That night, while the village slept beneath a veil of soft moonlight, Huo Feng sat quietly beside little Shu Shu's bed, her thoughts drifting far beyond the small room. The child had fallen into a gentle sleep, clinging to an old wooden doll worn smooth from years of love. Around her tiny wrist lay a thin thread of shimmering blue silk, glowing faintly in the dark—pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm, almost as though it breathed with her.
Curiosity tugged at Huo Feng. She reached out, her fingers brushing the thread with the lightest touch. In that instant, a strange warmth spread through her chest, and a memory—distant yet vividly alive—unfolded inside her mind. She saw a young dancer twirling beneath lanterns in the Flower House, laughter swirling like music in the air. She saw her own hand—Huo Feng's hand—tying that same blue thread around the dancer's wrist. And she heard herself whisper softly:
"This thread is my gift to you… a charm to keep darkness away from your heart."
Her breath hitched. She pulled her hand back abruptly, eyes widening as realization crashed over her.
"This… this is my thread! I gave it to that dancer—only days ago!"
But the heavens did not abide by the laws of earthly time. What felt like days to her had stretched into generations here. The dancer's descendants had passed the thread from mother to daughter, year after year… until it found its way to little Shu Shu.
As Huo Feng leaned closer, another sight froze her in place. A thin ribbon of black smoke rose slowly from the child's chest—heavy, venomous, suffocating. It was hatred, raw and unformed. Yet with every soft breath Shu Shu exhaled, the blue thread shimmered with renewed light. The darkness recoiled, faded, then dissolved entirely before slipping beneath the pillow and vanishing.
Only then did Huo Feng truly understand.
Had the thread not been there, the black seed of hatred would have manifested beneath the pillow—exposing the child's hidden truth, staining her innocence, and marking her forever in this pure white village.
Huo Feng stared at the sleeping girl, torn by a storm she could not quiet. Her hands clenched.
Should I take it? If I steal the thread, her truth will be revealed… but isn't that the purpose of the trial? Yet if I leave it, am I not lying to the test itself?
Her lips trembled. Her hand hovered uncertainly over the thread.
"If I take it… I'll be the cause of her pain. But if I don't… I'll be betraying the truth."
She bit her lip, confusion clouding her eyes—like a lost child standing helplessly at a crossroads.
Then the vision struck.
Before her appeared Shu Shu again, no longer sleeping but standing in a vast field of black flowers. Their petals curled inward, whispering ominously as they closed around her small frame. Yet the child's expression held no fear—only a strange calm, perhaps even a faint, resolute smile.
The sight pierced Huo Feng's heart—until a sharp, silent gaze shattered the illusion.
She turned sharply.
Wu Xin stood at the window, wrapped in shadow. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes alone carried the command:
Follow me.
Without a word, he rose into the night sky. Huo Feng spread her wings of light and followed, the air shimmering around her as they ascended. They soared above the sleeping village, its rooftops glimmering like scattered pearls beneath the misty moon, until Wu Xin descended toward another small house—its garden pure white, softly glowing as though cradled by the night.
From inside came the gentle murmurs of sleeping children.
Wu Xin's calm, steady voice broke the silence:
"Look closely, Huo Feng. Here lies the answer you're searching for."
Huo Feng stepped closer and peered through the wooden frame. Inside, a weary woman lay asleep, surrounded by several children—orphans, judging by their patched clothes and the way they clung to her even in sleep. She held them close, protecting them with the tender instinct of a mother bird shielding her nest.
Huo Feng's gaze softened—until she noticed it. A faint gray seed pulsed beneath the woman's pillow.
Her breath caught. Before she could speak, the children stirred.
Awakening silently, as if summoned by a voice only they could hear, they slipped from their beds and gathered around their sleeping mother. The eldest reached beneath her pillow and drew the seed into trembling hands. The others formed a tight circle around it, eyes shining with fear, love, and desperate hope.
Then, with voices as fragile as breath, they whispered their prayer:
"Dear Lord of the Earth… please don't shame her. She steals for us—not for herself. Let her seed be white, as we see her with our hearts. For her love… make it pure."
Their voices shook, but the light that drifted from their lips was soft and unwavering. Before their eyes, the gray seed shuddered, cracked open… and from within bloomed a gentle, pure white glow. It washed over the room like warm dawn light. The seed turned radiant—spotless—cleansed entirely by the children's love.
When morning came, the woman awoke to find the gleaming seed resting in her hands. Tears slipped down her cheeks, falling like dew. For the first time in years, she smiled without guilt.
She never knew what her children had done.
Outside, Huo Feng stood frozen, overwhelmed by the quiet miracle she had witnessed. Her voice trembled as she whispered:
"So… it's not only actions that take root… but also the hearts that love us."
Wu Xin, who had remained silent until then, finally spoke—his tone carrying both gravity and gentle warmth:
"Now you see. Purity is not born from perfection… but from compassion. Even sin, when wrapped in love, may bloom white."