(Liang Yu's POV)
Two weeks have passed since I woke up in this world.
Two quiet, shimmering weeks—like water smoothing the edges of a stone.
The first days were confusion and ache. The nights even more so—haunted by flashes of another sky, a dying world where smoke was thicker than clouds and the ground never healed. Yet somewhere amid the hush of this mountain home, the noise within me has begun to fade.
Now my mornings start with sound instead of silence: the clatter of wooden pails, children's giggles bouncing against the misty air, and the rhythmic creak of the well rope as Feng Lian draws water before sunrise.
At first, I stayed in bed pretending to sleep, unwilling to intrude. But eventually, routine pulled me into its orbit. I learned which logs burn slowest, how to clean herbs without bruising their mana veins, and that the smaller child—WeiWei —refuses to eat porridge unless someone traces a star on her bowl first.
The house itself is plain: timber walls patched by care, smoke stains painting the ceiling, the faint hum of warmth in the air where mana trickles like breath. Yet somehow, this place—this fragile pocket of peace—feels more like home than the world I lost.
Maybe it's because of him.
Feng Lian.
He speaks little, but I've begun to hear what silence means in his language.
The way he sets an extra bowl before I sit, though he never asks if I'm hungry.
How he shields the children's sleep with the gentleness of someone who has forgotten softness but never stopped craving it.
How his gaze sometimes brushes me, light and cautious, like a leaf testing the current.
I used to think silence was emptiness. Now I see it can be space—room enough to breathe.
---
That morning, the fog was thick enough to hide the path. We ventured into the forest together—he carrying the woven basket, me trailing behind with a smaller one, still learning which roots heal and which bite.
The air smelled of rain and pine. Birds stirred in the canopy above, wings dripping with dew. I remember the faint crunch of wet soil beneath our boots and the rhythm of his voice explaining the use of feverroot.
"Cut close to the stem," he said. "Too deep, and the mana dies."
I bent down to try, copying his movement. But the ground beneath me gave way with a sudden sigh. I gasped, arms flailing—and before fear could tighten, his hand caught mine.
Rough. Warm. Steady.
For a heartbeat, all I felt was that—skin, warmth, the strength that refused to let go.
When he pulled me back, his brows were knit tight, his tone even tighter. "Careful. That patch is mana-dead. The earth looks solid but it's hollow underneath."
"Mana-dead?" I repeated, watching the dull gray of the soil.
He nodded. "The forest feeds on the energy in the air. Some places have none left—just shell and dust. Step wrong, and it swallows what's living."
I knelt, tracing a cracked root. It looked lifeless, but when I brushed my fingers over it, I felt something faint—like the echo of a heartbeat. I wanted it to live. Instinctively, I pushed a thread of warmth outward.
For a second, the root shimmered green, pulsing like breath. A sprout unfurled, trembling before falling still.
I froze. That glow—I'd felt it before, back on Earth, when I used to touch the rare plants that still dared to grow through concrete.
When I looked up, Feng Lian was watching. His eyes held no accusation—just quiet thought. Then he simply turned away, continuing deeper into the forest.
But the silence between us wasn't the same. It carried the hum of something newly awakened.
---
That night, thunder came.
Rain hammered the roof in a furious rhythm, wind keening through the cracks of the shutters. The children clung to me, small fists grasping my sleeves. I gathered them close, speaking softly over the storm.
"Once upon a time," I began, "there was a moon who lost her light. So she sent her stars to find it…"
I told stories I half remembered, half invented—of glowing ponds, talking birds, heroes made of wind. Anything to draw their minds away from fear.
By the doorway, Feng Lian sat sharpening his blade, the edge catching candlelight like liquid fire. He didn't interrupt, but I could feel his gaze resting nearby, solid as the wall behind us. The children's breathing eased.
When they finally drifted into sleep, I looked up. His blade lay sheathed. His eyes were on the fire.
"You settle them well," he said quietly. "You remind them what peace sounds like."
I smiled, tired but soft. "Maybe because I've spent my life chasing it."
He didn't answer, only nodded slightly—as if he understood more than I meant to say.
The storm eased into a drizzle. I rose to tend the embers, but the cold had already crept into my sleeves. Before I could reach for another log, a weight settled around my shoulders—a cloak, heavy with warmth and the scent of smoke.
"Keep it," Feng Lian said simply.
I turned to him, startled. "I—thank you."
His gaze lingered, unreadable, before he looked away.
The cloak smelled faintly of cedar and rain. My fingers tightened around the edge, heart thrumming in quiet confusion. For years I'd known kindness as something that came with conditions. His felt… wordless. Pure.
---
Later, when the rain stopped, I found him outside. The air was silver with moonlight, both moons pale and watching from the clouds. Water clung to the grass like glass beads.
He stood by the fence, head tilted toward the valley below. The night wind tugged at his hair. For a moment, I thought he looked carved from the same silence that surrounded us—part of the mountain itself.
"This land still breathes," he said without turning.
I followed his gaze. The forest shimmered faintly under the twin moons. "You make sure it does," I replied.
He smiled—just barely. "Trying to, at least."
For a while, neither of us spoke. The wind moved between us, carrying the scent of wet earth.
Then, without thinking, I asked, "Why did you buy a ger like me? You could've chosen anyone."
He didn't flinch. "You were sold cheap," he said, matter-of-fact. "And I needed someone to care for the children and the house." His voice softened slightly, though his eyes remained distant. "I don't ask for more."
The words should've stung, but they didn't. There was no cruelty in them—only truth. He didn't buy me as a companion or slave, but as someone needed.
Needed. It was such a small word, but it filled a space in me I hadn't realized was empty.
"I see," I said quietly. "Then I'll try not to fail at either."
"You won't," he said, with quiet certainty that startled me.
When I glanced up, his eyes met mine—steady, unreadable, but warm. And just like that, the awkwardness between us softened into something else. Not trust, not yet, but the seed of it.
---
The following days unfolded gently.
Feng Lian showed me how to grind herbs and recognize edible roots. I taught the children how to hum a tune while washing vegetables so they wouldn't rush. In the evenings, we ate together by firelight, trading silence like comfort.
But as the comfort grew, so did the weight of my secret. Each time my fingers brushed soil, the energy stirred. I began to wonder if he'd seen more that day in the forest.
One evening, while he repaired a wooden fence, I gathered courage.
"Feng Lian," I said, kneeling nearby. "Can I ask you something?"
He looked up, brows faintly raised. "Ask."
"What do you know about… mana users?"
His hammer paused midair. "Not much," he said slowly. "In this region, mana runs thin. Only the great cities to the west have true cultivators. The rest of us just work and breathe what's left."
I nodded, biting my lip. "If… someone here had it, would that be strange?"
He studied me for a long moment, eyes unreadable. "It would be rare," he admitted. "And dangerous if others found out."
The air between us thickened. I took a breath. "I can make things grow. Heal small wounds. I think… it's part of who I was before."
He set the hammer down. "Before?"
"Before I came here," I whispered. "I'm not from this world."
The confession hung between us like mist. I waited for disbelief, fear, laughter—but he gave none. Only quiet contemplation.
Finally, he said, "Then perhaps this world called you for a reason."
I blinked. "You believe me?"
"I've seen stranger things than a gentle soul with power in his hands," he said simply. "And you've never given me a reason to doubt."
Warmth spread through me, sharp and tender. His words felt like light reaching the roots of something long buried.
"Thank you," I murmured.
He picked up the hammer again. "Just promise me one thing," he said. "Use your gift carefully. This land eats what it cannot understand."
"I will," I promised.
And for the first time, I felt the boundary between us blur—not master and servant, not stranger and stranger, but two lives slowly learning to share the same rhythm.
---
That night, under the glow of two moons, I stood outside again. The grass whispered with wind, the mountains humming low.
I looked at my hands, faint green light pulsing at the tips of my fingers.
Back on Earth, I'd used this power to keep scraps of life alive amid ruin. Here, it could be more. A way to heal, to build, to belong.
Behind me, the door creaked open. Feng Lian's voice broke the quiet.
"Can't sleep?"
I turned, startled, then smiled. "Just thinking."
He stepped beside me, gaze tracing the moonlit valley. "You think too much."
"Someone has to," I said, half teasing.
He huffed a quiet laugh—rare and warm. "Then think of this instead: tomorrow, we'll go to the lower stream. The herbs there glow under moonlight. The children will like it."
"Then we'll go," I said softly.
He nodded and started back, but paused halfway. "Liang Yu."
"Yes?"
He looked at me over his shoulder. "Whatever world you came from… I'm glad you ended up in mine."
Then he left, door closing gently behind him.
The night felt larger, brighter somehow. I tilted my head to the sky, whispering to the twin moons above.
Maybe fate wasn't a chain after all.
Maybe it was a seed—waiting for the right soil.
And here, beside this quiet man and two sleeping children, I could finally let mine grow.