The village of Qingshan stirred with life. Bright banners of red and gold fluttered across rooftops, and children darted about with laughter, clutching handmade lanterns shaped like animals and flowers. Smoke rose from cooking fires, carrying with it the scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet rice cakes.
It was the night of the Harvest Festival, the one time of year when even a forgotten village like theirs seemed touched by joy.
Liang Shen moved quietly among the crowd, carrying bundles of firewood for the great bonfire at the village square. His tunic was patched, his hands rough, yet his movements were steady and strong.
"Shen!"
A child tugged at his sleeve—little Bao, the farmer's youngest son. The boy grinned, holding up a crooked paper lantern shaped like a rabbit. "Help me light it?"
Shen managed a smile. He knelt, striking a spark with flint until the candle inside flickered to life. The lantern glowed warmly in Bao's small hands.
"Thank you!" The boy scampered off, shouting to his friends.
As Shen stood, Old Man Zhang, the village chief, approached. His back was bent, his beard long and white, but his eyes still carried a sharpness born of years.
"Young man," Zhang said, handing Shen a cup of warm rice wine, "you always linger on the edges. Festivals are for laughter, not silence. Come, drink with us."
Shen bowed respectfully but did not refuse. The wine was rough, burning down his throat, but it carried a warmth that eased the chill in his chest.
For a moment, he allowed himself to breathe.
The villagers danced. Flutes and drums echoed into the night. Women in bright robes sang old songs while men clapped in rhythm. Even Mei, the potter's daughter, was among them, her laughter like a bell as she spun with the others.
Shen found himself watching her. She was the only one who had seen the glow of his mark, yet she had said nothing. She only gave him a fleeting glance across the firelight, her eyes unreadable.
But beneath the joy, unease lingered. Shen could feel it in the pit of his stomach. His mark pulsed faintly, hidden beneath his tunic, as if warning him of some unseen danger.
He tried to push it aside. Tonight was for the village. Tonight was for warmth.
When the bonfire roared to its peak, the villagers released their lanterns. One by one, lights floated into the night sky, carried by the wind until they joined the stars above.
Shen tilted his head back, watching them rise. His chest tightened with a strange ache. The stars seemed closer tonight, their glow sharper, as though they were watching him in return.
Why does it feel like I've seen this sky before?
A sudden gust of wind rushed down the mountain path, scattering the lanterns. The villagers laughed it off, but Shen's eyes narrowed. His mark burned faintly again.
Somewhere beyond the mists, faint streaks of light arced across the heavens—the aftershocks of cultivators clashing in the distance.
The heavens were restless.
And Liang Shen knew, though he could not explain why, that this peace would not last.