Dawn's first light leaked through the cracks of Lung Phu Pha's bamboo hut—thin, golden threads—when Tan Kai jolted awake. The straw mat pricked his forearms, rough as dried grass. Above his chest, the golden lotus glowed soft, dimmed like a candle left burning all night—like it had sat guard while he slept.
Outside, bamboo leaves rustled. Damp, earthy air slipped in through the slats. A rooster crowed, loud and shrill, cutting through the quiet. Yara Yu stirred beside him, yawning so wide her jaw clicked. Her braid—tied with Li Na's old blue ribbon, frayed at the ends—slipped off her shoulder. "My back's stiff as a dried bamboo pole," she muttered. Then she froze. Her ears perked up, like she'd heard something.
From outside, the old man's voice rumbled, sharp with hurry: "Hurry up—Tong's men wake early, too."
They ate fast. Tan Kai grabbed a sweet potato from the clay stove—still steaming, skin crackling—and bit down. The flesh oozed hot, sticky sweetness, and steam singed his tongue. He hissed, fanning his mouth. Lung Phu Pha slammed a chipped ceramic bowl in front of him. Mint tea sloshed over the edge, bright green. Tan Kai sipped it—stung like fire, searing down his throat to his chest. "Keeps forest chills away," the old man grunted, shoving a cloth pouch into Tan Kai hand.
Inside the pouch: dried mango slices—chewy, sun-sweet, the same kind Li Na had packed for their trip to the orchard last summer—and brown herbs that reeked of pine and bitter lemon. "Rub herbs on your sleeves if vines move," the old man said, wiping sweet potato gunk on his tunic. "They hate it—snarl like angry dogs. Red-eyed monkeys? Run. Tong's trained 'em to drag folks into net traps. Don't stop to look."
Tan Kai tucked the pouch tight against his belt. His fingers brushed the frayed cuff of his shirt—Li Na had mended it once, with thread she dyed indigo. "We'll bring her back."
Lung Phu Pha waved, turning to stoke the stove. Flames flared, orange light bouncing off his lined face. "Go. Before the sun wakes the vine snakes."
An hour later, the Ironwood Forest hit them like a wall. Trees towered, trunks thick as temple pillars, bark ridged like old armor. Leaves wove a canopy so thick, sunlight filtered down in thin green streaks—like someone had spilled paint across the dirt. Vines dangled from branches, thick as ropes; some had leaves that shimmered, iridescent, when the light hit. A blue-furred monkey darted across the path. It paused, black eyes wide, staring at them. Then it vanished into the bushes.
"Sky monkeys—harmless," Yara Yu whispered. But her hand fluttered to the knife at her belt—old, dented, but sharp.
The golden lotus hovered in Tan Kai palm, warm as a handful of sun. Then it flickered. Dimmed. Shrank to a tiny pinprick of gold.
"Down!" Yara Yu hissed. She yanked him hard, so his shoulder banged against the dirt. They crashed behind a root—thick as a bed, covered in moss that squelched under his hands. Her palm clapped over his mouth, rough and cold.
He heard it. Boots crunching dry leaves, loud and heavy. Gruff voices, muttering. The clink of metal—knife against belt, net against crossbow.
He peeked, slow, through the moss. Five men. Black coats. Silver scorpions stitched into the sleeves—Tong's men. One had a scar slicing his left eyebrow. He carried a knife, blade crusted with brown. Another slung a hooked net over his shoulder, the webbing tight with barbs.
"Boss says the boy's got the lotus," the scarred man spat, kicking a stone. "Grab it, and we're set. No more traipsing through this muck."
Yara Yu fingers dug into his arm. Hard. He winced. The men walked past—so close, Tan Kai could smell smoke on their coats, stale rice on their breath. A bird squawked, loud, from above. The scarred man cursed. "Move! That's the sky monkeys—they lead folks right to us."
They ran toward the noise. Their voices faded, swallowed by the forest.
Tan Kai exhaled, shaky. The golden lotus flared bright again, warm light spreading up his arm. "They want it. Want us dead."
Yara Yu nodded. Her face was pale, under the green light. "Tong's after Master Tai Chu—Li Na said he'd burn the whole forest to get it. But how do we find the hermit? This place is endless."
She was right. The dirt path they'd followed was gone—swallowed by grass that tickled their calves, ferns that brushed their knees. Birds trilled, high and clear. A stream gurgled somewhere far off, but they couldn't tell which way. Tan Kai stared at the lotus, its light pulsing. Then he heard a rustle. Soft. Deliberate.
A fox stepped out. Not big—small, like a fluff of sunset. Orange fur, matted a little at the neck. Eyes: amber, glowing, like they held tiny flames. It stood on its hind legs, sniffing the air. Then it walked toward him—slow, no fear. It stopped, not a foot away, and fixed its eyes on the golden lotus.
Tan Kai hand shook. He reached into the pouch, pulled out a mango slice. Sticky, sweet. He held it out, voice quiet: "I won't hurt you."
The fox tilted its head. Then it leaned in, took the slice gently between its teeth. Crunched once. Chirped—soft, like a baby bird. Then it nuzzled his palm, warm and damp.
"Spirit fox," Yara Yu breathed. Her voice was quiet, awe-struck. "Li Na said they guide folks who don't mean harm. Know every path in the woods."
The fox turned. Took three steps. Then it looked back, chirping again—urgent, like it was saying hurry.
Tan Kai stood. Brushed moss off his knees. "It wants us to follow."
They ran after it. The fox was fast, but it never outran them—pausing every few yards to sit and wait, tail flicking. It led them around a patch of moving vines: green, thick, leaves curling like fists. Tan Kai fumbled with the pouch, rubbed the herbs on his sleeves. The vines hissed—loud, angry—and shrank back, coiling into the branches.
They passed a stream. Silver otters sat on the banks, fur glinting like metal. One slapped its tail on the water, rippling the surface. Then they dove under, gone.
The air cooled. Got darker. The canopy grew thicker, until only the lotus's light lit their way. Then Tan Kai heard it—waterfall. Loud, steady, like a drumbeat.
The fox sprinted. Tan Kai and Yara Yu chased, boots slipping on wet leaves. Their breaths came in gasps. Then they rounded a bend—and stopped.
The cave.
Carved into a hill of obsidian stone, dark and shiny. Tall enough for three men to stand side by side. The edges lined with chiseled lotus flowers—petals sharp as blades, detailed so fine you could see the veins. Above it, a waterfall spilled white, crashing into a pool below. Mist flew up, cool on Tan Kai cheeks. Thousands of lotus petals swirled around the entrance—pink, white, gold—floating like snow, never touching the ground.
The fox chirped once. Then it darted into the underbrush, gone.
Tan Kai heart raced. The golden lotus glowed so bright, it hurt his eyes. Inside the cave, something hummed—soft, old, powerful. It vibrated in his bones, like the forest's own heartbeat.
"This is it," Yara Yu whispered. Her voice trembled a little.
Tan Kai took her hand. It was cold, but she squeezed tight. "Ready?"
"Together."
They stepped forward. The waterfall's roar drowned out their breaths. Petals swirled around them, brushing their cheeks, their arms—light, soft. The golden lotus led the way, glowing bright, straight into the cave's dark, humming depths.
Where the hermit waited.
Where Li Na's chance waited.