemed to dance with the rhythm of the world itself.

It soared between mountains, gliding effortlessly over rivers, its presence both commanding and serene. And then, as if sensing her presence, it turned its head to look at her.

Its gaze was piercing, as if it saw through her very being. There was no malice in its eyes, only a profound understanding that left her breathless.

The vision shattered like glass, and she stumbled backward, her chest heaving as she returned to the tavern.

From my perspective, she had just taken a few steps back, staring at the wooden bird as if it had suddenly insulted her ancestors. I watched her in silence, torn between amusement and concern.

“Uh… you okay there?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

She blinked, her gaze snapping to me as if she’d forgotten I was there. “I… yes. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” I said, gesturing to the bird. “It didn’t bite you, did it?”

Her lips twitched, and for a moment, I thought she might laugh. Instead, she hesitated before nodding. “It’s… beautiful. Did you make it?”

“Yep,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Carved it yesterday. You like it? You can have it if you want.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and she looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite place. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought she was trying to figure out if I was some kind of hidden expert masquerading as a mortal.

Mei Yun hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”

“Great,” I said, grinning. “Consider it a souvenir from Tavern Master Li.”

As she carefully picked up the bird, I noticed the bag she’d brought with her—a simple cloth sack, bulging slightly with its contents. I’d noticed it earlier but hadn’t thought much of it.

“You’ve got herbs in there, right?” I asked, nodding toward the bag.

She blinked, surprised. “Yes. Why?”

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, rubbing my chin. “I could use someone to help around here. If you’re willing to sell me those herbs—and maybe work in the tavern—I think we could strike a deal.”

She stared at me, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I thought she might refuse. Then, slowly, she nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

“Fair enough,” I said, leaning back with a satisfied smile. “Take your time. No rush.”

As the night deepened, I watched her from the corner of my eye. She seemed lost in thought, her gaze occasionally flicking to the bird in her hands.

Unbeknownst to me, she was wrestling with her own conclusions. To her, I was no ordinary mortal. The craftsmanship, the soup, the profound resonance of this place—it all pointed to someone far beyond her understanding.

But I, blissfully unaware, simply leaned back and listened to the insects sing, content in the simplicity of the moment.

The world, after all, has a funny way of weaving its mysteries. And sometimes, the simplest nights are the ones that change everything.

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