After what happened in the sea of Starlit Dewflowers, Arl returned home.

  She asked a familiar guard to pass a message to the Godmother at the temple—only that she wished to meet, and that she hoped the elder could spare some time. She offered no explanation, and made no mention of what had occurred that night.

  After that, life resumed its usual rhythm.

  Arl organized her tools and headed for the tribe’s notice board, where requests for assistance were posted each day. Wooden plaques bore names—sometimes of households, sometimes unfamiliar marks.

  When someone required her abilities, a guard would lead her to the location. She would listen, complete the work, and receive her compensation. The process was one she knew well.

  Everything appeared unchanged.

  And yet, she knew—something had shifted.

  After carrying her one hundred and eighth bundle of dried grass into a temporary shed on the clearing, an unexpected voice called out from behind her.

  “Arl—big sister! I’m here!”

  Too familiar.

  Familiar enough to make her hesitate before turning around.

  She finished straightening the disordered hay, stacking it neatly, then turned to see K’er standing there, beaming as ever.

  “…Why is it you?” Arl sighed. “Is your training with the witch doctors finished?”

  “The first phase is!” K’er replied brightly. “The second still needs preparation, but I haven’t been slacking. I’ve been studying sacred script properly—I won’t disappoint you, sister.”

  As she spoke, she naturally reached out to hook her arm around Arl’s.

  Arl stepped aside—not forcefully, but just enough.

  “Sorry. I’m not used to that.”

  K’er didn’t retreat. If anything, her smile grew more energetic.

  “It’s fine! You’re just not used to it, not that you dislike it. When you’re in a better mood and want to practice this kind of contact, just come find me.”

  She winked.

  “I’d be happy to be your practice partner.”

  Then she added, more casually,

  “You left a message for the Godmother. She agreed to see you. This is what she said.”

  Come at sunset.

  Bring with you the question that’s stuck in your heart.

  The answer isn’t in books, nor in others’ words.

  But—if you don’t understand the language, you will miss it.

  “I understand,” Arl said, nodding calmly.

  “Thank you for coming all this way to tell me.”

  She adjusted the homemade grass frame onto her shoulders, the strap settling against an old injury, then turned to leave.

  “Wait—sister! This wooden token is for you. The Godmother said it’ll keep the guards from searching you. And this potion.”

  K’er hurried forward, pulling a wooden plaque and a small ceramic jar from inside her clothing. The jar’s surface was rough, its seal bound with dried grass cord.

  “This is the potion you previously commissioned us to attempt—for suppressing the miasma of the Kadanqiu Forest,” she said quietly. “It only suppresses it for now. The effect isn’t stable yet… It still needs field testing.”

  Her fingers lingered on the jar.

  “If possible… I want to go with you,” she said, looking up, concern clear in her eyes. “If something goes wrong, at least I could help.”

  Arl didn’t take it right away.

  “K’er,” she said gently but firmly, “witch doctors may not leave the tribe without the shaman’s permission. And you haven’t been recognized as independent yet.”

  She took the jar and placed it in her pack.

  She understood K’er’s kindness—and precisely because of that, she refused to let anyone bear risk for her choices.

  K’er’s shoulders drooped, like a branch bent briefly by weight.

  Then she straightened again, stubborn light returning to her voice.

  “Just wait for me, sister. I’ll become a witch doctor who’s truly useful.”

  She inhaled, as if settling a decision deep within herself.

  “When that day comes, I’ll leave the tribe with you. I want to see the places that haven’t been named yet.”

  Arl fell silent.

  For the first time, she wanted to dissuade someone.

  “…That path may take away the life you have now,” she said quietly.

  “What I have—standing here, speaking to you—was never guaranteed.”

  “Every time I survive, I treat it as borrowed time.”

  She exhaled softly.

  “So what you have now—stable days, familiar work, space to fail and try again—that alone is precious.”

  She finally looked back at K’er.

  “Don’t gamble your daily life on gratitude. Or on momentary longing.”

  “That exchange isn’t worth it.”

  Her voice was light, as if afraid the words would leave marks in the air.

  “And besides,” she added softly,

  “as my personal witch doctor, you know better than anyone how much this body has paid.”

  She gave a faint, self-mocking smile.

  “It hurts.”

  K’er didn’t retreat.

  “Without that night—without those hands—I wouldn’t have any of this,” she said calmly.

  “This wasn’t an impulsive decision. I thought about it again and again, through countless nights.”

  “Maybe one day I’ll regret it.”

  “But standing here, watching you walk this path—I learned something.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  She took a breath.

  “To hell with it.”

  “This is how I want to live. And I’ll accept the consequences.”

  “So no one can talk me out of it.”

  “Not even you.”

  Arl said nothing.

  She tightened the strap on her shoulder and turned away.

  No farewell. No looking back.

  K’er watched her go.

  She knew—it wasn’t rejection.

  It was consent.

  ——

  Arl returned home with the supplies she had earned.

  When she pushed open the door, the house was quiet.

  The little one lay curled on the mat, eyes closed, breathing steady, as if resting rather than sleeping. Light slipped through the window and settled neatly along its back.

  …Could it still be called “little”?

  Arl paused, watching it for a moment. It felt as though only a night had passed, and yet it already seemed slightly larger—its outline clearer, more defined.

  She thought of the night before.

  She had assumed that whatever bond existed between them would end there.

  The fact that it could move so freely—leading her across the forest—was proof enough that its injury had healed completely.

  Instead, it was she who had been left behind with a question.

  How was she supposed to return?

  If she retraced her steps, she would have to cross the bridge. Guards would certainly be stationed there.

  If they asked how she had left the tribe, she wouldn’t be able to give a coherent answer.

  Those paths were not paths she knew.

  As she considered this, the little one stirred.

  As if already satisfied, it stood, walked over, and gently caught the cloth tied around her ankle in its mouth. Its tail swayed lightly.

  Arl still didn’t understand why it had led her there.

  When she opened her door that night, it could have left.

  It didn’t need to wait. It didn’t need to look back.

  But it hadn’t.

  Instead, it had brought her all the way to that place—to show her that sight.

  Perhaps the only one who found it unbelievable… was her.

  To the little one, everything seemed familiar. Routine.

  Its steps had been unhurried. Its timing precise.

  As if it knew exactly when such things were meant to happen.

  That fruit—

  Could it have been its true food all along?

  If so, why had she never noticed it before, despite coming here in the past?

  Or was it that her attention had always been fixed on the value of the Starlit Dewflowers—blinding her to everything else?

  Those unseen paths—

  Had they always been there, waiting for someone to walk closer?

  The thoughts surfaced one after another, then quietly dissolved.

  Without realizing it, Arl found herself staring down at the little one by her feet, lost in thought.

  The wind reached her first.

  Not a sudden gust, but the faint rustle of leaves stirred high in the canopy—like someone gently brushing branches in the distance.

  The sound pulled her back.

  She looked down at the little one still standing beside her, crouched, and rested her hand lightly on its head.

  “I brought you back because you were injured,” she said calmly, as if stating a settled fact.

  “That you recovered so quickly… honestly, I’m relieved. And also wondering if I worried for nothing.”

  She smiled faintly and continued.

  “But either way, you’re doing well now.”

  “I should head back. Thank you for bringing me there—

  or maybe you just wanted to share something tasty.”

  She didn’t wait for a response.

  “I don’t really understand what you meant,” she said softly.

  “But thank you anyway.”

  “If not for you, I wouldn’t have seen something like that.”

  She lifted her gaze toward the softly glowing ground beyond the trees.

  “Stars on the earth… were beautiful.”

  With that, she stood and began to search for the direction she had come from.

  In her hurried run, she had left a few markings along the way.

  They were probably faint by now—but perhaps enough to guide her back.

  She was about to step forward.

  The little one moved first.

  It walked ahead of her, stopped, and looked back.

  No urging. No sound.

  Just standing there—waiting to see if she truly saw it.

  Then it turned and headed in another direction.

  After two steps, it stopped again.

  Looked back.

  The gaze wasn’t a command. Nor a plea.

  It felt more like a simple statement—

  If you’re going, then go together.

  Arl frowned slightly.

  “You’re coming back with me?” she asked quietly.

  “This place… isn’t it yours?”

  The little one tilted its head. Its tail swayed.

  It showed no intention of leaving.

  She didn’t understand.

  Not immediately.

  But after a brief hesitation, she adjusted the weight on her back and stepped forward.

  Following.

  After walking a while, Arl noticed the shift.

  The scent in the forest changed.

  No longer just resin and damp soil—

  the wind carried a familiar coolness.

  Water.

  She stopped and listened.

  From afar came a continuous, gentle sound—not wind, not movement—but water sliding over stone.

  That river.

  The place where she usually fished.

  She looked down at the path beneath her feet.

  It wasn’t a clearly carved trail, but a weave of countless narrow passages threading between massive trees. Branches hung low. Grass stood intact. No sign of repeated footsteps.

  This wasn’t a path meant for people.

  The little one walked ahead at an easy pace, sometimes circling fallen logs, sometimes slipping through gaps she’d never noticed before.

  It didn’t turn to check if she was still following—

  but whenever she slowed, it stopped at just the right moment.

  Walking behind it, Arl felt something stir.

  So this place she lived in—

  Had always held paths like this.

  Her thoughts gradually drifted away from the night before, returning to the present.

  If she could determine the little one’s true nature, perhaps she could ask it to guide her again in daylight—to walk that path once more.

  If she could confirm it with her own eyes and record the route, it might prove useful someday.

  She picked up her tools and stepped outside, tending to the garden.

  Usable herbs and flowers were harvested, separated, and set out to dry. Once the moisture faded, she ground and mixed them, sealing the results into several ceramic jars.

  Simple wound salves—finished.

  With an outing approaching, she packed all the jars into her usual bag.

  The Starlit Dewflowers gathered the night before were sorted as well, ready to be entrusted to the witch doctors to refine into a salve meant for mechanical injuries.

  Originally, she hadn’t planned this.

  Her earlier investigations had revealed no sign of machinery within the Kadanqiu Forest.

  But she had always prepared one step ahead.

  Peace of mind was never something she had too much of.

  Time passed quietly in work.

  When she finally looked up, the sky had changed color.

  The little one awoke then, stepping out from the house.

  Arl sat beneath the eaves, gazing at the garden until she felt warmth settle beside her.

  She turned.

  “You’re awake,” she said softly.

  The little one’s tail swayed in response.

  “We’re going somewhere today,” she said calmly.

  “I want to see Grandma—to ask about you. Are you willing?”

  She reached out, resting her hand on its head.

  She had seen villagers comfort their dogs this way, and found herself copying the motion, fingertips sliding gently through fur.

  After a moment, the little one suddenly stood and leaned close to her face.

  The next instant—

  Warm tongue.

  “W-wait—!”

  She leaned back instinctively, but not fast enough. Several enthusiastic licks landed before she could react.

  She froze—then laughed despite herself.

  She pushed its muzzle away without truly driving it off.

  It was the first time she lifted it into her arms, settling it on her lap.

  The little one curled against her, sitting quietly.

  She didn’t move.

  She let the stillness settle, sharing the rare pause together.

  Night approached.

  Before the massive stone doors of the Anda Temple stood a figure draped in a long cloak.

  Arl.

  She placed the little one into a cloth sling at her side, tightened the cloak to conceal its shape, then took out a wooden token.

  A keepsake personally given by the Godmother—bound with feathers and cord, its edges worn smooth by time.

  She presented it to the guard at the entrance.

  One glance was enough. The guard bowed and stepped aside.

  She was led into the temple.

  The corridor was deep, stone walls carved with ancient patterns. She followed until she was asked to wait outside the shaman’s prayer chamber.

  Not long after, she was permitted to enter.

  This was the place where she had first spoken to Grandma.

  The Godmother stood there still, back turned.

  Her posture straight and steady, clothed in the regalia of the Anda tribe’s highest shaman, crowned with feathers and bone. Head lowered, eyes closed, she prayed before the great stone that bore divine revelation.

  Firelight flickered. The air smelled of herbs and ash.

  Arl said nothing. She waited.

  “You entered with more than one set of footsteps.”

  The words were calm—but Arl’s chest tightened instantly.

  She had been careful.

  No one should have noticed what was hidden in the sling—

  the creature that looked like a cub, yet nothing like an ordinary animal.

  She hadn’t even had time to respond when the sling moved.

  In the next instant, the little one leapt out, landing soundlessly on the stone floor.

  It ran straight to the praying Godmother, stopped beside her, looked up at her back, tail swaying.

  Arl froze.

  She stepped forward instinctively—but too late.

  That wasn’t a movement she could stop.

  The little one’s choices had never been under her control.

  Her fingers curled, frustration and unease rising together.

  Then the prayer ended.

  The Godmother opened her eyes and turned.

  She didn’t look at Arl at first.

  Instead, she bent down and lifted the little one into her arms—smoothly, naturally—like picking up a child who wandered too far.

  The little one didn’t resist. It settled in her embrace, tail still swaying.

  Only then did it look up—meeting Arl’s clearly flustered expression.

  The Godmother smiled.

  Not the smile of a shaman.

  But the unmistakable smile of an elder.

  “Don’t look at me like that, child,” she said gently.

  “I’m not here to judge you. And I’m not taking anything away.”

  She patted the little one softly, lowering her voice.

  “The fact that you could bring it here means you’ve already done well.”