The smoke of war had long faded, and in its place came the scent of sawdust, fresh earth, and warm bread.
For the first time since its founding, the settlement of Xingzhao awoke to a rare and fragile peace. The morning sun rose over rooftops that hadn't existed weeks before.
Stone houses stood in place of tents, their chimneys puffing gentle wisps of smoke into the crisp air. The villagers moved with purpose, carrying tools, arranging supplies, laying bricks and no longer ran or lived as fugitives, but as founders of something new.
At the heart of it all stood SongLian, as ever, a quiet presence among the people.
She watched, spoke little, and always seemed to know exactly what was needed.
At dawn each day, supplies appeared like blessings from the earth itself. Lumber is smooth, cut, and neatly stacked behind the central square.
Bundles of rope, bricks, and metal tools rested just outside the old storehouse. Bags of rice, flour, and dried vegetables were discovered in crates beneath woven cloth. Fine silks for clothing, soap for bathing, and ink for the children's lessons. None could explain it.
Some murmured of a hidden caravan. Others suspected an unseen benefactor in the mountains. But no one questioned too deeply. In a land where survival had often hung by a thread, miracles were welcomed without interrogation. And Song Lian said nothing.
Each night, when the town slept, she slipped quietly into the woods or to the empty watchtower. There, in silence, she accessed the space bound to her soul since birth, an expansive realm filled with supplies from another world.
Her world. Years of accumulation of camping gear, farming tools, medicine, and even building materials were now slowly trickling into this one.
She never gave too much at once. Always just enough to meet the need. It was her secret. And her promise. As long as she lived, no one under her care would starve again.
WuShun, now acting as the town's blacksmith, stared at the new anvil that had 'somehow' arrived overnight. "Where did she even find this?" he muttered, scratching his beard.
JiaMei, the village's appointed healer, laughed softly as she ground herbs beside him. "She has her ways. Best not to ask."
LiangChenghauled a cart of bricks past them, grinning ear to ear. "Let her be, Uncle Wu. This place feels more like a town every day."
Indeed, Xingzhao was changing.
A communityhall had been built using fine timber and stone, a symbol of the new governance. A marketsquare had formed organically, with traders and crafters offering wares.
Children ran through winding lanes, laughing as they chased one another beneath banners sewn from colorful fabric. The town was no longer temporary. It was becoming real.
From a distance, YunZhen watched the change unfold. He had once walked these paths alone, exiled, bitter, and hunted. Now, he walked among hundreds some were former farmers, soldiers, tailors, teachers, and wanderers who looked to him with hope, not fear.
Still, he knew where the true strength of the town lay. In the shadows, behind the curtain, never seeking praise—SongLian.
He found her often working long after dark, her hands dusty from stone or stained with ink. She drafted blueprints, taught basic literacy to children, and quietly delivered food to homes that had little.
She rarely smiled, but when she did, it stayed with him. One evening, he approached her beneath the tall pine at the village's edge.
"You carry more than anyone sees," YunZhen said gently. SongLian looked at him, her expression calm as always. "So do you."
He smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But I think you carried us first."
A pause.
"You could have left, you know. Gone anywhere."
"I could have," she said, her voice low. "But this is the first place that feels like mine."
Yun Zhen studied her, then her quiet resilience, her fierce protectiveness, the way she held herself apart yet gave everything.
And he felt the walls he'd built for so long, the walls forged of betrayal and blood, begin to crack.
In the days that followed, their lives intertwined more naturally.
They began to share evening meals. She'd leave food outside his door when he worked too late. He'd repair her tools, even when they didn't need fixing.
They walked the perimeter together each morning, inspecting new construction. And though few words were exchanged, the silence between them never felt empty. One night, YunZhen handed her a wrapped parcel. Inside was a knife, slender, balanced, beautifully crafted.
"For defense," he said. "In case I'm not nearby."
SongLian took it quietly, her fingers brushing his.
And in that brief contact, something fragile bloomed. It made her feel all warm on the inside, but she quickly brushed it off as she focused back on the development of the village.
That night, as the town slept under its new lanterns, SongLian rose to check the storehouse. She moved carefully, senses sharp. Something in the air felt… wrong. She rounded the side of the building and froze.
Carved into the wood, near the foundation, was a blacksigil. A mark shaped like a twisted blade surrounded by thorns. Cold dread curled through her chest. It hadn't been there yesterday.
It hadn't been made by any villager. She scanned the area, and there were no footprints, no broken branches. This was the second mark of the black sigil, as another one was beyond the watchtower deep in the forest.
Whoever left it had come and gone like a shadow. Song Lian traced the edge of the symbol with her gloved hand. This was a message. A warning. The past was not finished with them. And peace, however sweet, would not last forever.