A small yet luxurious estate was nestled at the foot of a mountain, its tiled roofs curling like dragon scales under the starry night sky. Beyond its lacquered gates, the distant crashing of waves on the shores of Lonely Boat City mingled with the hum of the bustling city rose and fell, a faint pulse of life muted by the whispering pines and the mist that clung to the mountain's base. Within the estate's walls, the air carried the sharp, lingering fragrance of herbs and medicine, seeping into every corner of the small mansion, from stone corridors, silk-draped chambers, and the quiet courtyard where the young master of this estate, Jean Long rested beneath a peach tree.
Jean, frail and weak, leaned against the tree's gnarled trunk, his ink-black hair loose against his pale, sunken cheeks. His eyes, dull with resignation, traced the constellations above, their silver light a stark contrast to the shadow of gloom that clouded his features. Three years had passed since his father's death, a loss that had carved a hollow in his heart and left his ailing body weaker with each passing season. The herbal scent, once a comfort, now only made him miss watching his father refining pills. One year left, he thought, his breath shallow, maybe less. His father's strength, his warm laughter, felt like a dream faded by time, leaving Jean to face a fading future alone.
From the shadowed edge of the courtyard, a middle-aged man watched, his weathered face etched with quiet concern. Uncle Bing, the estate's steward, stepped forward, his robes plain but pristine, carrying a jade bowl that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. "Young Master," he said, his voice soft but respectful, bowing slightly as he offered the bowl. "Your medicine."
Jean's gaze flickered from the stars to Uncle Bing, a faint warmth breaking through his distant expression. He took the cup, its contents familiar, and drank slowly. The medicinal liquid flowed down his throat, a fleeting heat that stirred a flush of color to his pale face, though it did little to ease the weight in his chest. "Thank you, Uncle Bing," he murmured, his voice fragile but sincere. He hesitated, then asked, "How much of it remains?"
Uncle Bing's eyes clouded, his hands tightening briefly at his sides. "Enough for one more year, Young Master," he said, his tone heavy with regret. "The ingredients are available, but…" He paused, his gaze dropping to the stone path. "Without Tribulation Dew, the efficacy of the potion will be greatly reduced." What he couldn't bring himself to say was that even with tribulation dew, he lacked the skill to successfully refine the potion.
Jean's lips pressed into a thin line, a soft sigh escaping him. One year. The words settled like a stone in his gut, heavy but not unfamiliar. He had long accepted his weakening body, the slow fade of his vitality mirroring the dimming stars above. "I understand," he said quietly, his eyes drifting back to the sky, their sorrow tempered by a calm resignation. The Tribulation Dew, born from the blessing of heaven after a cultivator's ascension, was a treasure even to the supreme sects of the Nine Empires continent. A frail boy like him, with no spiritual roots, could hardly hope to obtain it.
Uncle Bing lingered, his pained gaze fixed on Jean. In his mind, he saw the shadow of his late master, Jean's father, Master Long, a man of iron will and boundless vigor, whose alchemy skills were the greatest he had ever witnessed. If you were here, he thought, guilt gnawing at his heart, you'd find a way. You'd save him. He clenched his fists, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of his own helplessness. Three years, and still no cure, no spark of hope to change the young master's fate. I'm useless, he thought, the words a silent wound.
Breaking the quiet, Uncle Bing cleared his throat, his voice gentle but firm. "Young Master, the date to formally retrieve your fiancée is set for one month from now, during your eighteenth birthday." He watched Jean closely, hoping to stir some flicker of purpose in the boy's dulled eyes.
Jean blinked, startled, his thoughts jolted from the stars. The Yan sisters, Amber and Blair—flashed in his memory, their laughter echoing from childhood memories when he'd chased them through the Yan estate's gardens, his body still strong, his father still alive. Three years had passed since he'd last seen them, since the day his father's breath had stilled and the world had grown dim. A bitter thought surfaced: What's the point of marrying when I'll be gone so soon? Yet, as the silence stretched, his father's final words echoed, steady and unyielding: Don't loose hope. Become a cultivator, seize the heavens' favor and change your fate. The memory tightened his chest, a pang of duty cutting through his resignation.
"I'll do it," Jean said after a long pause, his voice soft but resolute. "For Father's wish." He met Uncle Bing's gaze, a faint spark flickering in his eyes, though it was tinged with the weight of his fleeting time.
Uncle Bing nodded, relief softening his weathered features. "Blair, the eldest daughter of the Yan family, will be your wife. I'll handle the bride price and all arrangements, Young Master. The ceremony will befit your father's name, I promise." His voice carried a quiet determination, as if the act of planning could defy the shadow over Jean's life. With a final bow, he turned and retreated into the estate, leaving Jean alone beneath the peach tree.
The night breeze stirred, carrying the distant scent of the sea and the faint hum of the city beyond the mountain's shadow. Jean's gaze returned to the stars, their light cold yet piercing, as if whispering secrets he could not yet grasp. His father's words echoed again: Change your fate. His chest tightened, a fragile thread of hope weaving through his sorrow. Could he, a frail boy with a year left, step onto the path of cultivation? Or would death claim him first, snuffing out his father's dreams? The uncertainty hung heavy, a quiet storm within him, as the peach tree's leaves rustled above, their soft whispers blending with the distant sea.