The silhouette of Ailao Mountain loomed closer. Minor spirits plagued the foothills, easily dispatched. In Luzhou, Shui Qian indulged in the local osmanthus rice wine—sweet on the tongue, fiery in the throat. Some nights, she drank beneath the moon, her robes steeped in liquor's scent, a lone figure astride her horse.
Days passed smoothly, wine blurring her vigilance. With over a year's journey remaining, she grew careless.
A spiritual arrow pierced a serpent yokai's chest. Its scaled hand clawed at her hem, golden eyes dimming. "Child… you've slaughtered half the mountain's spirits… Show mercy…"
Drunk and unmoved, Shui Qian yanked the arrow from its heart. Deathbed remorse meant nothing to her—*crocodile tears*. She gulped wine and rode on.
Her shoulder wound ached dully in the dark. She gripped the white jade stone in her pocket. Had it grown heavier?
Another arrow dispersed a wisp of dark energy. A boy tugged her sleeve. "Sister Luo, what was that just now?"
She inspected herself—nothing. "Black mist… it hid in your clothes!"
A prickle nagged her chest. She dismissed it as her old injury flaring. The boy's mother chided him, dragging him inside. "Hush! Sister Luo needs no child's warnings!"
That evening, the family shared murky homemade wine—thick as liquid fire—and gratitude. Shui Qian listened to their chatter about crops and chores, an outsider to their bustling warmth. She painted a crimson leaf on a girl's forehead, the setting sun staining the window bloody.
"Return someday, and I'll pour you better wine!" the father toasted, clinking her bowl. Secretly, they hung a sack of ripe persimmons on her saddle.
As she mounted her horse, the boy gripped her sleeve. "You'll come back, right?" His earnest gaze softened her. She ruffled his hair. "Yes."
Riding into the wind, she drank deeply, the mountain's shadow swallowing her. On her map, Ailao's peak glared in red ink—a grave, clean mark. There, her fate awaited.
Unnoticed, the dark energy festering within her wound had deepened.