The mango grove thinned as Tan Kai walked north, each step sending a dull ache up his bare calves—his feet, calloused from weeks on the road, still smarted where sharp pebbles had nicked the skin and dry earth had rubbed raw. The sun dipped lower, bleeding from gold to a deep, honeyed orange that spilled across the sky, streaking the clouds in swathes of peach and pale lavender, like someone had upended a jug of mango nectar and crushed guava juice over the heavens. Below, fallen mango husks crunched softly under his heels, their sweet, fermented scent mixing with the sharp green of unripe fruit still clinging to gnarled boughs. A breeze stirred, carrying the last of the day's warmth and rustling the mango leaves into a quiet murmur, as if the trees themselves were whispering him onward.
His bare feet throbbed, but the memory of sticky rice wrapped in a banana leaf lingered, a faint comfort. He'd eaten half an hour ago, perched on a twisted mango root, peeling back the waxy green leaf to reveal glistening white grains. The rice had been soft, almost creamy, saturated with coconut milk that left a sweet, rich film on his tongue—so different from the bitter wild tubers he'd been scraping up from forest floors for days. He'd folded the leaf closed again, tucking the remaining rice against his chest, where the leaf's coolness seeped through his thin cotton shirt, a small, tangible promise of sustenance later. Even now, he could taste it: coconut's tropical sweetness, a hint of palm sugar, the subtle earthiness of the rice clinging to his molars.
The ivory lotus pendant around his neck had stayed cold all afternoon, a smooth, unyielding weight pressing against his collarbone—like a shard of frozen moonlight, polished soft by years of his touch. He'd worn it since he was seven, when his mother had pressed it into his palm with a kiss that tasted of jasmine, saying only, "Keep it close. It will guide you." He'd never understood what she meant, not until today. Not until the veiled woman had found him, her face hidden behind a layer of sheer white cloth that fluttered in the wind, and said, "The Sacred Lotus wakes. Soon, you'll know."
It was when he passed a cluster of bamboo that the pendant shifted.
First, a rustle—soft at first, then louder, as bamboo leaves brushed against each other and thin stalks swayed in the wind. But Tan Kai froze, every muscle tensing, because it wasn't just the wind. There was a heavier sound: boots crunching on dry leaves, voices low and gruff, carrying through the quiet of the woods. His hand flew to the pendant, fingers curling around its cool surface, as fear coiled tight in his stomach—cold and sharp, like a snake coiling to strike. He'd thought the Black Scorpions wouldn't chase him, not after the veiled woman had stepped between them, her hands glowing faintly as Scar Kun's arm burst into flame, the stench of burning cloth and skin hanging in the air. But fear didn't listen to reason. It just clung, thick and sour, in the back of his throat.
He ducked behind a thick bamboo stalk, its surface rough with ridges, and pressed his face against it, breathing in the sharp, grassy scent of the wood. Through gaps between the stalks, he saw them: two men, their shirts loud with clashing floral prints—red blooms on dark green, yellow on brown. Machetes hung from their belts, metal blades glinting dully in the fading light, sheaths scuffed and stained with dirt and what looked like dried blood. They walked slowly, shoulders slouched, talking loud enough for Tan Kai to hear every word, their voices rough with fatigue and irritation.
"Boss said we shouldn't go after the kid—said her magic was weird," the first man said, kicking a stone. It skittered across the ground, bouncing off a bamboo root, and Tan Kai flinched, his breath catching. His voice was sharp, edged with resentment, like he hated taking orders.
The second man grunted, spitting a glob of brown onto the dirt. His hair was matted, and a scar sliced across his jawline, pale against his dark skin. "Good. That kid's not worth getting burned for. Let him die in the woods. Scar Kun's arm's still blistering—ain't no healer in the villages that can fix that. Not after her magic." He said "her" like it left a bad taste, his lip curling into a snarl.
Tan Kai held his breath until his lungs ached, heart thudding so hard he was sure the men would hear it. He didn't move—not even when a mosquito landed on his cheek, tiny legs tickling his skin. He waited, counting heartbeats, until their voices faded, until the crunch of boots dissolved into the wind, until all he could hear was his own ragged breathing and bamboo leaves rustling above.
Only then did he exhale, a shaky breath that made his shoulders slump. He looked down at the pendant in his hand, and for a split second, he swore he felt it warm—just a tiny, faint heat, like holding a cup of lukewarm ginger tea, the kind his mother used to make when he had a fever. It wasn't hot enough to burn, but enough to notice, enough to make him pause. He rubbed it with his thumb, tracing the curves of the carved lotus petals, edges smooth from years of his touch. The heat lingered, soft and steady, seeping into his palm.
"Mom… was this you?" he whispered, voice so quiet the wind swallowed it. No answer, of course. She'd been gone three years, vanished one night without a note save a crumpled piece of paper that said, "I'm sorry." But the tingle didn't go away—not fully. It stayed, a faint buzz under his skin, like a promise.
He slipped the pendant back over his head, letting it fall against his chest, and kept walking. The land grew rockier now, dirt giving way to chunks of ash brown stone—some smooth from rain, others sharp and jagged, ready to slice his feet. The scent of jasmine, which had clung to him from the last village, faded slowly, replaced by sharp, earthy damp stone and moss—fresh, like after rain, even though the sky had been clear all day. Every step was slower, feet careful to avoid the sharpest rocks, legs growing heavier with each minute, as if the day's fear and walking had settled into his bones.
Then he saw it: the old temple, half-hidden behind a wall of thick, twisting vines. The vines were lush green, dotted with small purple flowers that smelled faintly of honey. They covered most of the temple's outer walls—dark stone, weathered and cracked with age, chunks missing in places. The roof was broken, tiles gone to reveal dark wooden beams, some rotted through, others hanging precariously. Wooden doors hung off their hinges, one leaning against the wall, the other swinging slightly in the wind, creaking like an old man's joints. But it looked empty—quiet, still, safe.
Tan Kai approached slowly, pushing a vine out of the way with his hand. Its leaves were soft as velvet, and a purple flower fell into his palm; he crushed it gently, breathing in its sweet scent before letting it drift to the ground. Inside the temple, sunlight filtered through the broken roof in thin, golden beams, and dust motes danced in the light—tiny, swirling, like bits of starlight caught in air. The air was cool, cooler than outside, and smelled of old wood, dry leaves, and a faint hint of incense, like someone had prayed here long ago, their devotion lingering in the stones.
In the center, a stone altar stood square and solid, surface covered in a thick layer of fallen leaves—brown and brittle from last autumn, a few fresh green ones blown in through the roof. To the sides, a handful of wooden benches leaned against walls, surfaces scarred and worn, legs uneven. One had a splintered seat, another's backrest cracked, but they looked sturdy enough to hold him.
Tan Kai walked to the altar, steps quiet on the stone floor, and set the remaining sticky rice on a clean spot—brushing away dry leaves first, as if the rice deserved care. He ran his fingers over the altar's surface, feeling rough stone under his skin, faint indentations of carvings worn away by time. He couldn't tell what they'd been—maybe flowers, maybe gods—but they felt like a reminder of people who'd been here before, people who'd prayed, who'd hoped, just like him.
He turned and sat on a bench, leaning back against the wall. His legs felt like lead, heavy and aching, and his eyes started to droop—exhaustion pulling at him, a soft hand tugging him toward sleep. He'd walked for days, sleeping in ditches and under trees, always looking over his shoulder, always scared. Now, in the temple's quiet, with wind rustling vines outside, he felt his body relax, shoulders dropping, eyes growing heavy.
But before he could fall asleep, the pendant warmed again.
This time, it was stronger. Not hot—just a gentle heat that spread from his chest to his hands, seeping through his shirt, tingling in his fingertips. It was like sitting by a small fire, warmth wrapping around him, comforting not burning. He sat up straight, eyes wide, staring down at the pendant. Through his shirt, he could see it faintly: the carved lotus glowed, a soft golden light so faint he almost thought it was a trick of sunlight.
He pulled the pendant out, holding it up to the light. The ivory was smooth, lotus petals carved with tiny, perfect details—each curved just right, each vein etched so finely it was almost invisible. In the lotus's center, a faint golden glow pulsed, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.
What is this? he wondered, thumb brushing the glowing center. The village elders had said his mother was a fairy, back when he was small, sitting in dirt outside the elder's hut. "She's no ordinary woman," Old Man Li had said, smoking his pipe, smoke curling around his face. "Her eyes—they shine, like she's got stars in them. She's a fairy, Tan Kai. A spirit of the woods." He'd never believed it—not really. Fairies didn't leave kids to starve, didn't vanish, didn't let husbands become monks and leave their son alone. Fairies were in stories, not in hunger and fear.
But the veiled woman—her magic, the way she'd known his name, the way she'd known about his mother. The pendant's heat, its glow. The way it had felt like his mother's hand, gentle and warm, after the men left.
Maybe the stories were true.
Tan Kai pulled the pendant off, holding it in his palm. It was small—thumb-sized—light but solid. He'd rubbed those petals a thousand times: when he was scared (the night he heard wolves howling outside his hut), when he was hungry (the week he ate only wild berries), when he was lonely (every night, curling up under his thin blanket, wishing his mother was there). But he'd never felt it warm. Never seen it glow.
"Is this… part of you?" he asked, voice soft, afraid to break the quiet. "The 'Sacred Lotus' thing? Whatever that is?" The veiled woman had said it, low and serious: "The Sacred Lotus wakes. It will show you the way." He didn't know where the way led, but he wanted to. He wanted to know why his mother left, why she gave him the pendant, why the Black Scorpions chased him.
The heat faded slowly, glow dimming until it was gone, leaving only cool ivory. Tan Kai sighed, soft and disappointed, and put it back around his neck. No answers—not yet. But the veiled woman had said "soon." Maybe soon, he'd understand. Maybe soon, he'd find his mother. Maybe soon, he'd stop running.
He lay down on the bench, pulling his tattered jacket over himself. The jacket was gray, cuffs frayed, elbows patched with blue fabric from his father's old shirt. It wasn't much, but it kept the wind off, and it smelled like home—father's pipe smoke, mother's jasmine soap. He curled up, knees drawn to his chest, and listened: wind rustling vines, distant owl hooting low and long, wooden door creaking in the breeze.
For the first time in days, he didn't feel like he was waiting to die. He felt like he was waiting for something good—something that would make the running, the hunger, the fear worth it. Something that would bring him home.
He closed his eyes, coconut rice still sweet on his tongue, pendant cold against his chest—cold, but not unkind. Tonight, he'd fall asleep quickly, no fear, no worry. Tonight, he'd dream of mango groves and warm ginger tea, of his mother's smile and the glow of the Sacred Lotus.