That’s about where things stand, like dust settling after a small storm.

Not long after Lingying was born, Lingcai went with Scarlet Leaf to a local clothing shop, lamplight pooling like warm honey as they picked outfits.

They finished their shopping and returned to the inn, the room like a snug hearth, fingers weaving care into their daughter like moonlight threading silk.

Lingcai chose a dignified young-lady style: a white lace dress like fresh snow, paired with a deep-blue corseted skirt, dark as a night lake.

She wrapped Lingying’s legs in fine white silk, soft as frost, and slipped on black buckled leather shoes, two onyx pebbles shining under lamplight.

“First… bring your legs together, then point your toes here, lift the heels a little… perfect,” she coached, voice steady as a painter setting a line.

Classic ojou elegance; when Lingying posed as instructed, she looked even more tender, the kind of cute that begs for scooping and smothering with kisses.

Kidding, of course, like teasing wind rippling a reed-bed.

Once Lingcai truly felt this child was her own, every glance sat sweeter, like clear water reflecting familiar stars.

Because Scarlet Leaf’s hair had joined the weave, Lingying’s looks and figure held flecks of Scarlet Leaf’s bloom, a likeness like two leaves on one stem.

If not for other people nearby, Lingcai would’ve rushed in like a swallow to nestle and nuzzle her to warmth.

Facing her daughter dressed as a proper young lady, Lingcai drifted into thought, a shadow crossing still water.

…Her height didn’t seem far off from Lingying’s, two saplings growing shoulder to shoulder under the same sky.

Side by side, to strangers they might look more like sisters than father and daughter, two petals sharing one branch.

Lingying had no such self-awareness; she rose onto her toes and pressed a soft cheek to Lingcai’s, sweet as a spring peony.

“Baba~”

Warm breath with a girlish scent brushed her skin, a breeze that could paint cheeks pink.

Despite the sensory rush, Lingcai sat still like a mountain ridge under soft snow, a parent anchoring the valley.

A parent can’t entertain odd thoughts, like a gate closing against impulsive weather.

Scarlet Leaf leaned in then, her body plush and springy, pressing to Lingcai’s arm like a cat seeking the sun, and chimed in, echoing Lingying’s tone.

“Baba~ why won’t you pay me any attention~?”

The coaxing made Lingcai break out in goosebumps, prickling like rain on stone, and she tried to shake them off, a trout fighting the net.

But both wife and daughter had more strength than this pint-sized body of hers, two vines pinning a twig.

They held her fast, like a bridge gripped by rising roots; you never saw a dad this cornered.

“Leaf. Leaf! I’m begging you— I’m not ready yet. Please let go, and make her let go too,” she pleaded, voice fluttering like a sparrow.

Her struggle was futile; the more she resisted, the tighter they pressed, the net drawing closed with no room to wriggle.

Wife and child were here; a warm hearth would have made it complete, the home circle almost full.

A life ideal felt half achieved, a half-moon bright but not yet whole.

“Leaf. I want to discuss something,” Lingcai said, settling opposite Scarlet Leaf, her tone crisp as porcelain set on a table.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking… maybe you should take Lingying home first,” she said, like wind tugging travelers toward different roads.

“Eh?” Surprise flickered across Scarlet Leaf’s face, quick as a candle tremor. “Why? What about you?”

“Dragging the family along makes travel clumsy, like walking through mud. And war might break soon— that kind of storm isn’t for you.”

“If you follow me to the Seven Northern Towns, it’s not right. I don’t want anything to happen to you,” she added, clouds thickening on the horizon of her words.

It all came straight from the heart, a cup poured without hiding the heat.

When alone, she could drift like a leaf; now, with family beside her, she could only watch the nest like a guard-bird.

“As for me, I’ll investigate this key and come back. If I find nothing, I’ll still return after. It won’t take long. Trust me,” she promised, a red thread knotted around the vow.

Scarlet Leaf held Lingying and fell silent, snow-soft hush filling the space between breaths.

“Let me think…”

They’d finally met again; if they parted now, who knew when the boats would cross on the same river.

After a long, quiet ordeal, Scarlet Leaf nodded, the flame steadying on its wick.

“…Then you must come back soon.”

She had left the family forge to find Lingcai; business can’t be left to cool too long, like an iron bar losing its heat on the anvil.

Reluctant but resolute, Scarlet Leaf stepped in and hugged her, arms wrapping like silk around a precious scroll.

“Even if you don’t find answers, come back soon. If you agree, swear it,” she said, setting a mountain under the promise.

“Mm. I swear. I’ll come home soon,” Lingcai replied, words dropping like stones into a pond, rings widening.

She reached out her pinky, hooked Scarlet Leaf’s, and pulled lightly— a pinky promise, a red string sealed.

But reality was a fog-bank; Lingcai didn’t know how it would shift, like mists that swallow paths.

So far, the mysterious key was a clouded thing; even the Little Moon Sage, the peak of Alchemy, could only read scattered shards.

Lingcai reached out and picked up the cross-shaped key, cold as a winter star, and studied it with tight focus.

The runes still half-made sense, like a script seen through rain; clearly it needed a counterpart to lock into place.

“Hm?”

Something had changed: at the end of the cross, a tiny line of Alchemy runes had appeared, neat as dew beads on a blade.

Read left to right, it said: “For you, who come from the future.”

When had those words appeared, like dawn writing its own light on glass?

Lingcai stared, stunned; before Qiyan City, she’d checked it on the road, boredom turning to scrutiny— no such line then.

Could it truly be as the Little Moon Sage said, information unlocking over time, like petals opening day by day?

She thought it over and chose not to tell Scarlet Leaf, keeping worry folded away like a letter left unread.

Soon, it was time to part, a crossroads under a pale sky.

Though the Seven Northern Towns and the Qiuerde Region both belonged to Ariex’s north, Qiyan City was a watershed; beyond it, the roads diverged like rivers splitting.

Before separating, Lingcai arranged a fresh carriage for her wife and daughter, coins clinking like rain, and warned the coachman to see them safely home.

She even paid extra, stacking silver like small moons, to secure their return.

After a reluctant goodbye, Lingcai swung onto her little Alchemy-engine trike, the hum like a cicada, ready to keep pace with Kelor’s team.

Scarlet Leaf had already gone, but before setting out, Lingcai kept glancing down the road, one step and one look, like a sunflower turning back to the sun.

“Don’t look. She’s gone,” Kelor said, leaning against the cart, her reminder cool as shade.

“If you really miss her, just go home. Investigate the cross later when you’ve got time,” she added, rolling her eyes like marbles in a bowl.

Lingcai didn’t answer right away; she paused, a hush before thunder.

“…I have a hunch. Something big’s coming,” she said, feeling pressure build behind distant hills.

Kelor stayed calm, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah, big. People are raising banners in revolt on the border— how’s that not big?”

“Not that,” Lingcai cut in, uneasy as a drumbeat out of rhythm. “I feel something else coming, wide as a tide.”

“It’s safer if they’re home. The sword dojo is there— if trouble hits, they should handle it,” she said, picturing pines gripping the cliff.

Then she turned the question on Kelor, a glance like a pebble tossed across water.

“And you? I can’t imagine you apologizing to Xueyu… it doesn’t feel like you.”

Kelor looked away to another horizon and closed her eyes, the lids falling like curtains.

“Maybe it just clicked. Instead of clinging to the past, you value who you have now. …That’s what I think,” she said, as if a tide had turned.

It didn’t sound like a princess’s usual line, more like a leaf choosing the wind.

Lingcai didn’t press. She let out a breath, relief braided with worry, soft as a falling leaf.

“I see…”