Chapter 30: A New Beginning

Ten years had passed since the shattering of the Shattered Spire. The Li residence, once a fortress scarred by battle, now stood as a beacon of renewal. Its walls, rebuilt with pale stone and ironwood, gleamed under the summer sun. The bamboo grove where Li Wan'er had once walked thrived, its leaves whispering secrets to those who lingered. Children's laughter echoed in the courtyards—students training under Bai Yun's watchful eye, healers studying Hua Ling's alchemical texts, and scholars transcribing Zhi Kong's spiritual treatises.

Lin Mo stood on the eastern tower, his hands resting on the memorial stone. Time had softened the edges of his grief, but not erased them. He wore his years lightly, though streaks of silver now threaded his hair. The world had healed, but healing was not forgetting.

"Master Lin!"

He turned. A young girl sprinted up the stairs, her cheeks flushed, a wooden practice sword clutched in her hand. She skidded to a halt, bowing hastily. "Master Bai says I have to apologize. I may have accidentally set fire to the herb garden."

Lin Mo raised an eyebrow. "Again, Li Mei?"

The girl—barely twelve, with her mother's sharp eyes and her father's stubborn chin—grinned sheepishly. "Hua Ling says it was 'alchemical enthusiasm.'"

"Hua Ling is too lenient with you." He sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Li Mei had been born months after the final battle, her mother a refugee taken in by the Li family. When the woman had died in childbirth, Lin Mo had hesitated only a moment before naming the child himself. Li Mei—plum blossom, a flower that thrived in winter. A reminder that beauty could bloom in the harshest seasons.

"Come," he said, nodding toward the stairs. "Let's see what disaster you've wrought."

The herb garden was, indeed, smoldering. Hua Ling stood amid the chaos, her hands on her hips, her once-jet-black hair now streaked with gray. "Your daughter," she said drily, "has inherited your talent for destruction."

"She's not my daughter," Lin Mo said automatically, though the words rang hollow. Li Mei had claimed him as family long ago, trailing him through the halls with endless questions about Li Wan'er, the Veil, and the "old wars."

"Not yours?" Hua Ling snorted. "Then why does she have your sword forms down perfectly?"

Nearby, Li Mei was attempting to extinguish a patch of flames with her boot, her practice sword abandoned. Lin Mo pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll send the groundskeepers to help. Again."

As Hua Ling stalked off, muttering about ungrateful apprentices, Li Mei sidled up to him. "Master Lin… can I ask you something?"

"If it's about the incident with the fireworks last week, the answer is still no."

"No! Well, yes, but—" She fidgeted, suddenly serious. "The archives… the ones Lady Li Wan'er used. Can I see them?"

He stilled. "Why?"

"I found this." She pulled a scrap of parchment from her sleeve—a sketch of the Veil, annotated in Li Wan'er's handwriting. "I know she's gone. But I want to understand. To be like her. To protect people."

Lin Mo studied her face—the determination, the hunger to belong to something greater. She even frowns like Wan'er, he thought.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Before dawn. And no fires."

The archives were unchanged. Dust motes drifted in the pale light of early morning as Lin Mo unlatched the doors. Li Mei hovered at his shoulder, her awe palpable.

"These are all her notes?" she whispered, touching a shelf of scrolls.

"Most. Some are older. Centuries older." He pulled down a volume—Li Wan'er's journal from the final months. "She believed knowledge was the first shield against darkness. The second was compassion."

Li Mei traced the characters on the journal's cover. "Do you think she'd be proud? Of what we've built?"

He hesitated. Would she? The question had haunted him for a decade. But watching Li Mei's eager face, he knew the answer.

"Yes," he said. "But she'd tell you to stop burning down gardens."

The girl laughed, the sound bright and unburdened.

That evening, the masters gathered in the courtyard for the annual remembrance. Lanterns floated on the pond, each carrying a prayer for the lost. Bai Yun, his beard now fully white, raised a cup of wine. "To absent friends."

"To Li Wan'er," Feng Wu added, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"To Li Wan'er," they echoed.

Lin Mo stood apart, watching as Li Mei helped Hua Ling light the final lantern. The girl paused, whispering something before releasing it into the sky. When she joined him, her eyes were bright.

"What did you wish for?" he asked.

"That she knows we remember." Li Mei tilted her head. "Do you think she does?"

He looked at the lanterns, their golden light merging with the stars. "I think," he said slowly, "that some bonds outlive even the Veil."

Later, as the celebration faded, Lin Mo climbed to the eastern tower one last time. The world sprawled below him—forests regrown, villages glowing with hearthlight, roads patrolled by guardians trained in the Li residence's shadow.

A breeze stirred, carrying the scent of plum blossoms.

"You've done well," the wind seemed to murmur.

He smiled. For the first time in years, the weight felt lighter.

A new beginning was not an end to sorrow, but a choice—to plant seeds in scarred earth, to let laughter fill silent halls, to pass the sword to hands unburdened by the past.

Below, Li Mei sparred with Bai Yun in the courtyard, her wooden sword clacking against his. Her voice carried upward, fierce and bright: "Again!"

Lin Mo turned from the memorial, descending the stairs.

The world waited.

And so did tomorrow.