The morning at the inn was thick with a silence louder than the previous night's chaos. They finished their meal without a word; the clink of porcelain and wood were the only conversation. As Li Wei stood to grab Qianyi and Yisha's sacks, Xuán Chè finally broke the silence.
"You really bet on my safety?"
The three siblings glanced at each other. Yisha shrugged. Qianyi took a delicate sip of tea. Li Wei adjusted his sleeves and continued about his business. It was a synchronized display of utter nonchalance.
"I could have been… my innocence was nearly ruined!" Xuán Chè pressed, his voice a mixture of outrage and bewildered hurt.
Qianyi set her cup down, a subtle smirk on her lips. In her usual, soft, melodic voice, she simply asked, "But did you die?"
Yisha snorted into her rice bowl. Even Li Wei's stern mouth twitched. Xuán Chè could only stare, the absurdity of their logic finally overwhelming his indignation. He was learning. In this family, survival was the baseline; everything else was just commentary.
While mounting their horses in the courtyard, Màn'er stood there, her eyes red-rimmed and downcast.
"I… I am sorry," she whispered, her voice raw. "It was a terrible thing I did. Can you ever forgive me?"
Xuán Chè looked at her, his expression not angry, but weary. "I forgive you," he said, his tone polite but chillingly final. "But you must forget this obsession. Move on. And never again try to manipulate people. It only leads to ruin for everyone."
He turned his horse and nudged it forward, not looking back. The chapter of the Welcome Inn was firmly closed and Xuán Chè desperately wanted to forget it ever happened.
They rode southwest for three days, the landscape shifting like a slow exhale—from the cathedral hush of bamboo forests to something wilder, older. The jade-green canopies gave way to twisted pines and sun-bleached rock, their horses' hooves striking dust instead of damp earth. By the second day, the air had turned sharp and thin, carrying the scent of distant rain that never came.
At night, they camped under a river of stars so vast and indifferent it made their fire feel like a single spark in an endless dark. The wind moved through the ruins of forgotten watchtowers, whistling songs in a language no one spoke anymore. Qianyi would sit apart, listening to the earth's low hum, while Yisha played with the flames with waves of her finger, sending sparks spiraling toward the heavens like offerings. Li Wei kept watch, scanning the horizon, while Xuán Chè, used to sleeping on stone, stared at the constellations and wondered about his supposed relatives, were they still alive, and if they, too, were looking up at the same stars.
On the fourth day, they crested a hill and reined in their horses so abruptly that the leather creaked in protest.
Below them, the road coiled through a valley of grey, skeletal trees—their branches clawing at a sky the color of old bruise. And along that road, a ragged line of people trudged toward them. Mostly women. Children. The elderly. Their faces were gaunt, hollow-cheeked, their eyes holding a kind of fear that had settled past terror into something worse: resignation.
They did not walk so much as shuffle, their feet dragging through dust that rose in thin, sad clouds. Some carried bundles tied with frayed cloth. Others carried nothing at all—just the weight of what they had left behind. A young girl clutched a wooden doll missing an arm. An old man leaned on a stick; his gaze was fixed on the ground as if he had forgotten how to look up.
These were not travelers. They were refugees—the fragile, chewed-up remnants of a peaceful life, spat out by some unseen horror.
As the four watched the procession, a shared silence fell between them. Qianyi's hand tightened on her reins. Yisha's usual brightness dimmed, her fingers curling into her palms. Even Li Wei's eyes softened.
"Those poor souls," he said, his voice low, almost to himself.
"What happened to them?" Qianyi wondered aloud, though the knot in her stomach already knew the answer: nothing good. Nothing good at all.
Without another word, Li Wei dismounted. He knew a warrior on horseback could be intimidating. He needed to be approachable. The others followed his lead.
Leading his horse by the reins, he walked toward the weary group, his posture loose, his movements unhurried. He approached an elderly man who seemed to be one of the few pillars of strength left among them—still standing, still looking forward, even if his eyes held little hope.
"Bù hǎo yìsi," Li Wei began, his tone respectful and calm. "Could you tell me what happened? What are you fleeing from?"
The old man looked up, his eyes hollowed by grief. He gestured weakly back the way they had come. "Demons… or ghosts. We don't know. They come at night. They do not just kill… they consume. The land itself dies where it walks. Our crops? Gone. Withered in a single night. Our livestock… drained to husks." His voice cracked. "We're all that's left of Píng'ān."
"Demons?" Li Wei's brow furrowed slightly. He was a demon. But these creatures the old man described sounded like nothing he had ever encountered. "What do these demons look like?"
A young woman, clutching a sleeping child to her chest, added in a trembling voice, "Walking curses. They are a walking curse that brings only death. Someone cursed our home. That's the only explanation."
Qianyi stepped forward carefully, her smile gentle and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world to listen. "How long ago did this happen? When did you first notice something was wrong?"
The old man rested on his walking stick, his gaze drifting upward as if searching for the answer among the grey clouds. "About a week ago."
"No, it was before that," an older woman cut in, her voice sharp despite her exhaustion. "About a month ago, strange things started happening. Something would rattle my pig shed every night. The soil started changing—turning sour. My crops began dying. Then my pigs stopped eating. Just… stopped."
Xuán Chè's face shifted. The easy, wandering scholar faded, replaced by something raw and haunted. His eyes widened, not with fear, but with the sharp ache of recognition.
"The town where I grew up," he said quietly, "went through something similar. The animals began to starve themselves. We thought it was a strange drought. Sifu and I went to the next town, and then the next. We kept going northwest, toward the mountains." He paused, swallowing. "Then he said he had to go back to take care of something. He never returned. I waited for him. I went back to our old town, but it was gone. Destroyed." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I didn't know what happened. I didn't know any of this had happened."
Li Wei's attention shifted from the refugees to Xuán Chè. "This 'Sifu' of yours," he asked, his voice low and intent. "Did he tell you anything about what business he had to take care of? What did he know?"
Xuán Chè shook his head. "He didn't say. But he was agitated. He told me that if I noticed anything strange before he returned, I should head east. He was the one who told me about Wàng Yōu Zhèn. Said it was a town paved in opportunity. Promised he'd take me there someday."
"He told you about Wàng Yōu Zhèn?" Yisha's voice was careful, neutral.
"Yeah. And the day he left, he told me to leave messages for him at each town I passed through. To keep going until I reached Wàng Yōu Zhèn." Xuán Chè looked at them, his eyes searching. "He said it was the safest place anywhere."
The siblings exchanged a glance. A silent question passed between them: Could his Sifu know Mother?
No words were spoken aloud. None were needed.
Li Wei raised an eyebrow: He was sent to us. Deliberately.
Qianyi gave the slightest nod: His Sifu didn't just know of the town. He knew it was a sanctuary.
Yisha's eyes widened, her gaze intense: Could his Sifu know Mother? And this blight… this is what Mother wanted us to investigate.
The wind picked up, carrying the faint, sickly-sweet smell of decay from the direction the refugees had fled. Somewhere to the southwest, the land was dying. And somehow, impossibly, it was all connected.
"How far is Ping'an from here," Qianyi asked the old man.
"It's about two days' walk. But you're on horseback so it'll be quicker for you."
"Listen," Li Wei said, almost commanding. "Head northeast from here. Do not stay in the next town. Rest, but don't linger. I don't know how long it will take you, but this road will take you to Wàng Yōu Zhèn. Plenty of land nearby to start a village. When you get to the gate, ask for Guard Xiǎo Ān. Tell him—"
"Hold that thought," Yisha interjected.
Qianyi, already anticipating her sister's intentions, pulled out a piece of parchment. She touched her finger to the ground, then traced glowing characters across the page with nothing but her qi, the letters burning faintly gold before settling into ink-black script. Li Wei, Yisha, and Xuán Chè read over her shoulder.
To Guard Xiǎo Ān:
Please settle these people in the stretch of land just south of the gate—where we found that stash of awful wine. Provide them with food and necessities.
Also, I'm sending something Li Wei found that he thought you might like. He remembers you mentioning it.
Now, deliver this message to my mother.
The blight has reached Píng'ān. We will stop there to search for clues. Xuán Chè—the young man traveling with us—hails from a town that was also destroyed by the blight.
We are sending a group of refugees ahead for shelter.
QiānQiān
Before Qianyi could roll up the parchment, Yisha snatched her sister's finger and dragged it across the bottom, scrawling in hurried, glowing strokes:
A barmaid drugged Xuán Chè and tried to steal his innocence.
"JIA YISHA! " Xuán Chè roared, his face flushing crimson.
Li Wei laughed—a real, startled bark of amusement that seemed to surprise even him. He plucked Qianyi's finger from Yisha's grasp and with a flick of his own qi, wiped away the offending line. The characters dissolved like frost under morning sun, leaving the parchment clean.
From a pouch at his belt, he produced a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth. He unfolded it to reveal a short dagger, its blade a deep, smoky grey that seemed to drink the light. Frost patterns, too fine to be carved by any mortal hand, traced along the steel. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, worn smooth by handling—but the blade itself was pristine, untouched.
"Tell Xiǎo Ān to stop borrowing his captain's blade," Li Wei said, his voice dry. "This one won't dull."
He tucked the dagger into the bundle and handed it to the old man, along with a satchel heavy with silver taels.
"Remember," he said. "Northeast. Rest. Buy food. But do not linger."
The old man clutched the satchel and the bundle, his weathered hands trembling. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you. The heavens will remember your kindness."
Yisha smiled and opened her mouth, then closed it. She glanced at Qianyi, who gave her the faintest shake of her head—not yet. Li Wei, also watching, shook his head in playful disapproval, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
"May the road treat you kindly," Yisha said instead, and swung onto her horse.
"Bǎozhòng!" Xuán Chè called out to the departing refugees as he and the others mounted their horses, a sincere wish for their difficult journey ahead.
The old man leading the refugees turned and bowed his head once more. "Bǎozhòng—You all take care as well!"
They continued the road toward Ping'an mulling over the many coincidences.
"Tell me about your sifu. Where did he find you? What was he like?"
"He said found me outside of a town not far from Ān Zhèn, where we lived. He was looking for a place to take refuge from the storm and found us in the house. My mother was already dead, but she was still holding me, trying to shield me."
He paused, the image hanging heavily in the air.
"Sifu was…kind, but distant. He seemed sad, like a weight he could never put down. He was incredibly knowledgeable about history, herbs, and old legends, but he never spoke of his own past. He would sometimes get a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was listening for something—or waiting for someone. The only thing he ever said was that he had failed her a long time ago and he'd make it right someday."
Li Wei's gaze met Qianyi's. The unspoken question was now a deafening roar: Who was this man?
"You said he told you to leave letters for him at each town you went to. Did you do it? Leave letters for him," Yisha asked.
"Of course!"
"Did you remember if you passed through Ping'an." Yisha and Xuán Chè's eyes met, and he immediately understood her thought process.
"I think so," he said, his voice rising with excitement. "Yes, I'm sure of it! We can check the inn when we get there!"
A fierce, triumphant grin spread across Yisha's face.
"Tài hǎo le! Excellent!"
They arrived just outside of Píng'ān in the midafternoon of the following day. A sickly, dark red overcast hung over the town, leaching the color from the world and casting everything in a bloody, twilight gloom.
"There is...no sun," Yisha whispered, feeling stifled and distant under the oppressive shroud. They all felt as if their bodies—their energy—were being slightly suppressed by the odd overcast.
Instead of guiding their horses inside, they secured them to a cluster of petrified, leafless trees just beyond the town's border, a desperate hope to spare the animals from the creeping blight.
They walked the rest of the way on foot. Qianyi stopped, kneeling to touch the ground. The soil was a brittle, gray powder. The trees were skeletal; the grass was ash.
"There is no shēngqì—no life—in anything," she gasped, recoiling her hand as if burned by the sheer absence of vitality.
They passed through the crumbled town gate. The silence was absolute. No people. No animals. No birds. No insects. Just the hollow howl of a wind that carried no scent. They crossed a stone bridge arching over a riverbed that held nothing but fine, dead sand.
After reaching the other side, Xuán Chè pointed to a building to their left. "There's an inn. Over there."
They approached, their footsteps echoing in the unnatural quiet. Peering through the doorless entrance, they saw them. Human husks were slumped over tables and chairs, their forms desiccated as if all moisture and life had been violently sucked away.
And that's when they heard it.
From the depths of the town, a loud shriek ripped through the silence. It was unlike any animal they had ever heard. It was a sound of rending metal, tearing souls, and pure, malice.
Though it sounded a bit far, it was still loud enough to cause searing head pain. But the sound grew closer, and a wave of physical agony attacked them. They covered their ears, stumbling, as the pain intensified, threatening to shatter their skulls.
"Down!" Li Wei roared over the torment.
He conjured a dagger of ice and slashed the palm of his own hand without hesitation. Crouching, he used his own blood to swiftly draw a circular sigil on the dusty floorboards then slammed his hand into the center. As he finished, the air within the inn's common room solidified into a visible, frosty mist, forming a dome around them that deadened the horrific screech to a manageable, dull throb.
The relief was instant but temporary. Li Wei's face was pale from the effort and blood loss. "We can't stay here long," he commanded, his voice strained. "The barrier won't hold. Look for the letter! Look for anything! NOW!"
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© 2025 Kiesha Richardson, writing as QiXia. All rights reserved.
Death Blooms for You is an original work of fiction by QiXia. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or adaptation of this story in any form is prohibited. All characters, events, and settings are created for entertainment purposes and bear no intentional resemblance to real persons or situations.