The forest was quiet to the point of soundlessness, as if even the wind had learned to tread lightly beneath the broad leaves. A woman in a long, earth-brown robe stood motionless among the trunks, the wide brim of her hat casting her face into shadow. She looked older than her years, hair threaded with silver, eyes the dark brown of damp soil. She waited like a statue that had been placed there on purpose.
A sudden crack split the air—lightning, blunt and savage, struck the earth at her feet and scorched the moss. Han Zhenwu stepped forward through the smoke, every motion a coil of contained force; the air sizzled where his robe passed. "You made the right choice of coming, Ku Hua," he said without preamble. Lightning burned from his fingertips as he walked, not for show but because it was the form of his breath. His veins bulged under the skin of his forearms; his voice was flat but edged with a threat.
Ku Hua inclined her head once, slow and practiced. She said nothing. She had been summoned before; she knew the price of words with a man like Han Zhenwu.
They moved together back to the Han estate. Guards fell away from their path like reeds before a current; servants watched from the shadows as the two passed through the main gate. Inside the household, Zhenwu led her directly to the guest chamber where Han Zhennan and He Ruying waited, pale and anxious beneath white linens.
Ku Hua paused at the threshold and took one look at Han Zhennan before she lowered her eyes, as if she felt the father's temper had teeth. Zhenwu's stare was a blade; she would not meet it.
"Lay down," she told He Ruying in a voice both gentle and clinical, and the girl obeyed with hands that trembled. Ku Hua moved like a surgeon of old: slow, precise, methodical. She produced small jars, tied pouches, brittle bundles of dried roots, then set them out on a low table. She mixed powders, smelled smoke, ground herbs to pastes. She tasted one tincture, frowned ever so slightly, and adjusted the balance of other ingredients. Through it all she worked as though unwinding a knotted rope, searching for the single dead strand that had started the tangle.
At last she laid a palm lightly on He Ruying's belly and closed her eyes. A faint pulse of energy—no dramatic glare, nothing theatrical—ran from her wrist into the girl's body. She murmured in a language that had the cadence of old things and then nodded.
"You do not need to worry," Ku Hua said, straightening. "The condition is called the 'Aetherlock Affliction.'" She pronounced the name without ceremony, but the words landed on the room like ice. "It binds the flow of a woman's receptive Qi to her marrow—usually triggered by trauma, a stubborn residue of toxic qi, or exposure to suppressed aether fragments. It can be cured. My family's prescription will work, but the main ingredient—the midnight orchid that bears the black tear—blooms only in the third moon from now. I will not use stored stock; your cure must be whole."
Han Zhenwu's jaw tightened. The three-month wait flashed like a blade at the back of his eyes. He took one step closer, voice a lowed rasp. "You will stay here while you prepare. When the orchid blooms I will personally escort you to harvest it. Do not attempt to bargain. Do not trick me."
Ku Hua's face was expressionless, but a small humorless smile touched her mouth. "I expected no less."
For a long moment the two regarded one another like rivals who shared a mutually useful truce. Then Ku Hua turned to He Ruying and offered a small, professional smile. "Lie still. I will begin with gentle clearing measures, drink the broth; it will steady the Qi. In three months i will harvest the orchid for you. Until then, beware of stress and needless strain."
Han Zhennan stepped forward, gratitude plain on his face. "Thank you," he said, his voice raw with relief. "If there is anything you need—"
Ku hua looked at han zhennan for a little too long before being brought to back from her thoughts by zhenwu who ordered her to follow him.
She thanked han zhennan for his offer as she left.
Zhenwu closed the door behind her and the house seemed to inhale. He faced the chamber where the family lingered. He did not smile; that was not his way. He said only, flat as a blade: "You will stay here. The room next to mine. I will know if you leave." His hands flexed; lightning licked a fingertip and then vanished.
Ku Hua's reply carried no fear. "Understood." She turned and left. At the threshold she paused and said, quieter, almost conversational, "You could have found another. I am not the only one who knows this craft." Her words were a question and a taunt both.
Han Zhenwu's eyes were ice. "I prefer certainty."
She smiled as she then said"you're a cruel man zhenwu I Know you brought me here to torment me".han zhenwu said nothing his gaze already telling her that she should leave for her room if she knows what's good for her, with no other choice she left.
When the household settled, Han Zhennan took He Ruying's hand and gripped it until her fingers paled. They exchanged one look—a small, fierce thing of shared hope—and the house hummed with the fragile promise of a cure.
In the darkness of his private chamber, Han Zhenwu returned to cultivation. He folded the lightning within himself like a weapon sheathed. His face was composed, his plans already turning the months ahead into cold certainties. Outside, servants moved like river water around the rock that was the Han family. Inside, the storm that had called Ku Hua to their door simmered and waited, already tasting the future.
Months of waiting had finally borne fruit. Han Zhennan and He Ruying's patience—tested by every anxious night—came to an end when Han Zhenwu returned alongside Ku Hua. They carried with them the rare materials that would unlock the cure she had promised.
The treatment was long, tense, and silent but when it ended, Ku Hua tested He Ruying once more. Her hands lingered briefly over her patient's abdomen, her expression unreadable. Then, for the first time, her lips curved in a genuine smile.
"There is nothing wrong anymore. The affliction is gone."
He Ruying gasped, clutching her husband's arm. Han Zhennan's breath caught, his eyes widening as though the weight of years had just slid from his chest. Both fell into deep bows before Ku Hua, voices breaking as they thanked her again and again.
Ku Hua's face softened. "Your path forward is open. May your household grow strong and happy." She inclined her head, then turned toward the door. "My task is done. Farewell."
Zhennan instinctively stepped forward, wanting to ask her to stay longer, but one cold glance from his father stopped him in his tracks. Ku Hua seemed to notice but said nothing.
At the gates, she paused and looked back at Han Zhenwu. "Is this all? No words of parting, not even after all this?"
Zhenwu's face was carved from stone. He turned without answering and walked back into the estate.
Ku Hua exhaled, long and low, before striding into the horizon. For a fleeting moment, it was clear she still had words unspoken—perhaps even wounds yet unhealed—but no one remained who wished to hear them.
---
A year later, the Han estate was again filled with cries—this time, the cries of He Ruying as she labored within the same chamber where Xue Lian had once given birth.
Outside the chamber, Han Zhennan paced, restless, every muscle taut as a bowstring. Beside him sat Lu Zhenhai, who tried, with his usual mischief, to lighten the storm.
"You know, brother, if you wear a hole in the floor from pacing, I'll charge you for repairs."
Zhennan didn't laugh, but Zhenhai kept going. "Relax. You already survived Xue Lian's wrath during her birth, remember? This time you'll survive Ruying's."
Zhennan only shot him a glare, but the corner of his lips twitched—the faintest betrayal of relief at his friend's presence.
Then, a gentle voice: "Husband."
Zhennan turned to see Xue Lian approaching, Han Yù balanced in her arms. The boy's soft bluish hair glowed faintly in the lamplight as he clung to his mother. Xue Lian sat beside her husband, smiling warmly.
"She'll be fine," she said firmly, as though her certainty could anchor him. "Ruying is strong. She always has been."
Zhennan's shoulders eased a little. He reached out, brushing Yu's small head with his palm.
Moments later, the screams from within ceased. Silence, sharp as a blade, filled the corridor. Then—clear, piercing, alive—the wail of a newborn rang out.
Zhennan's heart nearly burst from his chest. He pushed through the door, barely aware of his feet, and found He Ruying on the bed, sweat-drenched but smiling with a glow that lit the room. In her arms rested a tiny, fragile boy.
"It… it's a boy," she whispered, weak but radiant.
Zhennan dropped to his knees beside her, trembling as he touched her cheek, then the baby's tiny hand. Only when he was certain both were safe did he release the breath he'd been holding. His eyes stung.
"We… we did it, Ruying," he said, voice breaking. "We finally had him."
He lifted the boy, holding him carefully, reverently, as though he were holding the world itself. Tears welled in his eyes, but he smiled through them.
Xue Lian leaned in, relief softening her features as she reached for Ruying's hand. "You've done well, sister," she said warmly. Little Han Yu wriggled from her arms, stretching his tiny hands toward Ruying, who chuckled weakly and let him touch her cheek.
The room glowed with joy, with family.
"What will you name him?" Xue Lian asked softly.
Zhennan looked down at the baby boy in his arms, then at his wives—at his family. His voice was steady when he answered:
"His name will be Lèi, Hán Lèi."