Blossoming Path
Chapter 206: Feeding Hope

The night sky was ablaze.

A great pyre roared in the heart of the ruined village, its flames crackling high enough to lick at the stars. The firelight danced over broken walls and snow-streaked ruins, chasing shadows into corners. The smoke rose thick and bitter, carrying with it the last remnants of the fallen.

Ping Hai was among them.

We didn’t have the time to bury the dead. The ground was frozen solid. Too many bodies, and not enough hands. Worse still, many of the dead had been touched by demonic qi. Letting them seep into the earth, unpurified, would be a poison that lingered long after the flames died.

So we gave them fire.

Cleansing. Consuming. Final.

I stood near the edge of the clearing, where the snow melted in wide, muddy circles around the pyre. My face was warm from the heat, but it didn’t reach my chest. That part of me still felt cold.

Xu Ziqing stood nearest to the flames, his back straight, shoulders taut. He hadn’t spoken a word since we’d laid Ping Hai’s body atop the wood. His posture hadn’t shifted once, not even when the fire caught and the smoke surged skyward. He stood like a statue. Like if he moved, everything he held together inside him might shatter.

Around him, the villagers whispered prayers. Some knelt. Some cried quietly, heads bowed. Others just watched in silence, like I did. No one tried to comfort the grieving. We all knew better. There were no words that could reach that far down.

I lingered for a few minutes longer, watching the flames twist and rise. Then I stepped away.

He deserved his silence. I could feel it in the set of his shoulders. He didn’t want company.

As I walked toward the far edge of the village, the silhouettes of a few horses came into view, their breath fogging in the cold air. They’d returned on their own, half-wild things that hadn’t run far before circling back. The carts they’d once pulled had been salvaged and now stood laden with the injured, the elderly, and those too broken to walk.

Eventually, the fire began to die. The roaring gave way to a low crackle, and the orange glow dimmed until it became nothing more than a fading ember in the snow. And when that last spark guttered out, we began to move.

We left Pingyao behind under the eye of the moon.

The villagers walked slowly, many leaning on makeshift crutches or each other. The Verdant Lotus disciples spread out along the flanks, keeping a loose formation. I took the rear, Tianyi up ahead, Windy curled around my shoulders like a scarf of warm scales.

His body felt heavier than usual, his coils slacker, his breathing shallow. He hadn’t said much. Hadn’t needed to. Even with his strength, dealing with cultists was no easy task. The bond between us thrummed with quiet exhaustion.

I reached up to stroke along his side, slow and gentle. He stirred slightly but didn’t lift his head. Just a small, contented hiss and the brush of his nose against my neck before he went still again.

The moon guided us with its pale light. The snow underfoot crunched softly, thin enough to be manageable, but biting cold still seeped into our boots and clothes. Our pace was cautious. Moderate. Every step accounted for. There was no sense in rushing. Not when so many couldn’t keep up.

The carts creaked as they rolled over uneven ground. I saw one boy, no older than me, walking with a limp, his face bruised and one arm tied tightly against his chest with a torn sleeve. A disciple from Verdant Lotus walked beside him, offering quiet support without drawing attention.

Tianyi remained a distant blur ahead illuminating the path, antennae raised and alert. Her presence soothed something deep inside me. If there was danger on the horizon, we would know long before it reached us.

We made frequent stops. Every few miles, Jian Feng would call a short break, and the villagers would collapse onto the snow, grateful for even the cold ground beneath them. Some huddled close, sharing body warmth. Others lay back and looked up at the sky, as if the stars might offer answers.

By the time the sky lightened, fatigue had set in across the group like a heavy fog.

We didn’t have tents. Only scraps of cloth, torn robes, and salvaged tarps. Lean-tos were fashioned against crooked trees. Fires sputtered to life in shallow pits dug in the snow, giving off just enough heat to chase back the cold for a few feet in every direction.

I helped set up a canvas shelter over one of the carts, then sat nearby as the wind picked up. My legs ached. My hands were raw from digging and treating.

The wind picked up as night deepened, its breath cutting through fabric and bone alike. Disciples from the Verdant Lotus Sect moved in slow, steady rotations; circling the perimeter of our temporary camp, their silhouettes ghosting through the trees like quiet sentinels. Even exhausted, they kept vigil without complaint. We all knew that one careless night could cost us everything. There was no guarantee cultists wouldn't attack.

I knelt beside the large iron cauldron salvaged from one of the wagons. It had been used for food once, blackened by old soot. But tonight, it would serve a different purpose.

I placed both palms against the outer rim.

The Alchemical Nexus sparked to life. Faint blue rings traced themselves in the air around the cauldron, symbols spinning slowly as if awakened from slumber. The cube-shaped nexus shimmered into place, lines of light forming a scaffold around the iron shell.

I fed it qi, focusing the formation for potency.

My hands tingled. I pressed down again. The Heavenly Flame Mantra came in waves; first a soft breath, then a sudden rush of fire beneath the cauldron.

From my belt, I withdrew three cracked vials with trace remnants of previous brews. Each still held a sliver of what it had once been; detoxifying mixtures, blood coagulators, cold-root infusions. I poured the remainders into the cauldron, one by one, and followed them with dried leaves, crushed petals, and powdered bark. Leftover ingredients from my storage ring, unremarkable on their own. But with the right coaxing...

The brew inside began to bubble. Steam hissed upward, tinged faintly green.

A soft shuffle beside me broke my focus.

I turned. Three children stood nearby, bundled in oversized cloaks, eyes wide. They’d wandered over in silence, drawn by the strange glow and scent.

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I didn’t shoo them away. Instead, I scooted over, clearing a bit of snow to give them a better view.

“It’s hot, so don’t touch,” I said gently, not quite smiling, but close. “But you can watch. See how the colors change? That means it’s working.”

They nodded in unison, mesmerized. I continued my work with the quiet hum of young breath beside me. A reminder of what still lived.

Near the center of the camp, someone had kindled a communal fire. It wasn’t large, but it burned steady. Survivors gathered around it, huddled in pairs or small groups. Bits of conversation drifted toward me. Half-whispers of shared memories, news of distant family, the names of the lost spoken gently into the night. Some laughed, quietly, trying to lift spirits. Others simply stared into the flames.

For every person warmed by that fire, there was someone whose silence hung like a weight.

Eventually, the medicines were ready. I poured them carefully into fresh vials and handed them off to the waiting disciples, who dispersed them among the weakest.

I stayed by the cauldron a little longer, watching the last steam curl away into the cold.

The fire crackled. Somewhere, someone hummed a lullaby.

SCENE BREAK

In the morning, the cold brought more than discomfort.

We found him in a lean-to near the edge of our makeshift camp, nestled beneath tattered blankets. The elderly man had passed sometime during the night, his expression peaceful, almost relieved. He’d slipped quietly from life, without struggle, yet it felt no less tragic. I didn’t know his name, couldn’t even recall speaking to him, but guilt still pressed down on my shoulders like heavy stone.

His wounds had been treated as best we could, but the strain and shock of losing his home, his village, and his neighbors had likely been too much. Sometimes, a body’s wounds weren't visible on the surface. They lingered deep beneath the skin, in places no medicine could reach.

People spoke even softer than before, as if raising their voices might shatter whatever thin barrier kept them safe from death's quiet touch.

I helped dig the shallow grave, breaking frozen earth with aching muscles and hands already raw from the cold. The hole wasn’t deep; we couldn’t afford to linger. But it was sheltered beneath the gentle branches of a sturdy pine, at least providing some dignity. The villagers gathered around in a quiet circle, silent prayers drifting upward along with the thin trails of incense smoke.

Morale plummeted even further after the ceremony. Death had found us again, not in battle or flame, but quietly, effortlessly.

If one could slip away so easily, who else among us might follow?

I heard the anxious whispers through thin tent walls, felt their fear like needles pricking at my skin.

I rose from my lean-to before the sun, breath misting in the cold air. The camp was still quiet.

I checked on Tianyi first.

She had her wings folded around herself like a shawl. Her head rested against her knees, antennae twitching faintly in sleep. Even in rest, she looked alert, strained. Her eyes were wide open, albeit dimmer than usual. I reached up and let my fingers brush gently against her ankle.

She stirred, not startled, but with a slow exhale; an acknowledgment.

“I’ll be back soon,” I said. “Get more rest if you can.”

Windy was curled inside the folds of my outer cloak, nestled against my back. His breathing had deepened, rhythmic and slow, though his tail occasionally flicked with residual tension. I touched his side, and he shifted slightly, then stilled again.

I walked toward the center of camp.

The fire had burned low. Only a few embers flickered under the ash. Around it, the survivors sat in silence, bundled in every scrap of warmth they had. No one spoke. Some stared blankly into the remnants of flame.

None of the cultivators had eaten. I hadn’t either. We’d chosen early on to preserve the supplies for those who needed them most. Even Jian Feng, who remained a steadfast presence, was being worn down by the lack of resources. Qi could not act as a substitute for sustenance forever.

He looked up as I approached.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said, not as a question, but as an observation.

“Neither have you.”

He nodded. “Doesn’t feel right.”

I sat beside him, the cold biting through the fabric of my robes. “We’ll need more food soon.”

Jian Feng didn’t answer immediately. He turned his gaze to the wounded. An older woman being helped to drink. A man missing part of his leg. Children shivering in too-large cloaks.

When he spoke again, it was quiet. Careful.

“We may need to prioritize. The strongest first, if it comes to that.”

The words were neutral, clinical; but his eyes met mine, and I saw the question he wasn’t asking out loud.

Should we let the weak starve to keep the strong moving?

I didn’t answer. Not at first. Because the rational part of me, the one that had studied texts, that had read about siege lines and migration routes and long winters... I knew what the answer should be.

Better to lose one than ten. Better to let go of what can’t keep up, so the rest can survive.

But when I closed my eyes, all I could see was Ping Hai.

The way he’d stood beneath that collapsing house. The way he’d looked back at his parents, and chosen them without hesitation. Without regret.

Did he die saving them… only for them to starve anyway?

The thought turned my stomach. I clenched my fists in my lap.

“I won’t make that choice,” I said, softly but firmly. “Not if I can help it.”

Jian Feng looked at me for a moment longer, then nodded once.

“I’ll trust your lead. But... our options get smaller and smaller everyday. Soon, we may not have a choice.”

He stood and walked off to check on the perimeter, leaving me alone with the slowly dying fire.

That evening, I left the camp behind with my companions in tow.

I needed space. A place to breathe. Or maybe a place to scream.

Windy uncurled from my shoulders and slithered beside me in the snow, his body moving sluggishly but steadily. Tianyi flew above in slow arcs, her glow like a distant lantern in the dusk.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.

The land around us was barren.

I’d expected some difficulty. It was still winter, after all.

But this was something else. There were no animal tracks. No birdsong. Even the few trees scattered about showed no signs of life.

As though the world itself was holding its breath.

I knelt in the snow, fingers splayed against the earth as I tried to activate Nature's Attunement. To feel where life thrived in this barren land.

It wasn’t like reading a map. It wasn’t some sudden rush of clarity. It was like standing beside a river and listening. Not with ears, but with every part of yourself. I reached deeper. Past the numbness. Past the fatigue.

Nothing.

I pressed harder. Shut my eyes. Blocked out the sound of the wind, the cold in my boots, the ache in my limbs.

Stillness.

And then, a whisper.

Not sound. Not sight. A sense.

Nature's Attunement strengthened me in the presence of nature. But it also sharpened my sensitivity to its absence, turning the skill into a kind of sight beyond my eyes. Just a faint pulse in my chest, something barely there but persistent. I kept my eyes closed as I walked, letting my body respond to the skill's effect.

To anyone else, the place I stopped would have seemed no different than the rest of the land; thin snow blanketing cold earth, barren trees, and an icy stream sluggishly winding past scattered rocks.

But I felt it.

The faint breath beneath the soil. Subtle. Faint. But alive.

I opened my eyes.

Nature's Attunement has reached level 8.

Dry, twisted remnants of a vine clung to a low shrub beside the stream, all but invisible beneath the frost. Brittle tendrils and a curl of dead leaves trailed off into the snow. Nothing about it looked promising. It could’ve been mistaken for a weed or old rootstock left from last season.

But I knew better.

I dropped to my knees and dug with my hands, fingers already cracked and raw from the cold. The snow gave way to half-frozen dirt, and beneath it, resistance.

A knotted lump.

I kept digging, gently now, until I unearthed a small, pale tuber, no longer than my palm. Misshapen. Scarred. But undeniably edible.

I exhaled, breath curling into mist. Not a feast. Not yet. But hope—real, tangible hope—hidden beneath the frost.

Tianyi landed softly behind me.

Her wings were stiff. Her antennae barely moved.

But when she saw the little root in my hand, her eyes widened.

“There’s a clean stream here,” I said, voice low. “Get the others. They can refill the water. I’ll stay.”

She gave a tired nod and took off, back toward camp.

I turned back to the tuber.

This wasn’t enough. Not even close. But maybe it didn’t have to be. Not if I could give it more.

I placed the tuber gently back into the ground, burying it again.

Then I placed my palm flat against the cold soil.

And I began to push.

Qi flowed from me like breath in reverse, a slow exhale of everything I had left. Not fire. Not flame. Just warmth. Life.

The ground pulsed beneath my hand.

At first, nothing.

Then—movement.

The dirt stirred. A sprout pushed through, pale and timid. Vines began to snake outward, fragile leaves unfurling like paper in slow bloom.

Still not enough.

I pushed harder.

Qi drained from me in steady waves. My vision tunneled. My arms trembled. But I kept my palm rooted to the earth.

The tuber thickened underground. I could almost feel it; each fibrous strand expanding, roots splitting into new branches. The soil rippled as shoots broke through, faster now. One, then three, then ten. It was like watching time skip forward.

The air around me shimmered faintly. My chest burned. My body screamed for rest.

But I couldn’t stop.

Did Ping Hai die to save his parents, only for them to starve in the snow?

No. I wouldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t.

“Grow,” I whispered, voice hoarse. “Please.”

More qi. More than I should have given. More than I could afford.

My vision swam. Darkness crept in at the edges. Windy hissed worriedly nearby, but I barely heard him. My hand stayed rooted. The vines coiled up around my wrist, leaves glistening with frost and new life.

Only when I felt my consciousness start to slip, only when I truly had nothing left, did I stop.

I staggered back onto my heels, panting hard, arm numb.

Then I reached down.

And began to pull.

The tuber came loose with a soft shhhhk of dirt. Longer than my forearm, thick and firm. I laid it aside and reached again.

Another. And another.

Twisted, pale, and ugly. But substantial. Each enough for a dozen meals, even if it was just a simple stew.

One was the length of my whole torso, knotted like a gnarled tree root.

I stared at it, swaying slightly as the last of my strength drained from my limbs.

"Kai!"

Jian Feng's voice from the distance caught my attention. But I was too tired to even turn my head. My eyes were fixed on the yams.

Would they be enough to keep everyone sated? To keep their bellies full?

No.

But I hoped it'd give them a reason to keep walking. Even if it was just one more day.

With that, I collapsed into the frost-covered soil, and fell asleep.