The lanterns from the caravan festival still swayed in the wind the next morning, though most stalls had been taken down.
Qinghe returned to its quiet rhythm — the sweep of brooms, the call of hens, the creak of buckets lowered into the village well.
But not far from the outer path, where the forest pressed thick against the trail, a rider in dark green robes dismounted slowly, brushing dust from his shoulders.
His horse huffed, clearly overworked.
"Lost again," the rider muttered.
He wasn't young, but neither was he old — his robes marked with faint embroidery, the symbol of a lotus over an open eye. A sword hilt peeked from under his cloak, though it looked unused.
He looked around at the quiet hills, then toward the narrow dirt path curling down into the valley.
"Qinghe?" he whispered. "Never heard of it."
---
In the village square, Yun Long and several children were playing lantern toss — a simple game where candles were lit and tossed into colored paper baskets.
"Too high!" Meier shouted as Yun Long's lantern flew past the mark.
He laughed, rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry!"
Old Yun watched from a stool, sipping thick tea.
Madam Su stood nearby, chatting with other women about soup herbs and caravan prices.
None of them saw the stranger enter.
Not until he was already in the square, looking around with quiet interest.
He was polite — bowed slightly, removed his riding gloves, and greeted Old Yun first.
"Apologies for the intrusion," he said in clear, formal tones. "I'm passing through and lost the trail to Liang Prefecture."
Old Yun squinted his eyes. "Liang Prefecture? You're two days off, friend."
"Two days?" The rider laughed, half in embarrassment, half in disbelief.
A few villagers chuckled.
"You're welcome to water your horse and take a seat," Old Yun offered. "We don't see many sword-bearers around here."
The man nodded and tied his mount to a tree.
Children stared. Meier whispered, "He's from a sect!"
Yun Long didn't speak. He simply watched.
The man noticed.
---
Later, the envoy sat with Old Yun, drinking thin soup.
"You practice medicine?" he asked.
Old Yun nodded. "Nothing worthy of mention. Roots, salves, broken bones."
"Still," the man said, "healing is harder than harming."
He looked at the boys training with sticks nearby. The villagers weren't cultivators, but they respected effort. The children were taught balance, breath, and basics.
Then he looked again — at Yun Long.
The boy was practicing simple stance-work. Nothing unusual. Knees bent, arms out. But his breath was steady. His center low. And his movements… fluid and natural.
Too natural.
"You teach the children?" he asked Old Yun.
Old Yun shook his head. "No, they are taught by old Chen who just blindly follow traditions."
"I see."
---
That evening, before leaving, the envoy stood at the edge of town and turned back once.
"Tell the village elder — if any child has shown minor Qi sense or stable breathwork, the Falling Star Sect will pass Liang Prefecture again next year."
He paused.
"Not all great roots grow in famous gardens."
Then, without ceremony, he mounted and rode out.
---
The villagers didn't think much of it.
Just a traveler from far away.
But some of the older ones exchanged looks.
"Sects don't recruit from places like this," one murmured.
"Maybe he was just being polite," said another.
But Yun Long… stared at the spot where the envoy had stood.
The words echoed in his head.
> Not all great roots grow in famous gardens.
---