A Bond Buried, A Love Remembered

[Han Zeyin — The Healer of the Gods]

Long before war carved its cruel lines between the Long and Qin Clans, before betrayal split once-loyal hearts, there lived a man whispered to be blessed by the heavens themselves—Han Zeyin, known far and wide as the Healer of the Gods.

Born beneath a blood moon and raised among mountain herbs and ancient scrolls, Han Zeyin devoted his life not to sword nor wealth, but to the rhythm of breath and pulse. It was said he could feel the ailment in a man's soul before his body even fell ill. His remedies were unlike any others—tinctures drawn from forgotten roots, salves that healed not just wounds but sorrow, and words so steady they could calm a fevered mind.

His fame spread not through palaces, but through the grateful whispers of those he saved.

He once saved an entire village from the brink of death—when torrential floods swept through the valley, bringing disease and despair in their wake, Han Zeyin arrived barefoot, cloak soaked in rain. W

With only a satchel of herbs and fire in his eyes, he stayed for twelve days and twelve nights, tending to every soul until none perished.

It was this act that earned him an audience with the Long Emperor, who called him brother, not servant. Han Zeyin became the royal medicine man—trusted advisor, herbalist, and soulkeeper to the King.

In those golden days, peace still tied the Long and Qin Courts together.

The healer was not only beloved by the Long throne, but also deeply respected by the Qin Emperor—Qin Fuhua's grandfather—a wise, noble sovereign who would often invite Zeyin for counsel and conversation.

Together, they shared cups of plum wine beneath magnolia trees, speaking not of power, but of balance, of destiny, and of the future of their grandsons.

But peace, like blossoms, is fleeting.

A whisper of jealousy, a hand laced with ambition—an attempt to poison the Long King.

Han Zeyin was framed.

They said it was in his tincture. That he had grown too close to the Qin. That his silence and knowledge were the most dangerous weapons of all.

The King's trust shattered.

In the dark of night, Zeyin was seized—but fate twisted in his favor. A last-minute revelation of innocence saved him from execution. Yet the betrayal had already carved its scar. Zeyin had seen the faces of those who doubted him. Who once kissed his hands in thanks and now cursed them as poison.

And so, he vanished.

Using the very art that made him infamous, he faked his death with a concoction known only to him—heart slowed, skin cooled, breath vanished. They buried him in a forest glade with honors, unaware that beneath the roots, he still lived.

The trauma left its mark not just on him—but on his son.

The trauma ran deep. So deep that when Han Zeyin's son came of age, he renounced medicine altogether, forbidding it in his household. The art that had once been sacred had become a symbol of ruin. He accepted a position as royal tutor, a role offered in repentance by the Long Emperor for the grievous mistake of condemning a loyal man.

And Han Zeyin?

He lived in quiet exile, tending to herbs in secret and watching history unfold from the shadows. But never once did he turn bitter. Not toward the Long Emperor, not toward the boy he had to leave behind. And certainly not toward the Qin King, who had mourned him deeply, and who, in their final conversation before the scandal, spoke often of his beloved grandson:

"That boy—Fuhua—he carries the weight of a kingdom in his eyes. One day, he'll need someone to remind him that strength is not in the sword, but in the heart."

Han Zeyin never forgot those words.

And when fate at last delivered a young woman into his hidden sanctuary—fevered, breathless, brave—he looked into her face and saw echoes of the past and hope for the future.

"There's no way I couldn't recognize you," he said, his voice trembling with wonder.

"The moment I saw you, I knew. You are Han Suyin—my granddaughter."

Qin Fuhua awoke to the low crackle of firewood and the scent of wild herbs clinging to the damp cave walls. The world around him was dimly lit, bathed in the flickering glow of amber flames. As he stirred, his eyes adjusted to the scene before him.

Suyin—awake.

Her face was pale but peaceful, framed by loose strands of her hair. She sat upright, arms tightly wrapped around the shoulders of a cloaked old man. The embrace between them was not of strangers but of souls reunited by time. There was grief in the way their hands trembled… and comfort in how neither let go.

Fuhua sat up straighter, watching in silence.

The old man finally pulled back, and with a warm, knowing smile, turned toward him.

"You must be Qin Fuhua."

Fuhua gave a quiet nod, unsure of who the man was, but already sensing something familiar in his presence.

"You've done well by her," the old man continued, placing a hand gently on Suyin's shoulder. "To protect her… to love her so fiercely. If your grandfather were here, he would be proud to see his grandson grown up and strong, unfaltered by a world that tries endlessly to trample him down."

The words landed like a drop in still water—rippling through memory.

Fuhua's breath caught.

That voice.

That phrase.

He remembered now—a man with warm eyes and a cloak that smelled of mountain roots, who once sat beside his grandfather beneath the pavilion, sipping tea while young Fuhua played with a wooden sword in the courtyard. The man who had knelt to his level and handed him a talisman made of pressed herbs, telling him to guard it when the world no longer made sense.

"Han Zeyin," Fuhua whispered, eyes widening with recognition.

The old man—Suyin's grandfather—smiled. "It has been many years, child."

Fuhua stood, bowing low and reverently. "You were my grandfather's dearest friend."

Han Zeyin gave a wistful nod. "And he was mine. He loved you more than he could ever say. He watched over you like the moon watches the tides, silently guiding."

He turned back to Suyin and reached for a small pouch. From it, he withdrew a delicate wooden box and opened it slowly. Inside were crushed petals—white, fragrant, ancient, no longer able to be used, but a memory that served as a memory of his dearest granddaughter (Han Suyin).

"This," he said softly, "is why she carries the scent of magnolias wherever she walks."

"Because when you were just a baby," Han Zeyin explained, "I gave you a rare medicine infused with the essence of a magnolia flower. Not just any flower—one that blooms once every five hundred years, high in the clouds where few dare climb. Infused with other medication and secret herbs, I made this to protect you"

He paused, fingers gently sifting through the dried petals.

"I brewed it into Magnolia tea. You drank only a drop… but that was enough. You see, I once trusted the wrong face. I was betrayed. Blamed. Condemned."

His voice grew quieter, the flames reflecting in his eyes.

"That tea gives you the ability to see through masks—of the heart, of the spirit. It reveals what lies beneath, even when others are blind."

Fuhua's eyes darted to Suyin.

So that was why she always sensed more than most. Why she could see past his silence, his armor, his doubts.

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As the fire crackled gently in the corner of the cave, the scent of roots and minerals steeped the air, mingling with the subtle fragrance of magnolia that always lingered around Suyin. She sat beneath a fur blanket, still weak but slowly recovering, while Qin Fuhua rested nearby, one arm protectively behind her.

Han Zeyin adjusted the steaming teapot over the flames and turned toward them with a keen, inquisitive look.

"What brought the two of you up into these hills?" he asked, his voice low and weathered, like bark that had endured many winters.

Qin Fuhua sat straighter, his expression growing serious. "We came in search of the Hong Teng vine." He glanced briefly at Suyin, then back at Han Zeyin. "Princess Chuhua… my younger sister… her health is deteriorating. Suyin has been doing all she can to ease her pain, but we needed something more. Something stronger. We believed the Hong Teng could cure her."

Han Zeyin's expression darkened at once. The lines on his face deepened, and he turned his gaze away, as though what he was about to say weighed heavier than stone.

"Then you came for something that is no longer there," he said slowly.

"You were not the first to seek it. Someone else reached it before you—someone reckless. And he took it all."

Qin Fuhua's brows furrowed. "Who?"

Zeyin met his eyes grimly. "A person I heard called, Old Man Wu."

Suyin's breath caught, the name sparking recognition.

"He was once an apprentice of mine… in name, not in spirit." Han Zeyin's voice turned colder, laced with regret. "He lacked discipline, but craved glory. He never understood the sacred balance between poison and remedy. I tried to warn him, but he was impatient. Foolish."

He stood slowly, walking toward a stone shelf where several ancient scrolls lay bound with twine.

"The Hong Teng is not just a medicinal vine—it is volatile. In its pure form, it is as poisonous as it is curative. It must be tempered through three phases of refining, using moonlight, mountain spring water, and a binding root."

He turned back to them, his gaze hard.

"If one does not know this… the vine turns on the user. And it drives them mad."

Suyin's lips parted. "You think… Old Man Wu poisoned someone?"

Zeyin gave a solemn nod. "Or perhaps himself. But either way, his taking of the last known Hong Teng has thrown the balance off. I have reason to believe he believed he could make himself powerful with it. That is what ambition looks like when left unchecked by wisdom."

Silence settled over the room like ash.

But then Zeyin stepped closer to Suyin and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Fortunately," he said, "there's still a chance."

He lifted the vine carefully and held it up.

"This is the 100-Year Hong Teng. It blooms once a century, and only in sacred soil under moonlight. It is said to heal what no other herb can reach—not just illness, but the root of decay itself."

Suyin stepped forward, breath caught in wonder.

"You'll teach me?" she asked.

Zeyin looked at her—his eyes crinkled, tired but bright.

"Of course. It's time you carried the legacy that was once denied your father."

He looked toward Qin Fuhua then, nodding solemnly.

Han Suyin was no longer simply the girl who had fallen into this world.

She was becoming the woman who would change it.

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The cave had become a chamber of reverence.

A silver basin rested atop a stone hearth, its base carved with runes too old to decipher. Flames licked the underside of the basin while a faint, golden mist rose with the bubbling water. Scents of aged bark, bitter roots, and florals curled into the air like whispered prayers.

Han Zeyin moved with silent precision—each motion deliberate, each placement exact—as though every leaf and drop carried the weight of generations.

Suyin sat across from him, sleeves rolled up, her eyes alert despite the strain still lingering in her limbs. Beside her, Qin Fuhua knelt, observing everything, his stillness betraying a quiet intensity.

Han Zeyin unfurled a scroll, its edges browned with age.

"To brew the Hong Teng," he began softly, "you must treat it not like a medicine, but like a creature—alive and potent. It resists. It tests you."

From a clay vessel, he drew forth the precious vine—coiled and gleaming a deep crimson, as though soaked in lifeblood. Under the firelight, it shimmered like living silk.

"Slice only with bone-handled knives," he instructed, passing one to Suyin. "Metal taints the core."

She nodded, carefully making the first incision. The vine released a bead of nectar that hissed as it met the flame—like a spirit resisting its own unraveling.

As the pieces were placed into the heated basin, Zeyin chanted softly in a tongue long-forgotten by the common world. Qin Fuhua listened carefully, committing each word to memory.

Then, after a long silence between chants, Zeyin suddenly murmured:

"There was someone else… just before dawn."

Suyin's hands froze over the basin. "Someone?"

Zeyin nodded, voice distant as he stared into the fire.

"A woman with white hair. I saw her silhouette lingering near the outer ridge. She moved like a shadow—too gracefully for someone unfamiliar with the hills."

Qin Fuhua's jaw tightened. Suyin's breath caught.

"ZhengAn," they both said in unison.

Zeyin turned to them. "She must have followed you—perhaps hoping to finish what she started. Or maybe… to watch you fail."

"Did you see where she went?" Fuhua asked sharply.

Zeyin shook his head. "By the time I reached the clearing, there was no one. Just the silence of wind and pine. She left no footprints… only the scent of burnt silk in the air."

The fire cracked loudly, as if the vine itself disapproved of her name.

Suyin exhaled slowly.

"Then we must be cautious. If she's still nearby…"

"We don't stop,"

Zeyin said firmly. "Let her spy if she wishes. But this,"—he gestured to the basin where the vine now dissolved into a rich, ruby elixir—"this is sacred. And it will save the Princess if done right."

As he poured the liquefied extract into a gourd carved with protective sigils, he handed it to Suyin.

"You must carry this back yourself. It cannot be jolted or frozen. Keep it warm against your body. Let your breath be the shield around it."

Suyin cupped the gourd with reverence.

"When the time comes to administer it," Zeyin added, voice low, "you must mix it with spring water and your own qi. Only one who loves the patient without condition may finish the cure."

She nodded once, steady and resolute.

And behind her, Qin Fuhua stood—not only as protector, but as witness to the moment Suyin took her place in the legacy of healers.

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The fire had burned low, its glow casting long shadows against the cave walls. The faint rustling of leaves outside whispered of the approaching dusk. Suyin stood quietly, holding the last silk-wrapped pouch of herbs from her grandfather, while Qin Fuhua watched from nearby, his arms folded calmly—but his gaze sharp, knowing a deeper truth lingered in the silence.

Han Zeyin glanced over at Qin Fuhua, his expression unreadable at first, before it softened with something like nostalgia.

Then Zeyin smiled.

"If your grandfather were here, he'd be glad to see you grown—steady, unshaken by the world that tries to trample you down."

He took a breath. "You are the very image of him when he was younger. Loyal to his people. Kind, yet terrifying when it came to protecting those he loved."

"I was his closest friend. He trusted me with many things—including a secret he never shared with anyone else."

He turned to the hearth and gently prodded the coals before continuing.

"Before he died, your grandfather confided in me… He feared a shadow would one day rise against you. That your name would be stained by treachery. And though he couldn't name who it would be, he believed your downfall would come from within your own walls."

His eyes met Qin Fuhua's. "That is why he gave you the Jade of the Dragon—not just as a symbol of protection, but a talisman woven with ancestral wards. That jade protects more than just your life… it protects your name, your legacy."

Qin Fuhua remained silent, stunned by the revelation. He had always kept the jade with reverence, but never fully understood why it had been passed to him so urgently.

"There's more," Han Zeyin continued, turning to both of them now. "Your grandfather once asked me to read the stars. I saw a path—tangled with sorrow, but also love. Two souls, separated by fate, born under different skies. And yet—drawn to each other like gravity."

His gaze shifted to Suyin, softening. "It was always meant to be the two of you. No matter what world, what time. Your fates are knotted by more than love—they are the thread that may one day bind peace between two legacies."

Suyin's breath caught in her throat. Qin Fuhua stepped forward slightly, as if he, too, felt the truth settle like stone in his chest.

"Protect each other," Zeyin said firmly. "Because when the time comes, you will be all the other has left."

"You're not coming with us, are you?" she asked softly, the words reluctant to leave her lips.

Han Zeyin stopped, his fingers hovering over the tied bundle before turning to face her. A gentle, sad smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

"I cannot," he said. "The world believes Han Zeyin is long dead. And I gave my word to both kings that it would remain so."

"But you're alive. You're here," Suyin whispered, emotion tightening her throat. "I only just got you back…"

"You didn't lose me," he said, stepping closer and placing a warm, calloused hand over her heart. "I have always been here. In the way you chose kindness when it was easier to hate. In the way your hands knew how to heal without being taught. You carry the heart of a healer, just as I once did."

She looked down, unable to stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks. "But how will I find you again? If I need you—if I ever need guidance…"

From within his robes, Han Zeyin drew a small wooden talisman. Its surface was etched with faint symbols, worn soft with time and care. He pressed it into her hand.

"This charm is attuned to your spirit alone. When you truly need me, hold it with both hands and call me in your heart. The fog will rise, and it will lead you to me. But only you will see the path."

Suyin clutched the charm tightly, its warmth seeping into her skin. "I'll come find you. One day."

Han Zeyin smiled, a glimmer of moisture in his eyes. "And I will be waiting."

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him tightly. It was not the hug of a farewell, but of reunion long overdue, a bond reforged in silence and memory.

He held her just as fiercely. "Your father—he may never speak of me. But I hope one day, his heart will forgive what time and fear buried."

As they pulled apart, he turned to Qin Fuhua who had stood quietly nearby, respectfully letting them have their moment. Han Zeyin's voice softened.

"Your grandfather…" he began, eyes fixed on Qin Fuhua's face. "He would be proud of you. If he were alive to see what kind of man you've become—one unfaltering in loyalty, steady even when the world seeks to break you—he'd tell you that his greatest legacy wasn't his throne… it was you."

Qin Fuhua's expression faltered for just a moment—something in him shifting, the memory of a childhood moment coming into focus. He bowed deeply.

"I will protect her, always," he said solemnly.

Han Zeyin's eyes crinkled. "I know."

He reached for the silk-wrapped gourd that held the precious elixir and handed it to Suyin. "Now go. Your path waits."

Suyin hesitated only a moment longer. Then she turned, Qin Fuhua gently taking her hand as they made their way back through the veiled mountain paths.

Behind them, the fog began to roll in, soft and slow, swallowing the trail until all that remained was memory—and the faint scent of magnolia that lingered in the air like a whisper from another time.