Chapter 1 - The Mortal’s Remedy
《Fánchén zhī yào》
Chapter 1 - The Mortal’s Remedy
“Names are not owned. They are wounds that remember how to bleed.”
The scent of crushed wild herbs filled the air as she carefully placed them before the small, weathered stone statue. The offering was for the gods, or more likely, just one. The weaver of fates. It was whispered that his realm could be accessed deep within these mountains. There were even rumors he would sometimes walk the mortal world, searching for something lost.
She let out a small, dry chuckle. What could be so important here on this broken world? she thought.
Since the day she was born, she had been an outsider. The main village, nestled in the valley below, was forbidden to her. The people were terrified of the uncontrollable powers that had manifested with her first breath.
Now, she sat in the clearing, grinding the medicinal herbs she’d foraged from the perilous mountain slopes. She made the remedies to survive, selling them through a single, silent middleman. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the only way to earn the coin she needed. She was a woman of healing, yet her very existence spread fear.
The cough tore through her again, harsh and rattling, leaving a bitter, metallic taste at the back of her throat. Her health had been rapidly declining since last year, turning the task of gathering herbs into a grim chore. She sank onto the cold stone beside the statue, suddenly exhausted.
She sighed. Maybe she should believe the rumors. Maybe she should actually walk into the mountains, searching for the god’s rumored presence. What would it change? A bitter laugh escaped her. As if this ancient deity, the Weaver of Fates, could truly help her.
I could at least ask him if it’s funny to give mortals such a fate as hers, she thought, a desperate smile touching her lips. She was afraid. Desperate. Even though she was an outsider, a person feared by all, she didn’t want to die. She wanted to live.
When she woke up, she was lying in a bed. She had lost consciousness suddenly in the middle of the forest, the cough having finally claimed her. She looked around, confused. On a little table beside the bed sat a cup of tea and some pastries.
“Where am I?” she murmured to herself, pushing up onto her elbows. “And why don’t I feel ill anymore?”
She took the cup and sniffed at it. Jasmine tea. A soft, genuine smile touched her lips; she’d always liked jasmine tea. As she took in the surroundings—the high ceiling, the ornate pillars, the elegant, simple architecture—her confusion deepened.
“Am I dead? And just waiting for my judgment?” she whispered, a nervous joke.
Then, a serene male voice broke the silence, calm as still water. “I hope not.”
She turned her head, quickly taking him in. He was tall, and didn’t look much older than herself, yet his presence held something ancient, all-knowing. His raven black hair was long, with fine golden threads subtly woven through the strands. His eyes looked like water and wind combined—serene but profound. He was handsome, too handsome.
She felt her face heating up, and she instantly looked away, blushing furiously. God, that voice, she thought. Can someone please arrest him?
A little smile touched his lips. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice calm as a still lake
“I’m feeling better, thank you,” she murmured, her gaze still averted from him.
“Then I’m relieved,” he said, the softness of his voice a serene, ethereal whisper carried through the air.
She tilted her head, finally meeting his gaze. “You’re the weaver of fates, I guess.” Why is he so handsome? she thought, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
He approached, his movement fluid, and gently rested his hand on her chest. In an instant, the frantic rhythm in her heart subsided, smoothing into a normal, steady beat.
He chuckled, a soft, dry sound. “Not that you pass out again.”
As he withdrew his hand, she caught his scent: like a river flowing through a forest—earthy, light, and wonderfully refreshing.
“Do they call me like that?” he asked her.
She tilted her head again, confused by his tone. “The weaver of fates?” She nodded.
He chuckled again, but this time it was hollow—not amused, but deeply disappointed, laced with an emotion she couldn’t quite place.
She looked at him, her heart still pounding from his proximity and the unexpected touch. “The weaver of fates and the Lady of the Second Dawn…” she said softly, recalling the ancient titles. “The deities that govern the cycle of life.”
She saw something flicker in his water-and-wind eyes—a profound, devastating pain. “Her name was Shènghuá,” he said, his gaze distant, yet somehow intensely focused on her. “My wife, the goddess of Rebirth and Eternity.” His voice was calm, but the word wife carried a deep, clear ache.
I have the same name as her? she thought, the realization stunning her.
“I don’t care if the world forgets me, but they should not forget her.”
She felt a sudden, inexplicable deep aching pain in her own heart, a sorrow that wasn’t hers, a profound, aching loss she couldn’t understand. “I’m sorry…” she whispered, the sympathy genuine. “I want to call you by your name.”
He looked at her, his lips curving into a hollow chuckle—a sound of profound self-disdain. “Yuánfēng.”
She smiled, his name coming from her lips like a lost, forgotten prayer. “Yuánfēng.” He looked at her, a deep sadness in his eyes. “That’s a beautiful name,” she murmured.
“My name is…” she hesitated for a moment, her eyes fixed on his. “Shènghuá.”
There was a deadly flicker in his eyes. He stood, his towering shadow falling over her, and his voice became a dark, rumbling tone that seemed to vibrate the ornate pillars of the room. The very air shifted, growing heavy and thick.
“If you don’t want to give me your name, that is fine,” his voice was calm, yet the control was terrifying. “But don’t use her name.” The word ‘her’ was a low growl, laced with such annoyance and pain that it felt like a physical warning.
She stepped backward, confused at first, but then understanding dawned. She was wearing the name of a goddess, a name that could wound even a celestial being. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft but firm with sincerity. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s the name I’ve known since birth. It wasn’t to deceive you.”
Yuánfēng turned his back to her, his long raven hair with its golden threads shielding his face. He looked at her over his shoulder, his eyes still deeply shadowed with pain. “I apologize. I didn’t want to scare you.”
“You’re allowed to wander here,” he said with a gentle, warm tone. “You’re in my part of the celestial realm. Time works differently here.”
She nodded, a little smile on her lips. “I see. I didn’t know mortals could live in the celestial realm.”
Yuánfēng chuckled. “Normally, they can’t.”
That was all he offered—no explanation, just a statement of exception. She felt a familiar prickle of frustration. After everything she’d been through, after nearly dying, she deserved to know what was happening to her.
“Can you give me an explanation, please?” she asked, pressing him.
He turned back to her fully, his expression serene. “Does it matter?”
She pouted. “Of course it does.”
“I don’t know yet why you can stay here,” he simply stated.
She groaned, certain he was deflecting again. “I thought you were a god. Why don’t you know it?” Her voice was sharp with frustration.
Yuánfēng moved in a fluid step and gently grabbed her wrist. The touch wasn’t forceful, and it wasn’t painful, but it was absolute. “I should eliminate you for this,” his voice was a low rumbling that was, surprisingly, very friendly. “You are an anomaly in the celestial flow.”
He released her wrist, the warmth of his hand lingering. “I give you time, to see who you really are. What you are.”
The sudden words struck her with cold fear. Elimination? Why? She was just a human. “Can you please… just tell me something,” she pleaded.
He looked at her, seeing the raw fear, and his eyes softened. “You could be an anomaly in the flow of time, in which case I need to eliminate you to not threaten the balance,” he said, his tone gentle despite the horror of the statement. “But you also could be a celestial being.”
She looked at him, completely bewildered. “I could be… what?” she stammered, confusion overwhelming her fear.
“Doesn’t mean you are a goddess. It simply would be enough if you’re a demigod.”
She nodded, a thousand questions warring in her mind. He saw the confusion in her wide eyes. “What’s on your mind?”
“Too much,” she murmured, the words barely audible.
He gently set her back down on the bed. “I have time,” he answered, his voice soft.
She looked at him, little tears beginning to well in her eyes. “Can you please explain what you mean that I could be a celestial being?” Her voice shook. “I get it—when I’m an anomaly, you need to eliminate me. But it’s still hard to swallow.”
He nodded, kneeling gently beside her, his hand resting on her back in a calming gesture. “The other gods would want me to act directly, without confirmation. But that is not how I am,” he said softly. “Every living being wants to exist, and that’s why I need to be certain what you are.”
“What does it mean for me that I could be divine?” she asked softly, uncertain.
His hand made little circles on her back, a soothing gesture. “It depends on your rank,” he said gently. “Divines are categorized in a hierarchy. Not every god is the same.”
She looked at him and nodded, trying to convey that she understood.
“The highest are the primordial,” he explained. “They’re essential for maintaining reality like it is.” He paused. “I assume you’re a demigod. That simply means one of your parents was divine, the other mortal.”
She nodded again. “You’re a primordial god?” she asked.
Yuánfēng inclined his head. “Fate is essential for reality to not fall into chaos,” he explained.
“What would happen if a primordial god dies, theoretically?” she asked softly, curious about the being kneeling next to her.
“It depends on the death,” he said, looking at her. His eyes flickered slightly. “Primordial gods cannot die completely. We go dormant, our essence sleeping until we are strong enough to reemerge.”
She gently poked him in the side and giggled. “You said it depends. So there are ways to kill a primordial god completely?” she asked, her tone light. “Not that I ever would, of course… I’m just curious.”
He chuckled, a genuine sound this time. “There are ways, yes. And it depends who dies, and how catastrophic the aftermath is.”
She nodded, hearing the faint shake in his voice. “Did this happen before?” she asked, already knowing from the shift in his tone what his answer would be.
“Yes,” he confirmed, his voice dropping to a low, sorrowful whisper. “My wife. Shènghuá, the goddess of Rebirth and Eternity.”
Yuánfēng stood, and the air in the chamber shifted dramatically, crackling with an unseen energy. He looked at her, his deep eyes filled with sudden purpose. “Please stay here,” he said gently, but his voice carried the unquestionable authority of a command. Then he turned and went outside.
