Chapter Text
Chapter I - One Leaf, One Life《一叶平生》
Kaifeng City, South Gate Avenue
Late Autumn, 964 C.E.
The rain had softened into mist by the time they reached the Incomparable Inn, steam curling up from the stone tiles of South Gate Avenue. Warm light spilled from paper lanterns, painting the interior in shades of amber and honey. Inside, soup steamed gently. An erhu hummed in the corner—low, mournful, as if mourning something too old to name.
At the heart of it all sat Zheng Ran, the blind girl from the Willow Bank. She nestled against the Young Wanderer, her voice lilting through the room like birdsong:
“The wandering hero once gave the townsfolk a gold leaf from the immortal tree to save their dying town.
In return, the townsfolk gave him a story—because stories last longer than gold.”
From the balcony, Yingying looked up over her tea.
“Did the town survive?” she asked, her voice soft.
Zheng Ran beamed, eyes shut, her voice filled with sunlit certainty. “With the golden leaf, the hero granted their every wish. The fields bloomed. The shops stayed open. No one ever went hungry again.”
The Young Wanderer chuckled softly, brushing a lock of hair from the girl’s brow. “Mm. Sounds like quite the legendary figure. So… who was this hero?”
Zheng Ran giggled behind her hand. “That’s the secret,” she whispered. “They only show up when someone makes a wish.”
But then her smile faded. She fell quiet.
The Wanderer tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”
Zheng Ran’s hands folded in her lap. “I lost my golden leaf,” she murmured sadly. “The wind took it away.”
The Wanderer placed a gentle hand over hers. “Then we’ll ask the wind to give it back.”
Later, she sat cross-legged beside Zheng Ran, helping her finish a lacquered wooden crane she'd started carving that morning. The wing flapped once—wobbly but eager.
“Careful,” she said. “The hinge’s still drying.”
Zheng Ran gasped in delight, fingers following the contours with reverent care, mouth open in a small, breathless smile.
Yingying, seated nearby with a teacup cradled in one palm, watched quietly.
It had become a rhythm—a shared breath.
Each evening for the past week, they brought Zheng Ran here—feeding her sweet red bean buns, telling riddles passed down from wandering monks and scribes. The Wanderer always knelt to speak to her. Never rushed her. She braided her hair with deft fingers, tied her ribbons just the way she liked, and remembered her favourite dishes without asking.
Children rarely gave their trust freely.
But Zheng Ran had given hers—entirely.
And Yingying, watching from the shadow of paper lanterns, felt something gentle begin to unfold in her chest.
Like steam over tea.
Like a golden leaf in the wind.
That night, after Zheng Ran had fallen asleep in their rented room curled around her toy crane, the two women sat in the courtyard. Moonlight filtered through a bamboo screen. The jasmine vines swayed gently in the breeze.
Yingying spoke first—words long held quiet.
“You’re good with her.”
The Wanderer looked up, startled. “Hmm…?”
“Children,” Yingying clarified. “You’re good with children. Zheng Ran laughs more in a single afternoon with you than I ever heard in my entire time in Kaifeng.”
The Wanderer’s eyes dropped. Her fingers curled in her lap.
“I’m not,” she said softly. “Not really.”
“You are.”
A long pause followed.
Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper—
“There was a girl.”
She didn’t look up. The words came slowly. Fragile. Like a frozen lake beginning to thaw.
“Her name was Ruby. Red like fire. Stubborn as a mountain goat. Just a toddler when she showed up at Heaven’s Pier. An orphan. Sticky fingers, sharper tongue. She used to drive Aunt Han so mad, we joked she’d grow white hairs just from hearing us giggle.”
A breath. Almost a laugh.
“We got into trouble. Always.”
Yingying stayed silent, listening.
“She followed me everywhere. Copied me. Stole for me. Swore she’d explore the Jianghu together with me when she turned sixteen.”
Her voice caught.
“And then—”
She stopped. The silence that followed said more than any words could.
“We were attacked,” she whispered. “I was away chasing a lead. I wasn’t there.”
She pressed her knuckles to her mouth.
“They… they found her under the cherry blossom tree at the cliffside. Holding up the banner.”
Her voice broke open.
“I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight. I should’ve kept her safe. I should’ve—”
Tears spilled, quiet and unrelenting.
Yingying reached for her at once.
“Shh. It’s okay.”
She wrapped her arms around her, as if to hold the pieces together. The Wanderer trembled, sobbing against her shoulder, her fists clenched in Yingying’s robe.
Yingying kissed her cheeks—each tear wiped gently, as if returning something sacred.
“She was like your sister,” she whispered. “You loved her.”
The Wanderer choked out, “I should’ve protected her.”
“I know,” Yingying murmured. “But maybe… she was protecting you. And the town. Holding up that banner so you’d have something to return to.”
They stayed like that—wrapped in each other, unmoving—until the moon had drifted past the rooftop tiles, and silence settled like snow.
The next morning, walking through the market square, they heard a voice:
“Zhao Ya—did you read the letters from your mother?”
Silence. Then a hesitant, “No.”
He sat on the edge of a well, parchment crushed in his grip, eyes rimmed with sleepless nights. As they neared, he looked up—young, cautious, already grieving.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I...I don't know how to read...”
He was lying.
The Wanderer knelt beside him.
“I could read it for you. May I?”
He hesitated, then nodded.
She unfolded the letter with care, smoothing its creases tenderly.
Her voice was quiet. Steady.
"My dearest son,
If you are reading this, it means I did not flee with you. That was my decision, not yours.
I do not regret it. A mother’s place is to guard her home—even if only by lighting incense and keeping the memory alive.
You have always been a good boy. Don’t let fear take that from you.
And if the rumours were true… then let your mother’s passing feed a new season.
One leaf for another life.
Be well. I love you."
Zhao Ya broke, sinking to his knees.
“I left her,” he cried. “Because I believed the rumours. That the new emperor would raze Kaifeng. That we’d all die.”
The words pierced Yingying like an ice blade.
Because she had started those rumours.
As the Ember of East, she’d orchestrated the panic. A rumour to crash property and prices. She was going to buy up everything and sell it high.
Even Granny Turtle had fallen for it and lost her home.
And Yingying had witnessed its effects firsthand. Caught in the web of her own schemes.
Shame twisted in her gut. She turned away, unable to meet Zhao Ya’s crumpling grief.
The Wanderer closed the letter carefully.
“Your mother,” she said, “forgave you…she never blamed you.”
The rest of the week unfolded in quiet, steady acts of kindness.
They repaired an elderly’s crumbling shack by replacing the earthen walls, resetting the timber frame, and re-plastering the daub by hand. Broken tiles were gathered and relaid across the roof. By dusk, the kitchen stove was burning again, and smoke lifted steadily from the vent beneath the eaves.
They caught a pickpocket at the fishmonger’s stall—the Wanderer immobilising his meridians, Yingying giving him a stern warning.
They helped Zhang Ankang recreate his mother’s lotus noodles through steam and broth. Not with rare spices, but by warming the noodles—just as she had, waiting for him to come home.
They played Cuju with boys in the alley. Reunited a weeping girl with her frantic mother.
And when the Unbound Cavern thugs returned to shake down the market, Yingying didn’t hesitate—she sent one flying into a cabbage cart with a single, elegant strike.
The cart burst in a green spray.
“My cabbages!” wailed the vendor, throwing his hands to the sky.
Before the second thug could blink, the Wanderer had him pinned to a wooden post, the flat of her blade pressed to his chest.
Her voice was calm—her eyes, anything but.
After that, the city began to whisper.
Not with fear.
With wonder.
They spoke of two heroes—one who carried a sword, the other with a cat—moving through Kaifeng and setting wrongs right.
And still, every day, they came for A’ran.
With sweet buns and sesame puffs wrapped in lotus leaves, they walked her to school—her small hands nestled trustingly between theirs. In the afternoons, they waited by the gates, greeting her with warmth and stories, walking her home beneath falling leaves.
She never cried for the father who hadn’t returned.
Because they came.
Every day. Without fail.
One evening, Zheng Ran sat in the corner of her home, fingers tracing the edge of her pillow. The fire had dimmed. Her toy crane was nestled beside her pillow. When the Wanderer entered, she straightened, ears perked.
“You’re back.”
“We brought you something,” said Yingying, handing her a small paper-wrapped package of warm lotus pastries.
“And,” said the Wanderer, kneeling, “a gift.”
She crouched low, her hands moving in a slow, flowing motion—Tai Chi.
Wind stirred, the leaves around her gathering.
One leaf caught the air.
It floated down into Zheng Ran’s palms.
“The Golden Leaf?” the girl breathed.
“The wind took it for safekeeping,” the Wanderer said gently. “The immortal hero asked it to return it to you when you were ready.”
Zheng Ran clutched it like treasure. Her face turned toward the empty hearth. “The golden leaf,” she breathed. “It really came back!”
Zhang Ankang had an idea.
“Fifteen years ago, we hosted a feast. One bowl for one belly. Let’s do it again.”
“I’ll help,” the Wanderer said without hesitation.
Yingying rolled up her sleeves. “Just don’t burn the duck this time, Zhang.”
Zhang grinned. “No promises.”
In Zhang's Eatery, the feast preparations took days.
Steam curled from clay ovens and roaring wok fires, filling the air with the scent of ginger, star anise, and soy. Baskets of rice rose in towers; duck simmered slowly in rich, spiced broth. Amid the fragrant chaos, Yingying moved like water—fluid, focused, effortless.
Her hair was tied back in a silk cord, a few strands sticking to the curve of her cheek. Flour clung to her sleeves and the edge of her jaw, and her face glowed pink from the stove’s heat. Her hands never paused—chopping scallions with crisp precision, stirring sauces until they thickened, folding dumplings with effortless speed.
She laughed with the cooks, scribbled out shopping lists for the errand boys with the crisp authority of a palace steward, and—between orders—licked sugar from her fingertip, slowly, almost absentmindedly, as if tasting joy itself.
The kitchen burned with heat and noise.
The Wanderer just watched her sometimes—watching the glint of joy in her eyes, the way her body moved without tension, just light.
She couldn’t believe this was the same woman—the golden-robed lord who once ruled Weiyang from behind wealth and power.
But also… she could.
Because she loved all of her.
Yingying caught her staring and smirked, wrist-deep in dough. “Are you going to help,” she drawled, fingers working slow circles, “or just stand there drooling like a dog outside a butcher’s stall?”
The Wanderer straightened, flustered. “I—I was just appreciating your... kneading technique.”
“Mmm.” Yingying didn’t look up. Her hands moved with languid precision, pressing into the soft dough, folding and shaping each bun like she was coaxing secrets from flesh. “You mean the way I work it with my fingers… or how I pinch it just right so nothing leaks?”
The Wanderer’s face flared crimson.
Yingying finally glanced up—eyes half-lidded, full of knowing mischief. “Go on. Say it.”
“I…” The Wanderer swallowed. “I’m not sure I’m talking about buns anymore.”
Yingying chuckled, low and dangerous. “Neither am I.”
She slid a finished barbequed pork bao onto the tray and leaned just slightly across the counter, just enough for the scent of jasmine and smoke to curl around the Wanderer. Her lips brushed the shell of her ear, warm and deliberate.
“If you keep eyeing me like that, my little hero,” she purred, voice dipped in honey, “I might forget the baos... and start kneading your buns instead..."
A helpless, adorable squeak escaped the Wanderer.
She spun on her heel and marched back to the stove with her dignity in shreds, snatching up the ladle and glaring at the bubbling carp stew as if it had betrayed her.
“Focus,” she muttered under her breath. “You are a grown woman. A martial artist. You don’t swoon over bao!”
Behind her, Yingying’s low chuckle curved like heat around her spine.
“Still watching, my dear hero?”
“Shut up!” came the flustered reply.
That night, the feast began.
Lanterns floated like stars above the square. Long tables stretched from door to door, heaped with duck and dumplings, noodles slathered with scallion oil, soup thick with marrow and mushroom. Children ran wild, waving paper lanterns shaped like cranes. Musicians played, elders chuckled, and wine poured freely.
Zheng Ran sat by the table, surrounded by a half-dozen children. She was telling her story again.
“The wandering hero gave a golden leaf,” she said, voice ringing clear. “And granted everyone's wishes. And that’s what saved the town.”
And then—
Her father returned.
Boots muddied. Hair wind-tossed. Eyes rimmed with tears.
He stumbled into the courtyard, just as the last of her words rose into the lantern-lit sky.
He dropped to his knees in the crowd.
“A’ran?” he said, voice breaking.
She froze mid-sentence. Her wooden crane slipped from her lap.
“Father?”
She ran to him, crashing into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should never have left. I—”
She held him tighter, trembling against his chest.
“I met heroes,” she said. “Two of them. They looked after me. They helped the city. They made stories come true.”
At the far end of the table, Yingying and the Wanderer sat in the shadows, hands loosely intertwined.
Zhao Ya raised a bowl of broth in silence to his mother’s name.
Granny Turtle smiled at the children playing in the streets.
And somewhere above the rooftops, the first frost of winter began to fall—quiet as prayer, soft as hope.
Yingying leaned close, nestling against the Wanderer's chest.
A soft breeze stirred the lanterns above.
Somewhere in the dark, a leaf fluttered past.
One leaf.
One life.
And the story carried on.
The frost thickened.
In their shared room across Granny Turtle’s house, Yingying woke early to quiet breath and filtered light.
The Wanderer slept beside her, mouth slightly parted, hand curled near her face.
Yingying reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from her brow.
Then traced her cheek with her fingertips.
Not as a habit.
Only love.
She smiled.
No wealth. No throne. No politics.
Just this.
A warm cup of tea. A child’s laughter. A woman who slept beside her without fear.
This life was enough.
Yingying leaned down and kissed her temple.
Then closed her eyes and let morning come.