The forest called her name without sound.
Ming Yue stepped past the protective sigils of the cabin, barefoot, drawn into shadow. The air shimmered, pulsing faintly with plum blossom and smoke—an impossible scent in this part of the woods. Behind her, the Qi family cabin faded into velvet night.
She didn't know why she walked.
Only that something inside her had already started moving.
…
Earlier that day, Ming Yue had lingered over a page from Common Beasts of the Spirit Realm, its ink feathered with age. The illustration was elegant: five humanoid figures with fox masks, draped in silk and jewels.
Tricksters," the text read. "Once known as Huli Jing, Kitsune, Vixens, Fairies. Forms evolved. Names fragmented. Tricks remained."
Fairies? Do they perhaps have a connection with mothers' bloodline?
"Aligned with chaos, not cruelty. They choose amusement. Some cultivate. Some ascend. Some form civilisations within the Spirit Realm. Be warned—beautiful does not mean benign."
"The higher the Trickster, the deeper the game."
She had traced one mask with her thumb, then folded the scroll away.
…
The trees grew taller. Their bark gleamed faintly, and branches bent toward her like dancers frozen mid-pose. The wind stilled. A whisper brushed her ear—soft as silk on water.
Then, they appeared.
Five figures stepped from the trees, each one breathtaking.
Women—but not quite. Their beauty was too precise: faces sculpted like jade, lips stained with plum, eyes lined in kohl that caught moonlight. Their robes flowed like inked rivers—gold, ruby, obsidian silk woven into temptress coils. Jewels hung from ears and ankles, chiming as they moved.
They were unreal. And that was the point.
Even Ming Yue, hardened and sceptical, felt her breath catch.
If these were henchwomen… how intoxicating must their commander be?
They encircled her slowly, feet not touching moss.
"You know about us," one cooed, tilting her head. "You think we're old wives' tales," said another. "Or bedtime monsters," giggled a third.
The fourth one stepped closer—eyes a silver-violet shade that shimmered with intent.
"You have power," she whispered. "But it seems…It scares you. Why?"
"Who sent you?" Ming Yue asked, daggers raised.
"Oh, sweet phoenix-child," said the fifth, now behind her. "We don't need to be sent."
"…But if you must know," said the second again, "we came to see what breaks you."
They attacked without violence—just pressure. The clearing bent. Her aura warped. Memories flashed, twisted—her mother's lullaby became static, Shen Fei's laughter became echo.
Ming Yue lunged, blades flashing.
Swoosh. A dagger grazed one Trickster's jewelled robe—but shimmered through illusion.
They danced around her, mirroring her form, her voice.
"You don't know yourself yet," one said in her tone. "You flinch from insecurities," said another, in the voice of Old Lu. "You fear the thing inside you," whispered a third, now wearing her face.
She chanted— "Jing Zhen!"—her shield flared bright.
The Tricksters scattered, laughing.
But one struck.
Claws—not sharp, but searing—brushed her aura, and her knees buckled. Her chants tangled. Her vision split.
"Still blocked," they sighed. "Still dim."
"Let us help," they whispered.
Suddenly, they all scattered.
Mist rolled in fast.
Ming Yue held her torso. The backfire of her chant had ruptured one of her ribs. Gritting down pain, she attempted to follow the lingering fifth.
The forest shifted—and suddenly, Ming Yue was elsewhere. The trees were silver-veined. The ground pulsed. Time slowed. Her breath came ragged.
A voice broke the quiet.
"You weren't supposed to follow."
Shi Feng stepped into view— cloak fluttering, eyes unreadable.
Ming Yue watched wide eyed. Shock and perhaps a slight sense of betrayal washed over her in waves. In truth he was a stranger to her but within those encounters, she thought perhaps there could be more— friendship? Comradery?
Why is he here? Don't tell me…
"You sent them," she said, teeth gritted.
He didn't deny it.
"You needed provocation. Your bloodline won't awaken in comfort."
She struggled to rise. Her limbs ached. The red stone necklace beneath her collar glowed—weakly, like a flicker lost in storm.
He stepped forward, catching her before she fell again. His touch was cool. Grounding.
"Even they couldn't crack it," he murmured. "I feared this."
"You knew I'd break?"
"No," he said. "I hoped you wouldn't."
From his sleeve, he pulled a vial—small, crystalline, shimmering like starlight dipped in fire.
"From the Spirit Alchemists. Forbidden, but effective. It shatters spiritual blocks. Painfully."
"Why do you care?"
"Because they're coming, Ming Yue. The Fifth Bloodline stirs. You need to awaken."
"Don't," she whispered.
Shi Feng looked away, briefly. "I am sorry."
He uncorked the vial and tilted it gently into her mouth.
The potion sliced through her aura like comet fire.
She screamed—but the air swallowed it.
Heat surged. Colours erupted. Her senses bled together—taste became sound, memory became touch. Her pendant seared into her skin. Her heartbeat fractured.
She saw flame. She saw forest. She saw names spoken before they were ever written.
She collapsed.
Then the growls came.
Massive shapes—black-furred, spirit-veined—lunged from the trees. Eyes like burning stone. The air split with howls.
Shi Feng stood, blades drawn, chants flaring. But they kept coming.
"Ming Yue," he shouted. "Get up!"
She blinked. Her limbs refused. The power had broken her foundation.
A Howler circled closer.
"You're not done," Shi Feng snarled.