Jean stepped cautiously into the elf's house, the door creaking softly as it swung shut behind him. The interior was simple yet refined, with walls of polished stone that seemed to hum with a quiet energy, adorned only with vines that wound their way across the surface like living veins. A low wooden table sat in the center of the room, flanked by cushions woven from silver-threaded grass, and a faint aura of tranquility lingered in the air, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and fresh earth. The white fox scampered inside, curling up in a corner with a contented sigh, its pure fur glowing faintly in the soft light filtering through a crystal window. Jean's frail body tensed as he took it all in, his ink-black hair falling across his pale face, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and wariness.
Sylvan, the elf, gestured for him to sit on one of the cushions, his pointed ears twitching slightly as he moved with an effortless grace. "Make yourself comfortable, Jean Long," he said, his voice smooth as the stream's flow outside. He busied himself at a small hearth, where a kettle simmered over a low, ethereal flame that burned without smoke. Moments later, he returned with a steaming cup of tea, its aroma a delicate blend of herbs and something deeper, almost divine. "Drink. It will ease your weariness from the chase."
Jean accepted the cup with trembling hands, the warmth seeping through the porcelain comforting against his cold fingers. Grateful for the elf's hospitality, he took a cautious sip—and nearly choked, his eyes widening in shock. The taste was unmistakable, a pure, invigorating essence that flooded his senses: Tribulation Dew. But this was was richer, more potent than what his father added to his medicine, its quality bordering on the divine, as if drawn from the heavens themselves.
A surge of warmth exploded through his body, starting from his core and spreading like a gentle wave. Color rushed to his pale cheeks, his limbs lightened as if shed of invisible chains, and for the first time in years, his breathing came without the familiar struggle, deep and effortless. Jean's heart pounded, his frail frame straightening as vitality coursed through him, banishing the exhaustion that had plagued him. "This… this is Tribulation Dew," he whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "But how? And this quality—it's beyond anything Father ever found."
Sylvan watched him quietly, his polished-jade eyes steady, a flicker of pity crossing his flawless features for an instant. He turned his gaze to the small white fox curled in the corner, and his expression softened further, a deep affection mingling with that same pity—a look Jean recognized instantly. It was the way his father had once gazed at him, torn between sorrow and love, as if seeing a fragile flame that might extinguish at any moment. The elf's pointed ears twitched again, and he sighed softly, his voice carrying the weight of centuries.
"You recognize it well," Sylvan said, his tone calm yet heavy with truth. "The Dew is pure, divine grade. But your wonder is misplaced, Jean Long. Your suffering is not from a simple illness, but from within." He paused, his eyes piercing as if peering into Jean's soul. "Your body houses two powerful bloodlines clashing endlessly, tearing you apart from the inside. If left unchecked, they will consume you, leading to certain death."
Jean sat frozen, the cup nearly slipping from his hands. The revelation struck him like a wave, his mind reeling. Two bloodlines? He had always known he was different, his frailty a curse without cause, but this… it explained the constant weakness, the fading vitality that no potion could fully mend. Death was a shadow he had accepted, but the idea of clashing forces within him ignited a spark of curiosity amid the shock. "Bloodlines?" he echoed, his voice barely a whisper.
Sylvan's expression remained composed, his hands folding in his lap with the grace of a being who had seen ages come and go. "Such things are rare, often born from ancient lineages crossing paths. Your father likely knew, or suspected, but could not resolve it. The conflict ravages you, but it there is a way to stop it."
Jean's eyes widened, the cup forgotten in his grip. For the first time in years, a fragile hope flickered in his chest, mingling with the warmth of the Dew. "There is a way?"
The elf nodded, his pointed ears casting long shadows in the light. With deliberate care, he placed two items upon the table: a pure white pearl that glowed faintly with a gentle radiance, its surface smooth and ethereal, and a fiery red pill that seemed to radiate heat, its crimson hue pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Tribulation dew can't cure you but these may offer a solution," Sylvan said, his voice grave. "This is the pearl of eternal balance from a Gemini beast. It can soothe the clash within, allowing your bloodlines to coexist. The pill is the Nine Turns Phoenix pill, it will help you experience rebirth and birth spirit roots. Together, they might alter your fate. But I warn you, young one: such power comes with risk. The process is painful, and success is not guaranteed."
Jean's breath caught, his gaze locked on the treasures before him. The pearl's glow seemed to whisper of peace, a balm for the storm within him, while the pill's heat promised fire, a rebirth through trial. His frailty, the one-year lifespan, the shadow of death, all his worries paled against this turning point. Tears welled in his eyes, not from sorrow, but from the fragile hope blooming in his heart. "Thank you, Master Sylvan," he whispered, his voice trembling with gratitude as he rose to his feet bowing deeply to the elf. "If this is my chance… I'll take it."
Sylvan's expression softened further, the pity in his eyes deepening as he glanced at the white fox, who watched Jean with curious, moon-like eyes. "Drink the tea fully—it will prepare your body," the elf said, his voice a gentle command. "Then, we shall begin."
As Jean lifted the cup once more, the warmth of the Tribulation Dew spreading through him like a new dawn, the hidden valley's air seemed to hold its breath. The clash of bloodlines, the weight of his father's wish, the mystery of the elf and his treasures, they wove together, a tapestry of fate shifting before his eyes. For the first time, Jean felt not the inevitability of death, but the spark of possibility, a fragile flame defying the encroaching dark.