The forest sang with an ancestral silence. Golden leaves fell without wind, swirling like petals frozen in time. Moss-cloaked trunks hid the fissures of forgotten temples, and the cracked stones of toppled columns still kept inscriptions no living eye could read. Beneath a canopy of branches forever still, a small figure slept, wrapped in mist.
It was a tiny white fox, so small it fit between the roots of a fallen tree. Its fur, dulled by dust, still shone with a faint silver sheen, as if the moon itself had breathed upon it. Only one tail swayed with each fragile exhale. Above it hovered a spiritual seal—an inverted lotus—barely visible to mortal eyes, dissolving slowly under the weight of time.
Then it happened: the seal shattered with a distant, delicate chime. The little fox opened her eyes. At first, nothing made sense. The world was a muddle of light and muffled sounds. Her body trembled, cold, as if she had slept through a thousand winters. She stood, unsteady, on wavering paws. Her ears flicked nervously, trying to parse the whispers of the forest, the brush of branches, the faint murmur of an unknown wind.
"Where… am I?" a voice echoed weakly in her mind, though she had no idea how she could speak. She remembered nothing: no name, no past, no purpose. But deep within, a strange warmth throbbed. Not fear—something else. A formless sorrow, as if she had lost something precious. Or someone.
She stumbled on a stone and fell nose-first. A flare of frustration bloomed, sharp and instinctive, and a small, unconscious gust of Qi snapped a nearby dry branch. She froze in surprise. There was Qi inside her: weak, unstable… yet hers. "What… am I?"
The moon climbed over the treetops. In the still pond nearby, its reflection wavered. And for an instant, she did not see a fox, but a young woman with silver light dancing in her eyes. She blinked. The vision faded. Confused and afraid, she burrowed beneath fallen leaves, trembling. And so the night passed. And the next. And another moon. Nameless. Memoryless. Alone. Only the forest… and her instincts.
Years later…
The little vixen had grown, though she remained small. She moved with silent control, a white shadow gliding through the forest without a trace. She had learned to avoid humans, hostile beasts, and cultivators who sometimes walked the ancient paths. She avoided them all… until that night.
The sky tore with a roar. A figure fell like a comet, wrapped in golden flames. It crashed into a nearby clearing, smashing trees and ripping the earth. Birds fled. Beasts howled. But the fox, instead of running, drew near. And saw him.
A young man in celestial robes, body shattered and bloodied; his face as perfect and untouchable as a statue carved by the heavens. His chest rose and fell shallowly. His sword, broken. His spiritual ring, fractured. His countenance… serene, even under death's shadow.
The fox stared at him. And something deep within her, buried and mute, cracked. A tear slid from her eye. She didn't know why. She only knew she could not let him die.
With tiny, trembling steps, she dragged him—gnawing his robe, pushing with her small body—back to her hidden sanctuary: a cave behind a waterfall, warm and concealed, a place she had found long ago. There, not knowing her own name, nor his, she began to tend him. Day after day. Night after night. Warming his body. Cleaning his wounds. Bringing him water and wild herbs.
For the first time since she had awakened in this strange, quiet world… she was no longer alone.
On the third dawn in the cave, the stranger's fever burned like a sacred ember. The fox pressed her muzzle to his brow, and the heat bit at her whiskers. She panted, agitated. She dropped beside him a handful of bitter leaves she had learned to chew into pulp. She nudged them toward his lips, patient; he did not respond.
Then the moon changed in the water. On the veil of the waterfall, where dew captured light, small silver arcs danced. The fox felt the vibration under her skin, the shiver of a waking meridian. It was not hunger or fear. It was the same note she had heard when the seal opened: a calling.
She curled against the young man's chest and let her small Qi—no more than a thread—spill forth. The contact hurt like ice, but she persisted. The thread sought his heartbeat and twined around it, joining rhythm to rhythm. The young man's skin tightened; his lips parted.
"Moon…" he whispered, still asleep.
The sound pierced her as though it were her name. She did not know why, but she answered with a soft chirr, almost human. The thread of Qi grew clearer. At the tip of her single tail a fine arc shone, and beneath her skin a second sprout of light felt the air, timid as a shoot.
They slept like that, knotted to a shared heartbeat.
When the young man finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was white: the curve of a back, the moon-mark on fur damp with mist. When he tried to rise, pain split his breath. The fox leapt and set a paw upon his chest, as if she could command him to stay.
He obeyed.
It took him a while to focus. He recognized the roar of a waterfall, the mineral scent, the echo of a cave. He remembered the burning sky, the pursuit, the burst in the arm meridian when his ring fractured. Above all, he remembered the figure that fell beside him in the clearing… and betrayal.
His hand searched. Beneath his elbow lay a shard of jade, tempered by water. He took it. Nine interlaced half-moons were carved upon it. His thumb traced the pattern like a prayer. A crack ran through the amulet.
"Li Jiutian…" he murmured, and the cave seemed to shrink at the sound of the name.
The fox tilted her head, attentive. She did not understand, but she recognized the tone: that sound carried the weight of identity. He clumsily stroked the white head. His fingers smelled of iron and rain. She did not flee.
"Thank you," he said, awkwardly, to a creature that could not answer him.
The fox did, however: she brushed his palm with her nose and let a spark of Qi leap once more. The jade answered with a pale pulse. The young man narrowed his eyes: this creature was saving his life with an art that did not belong to common beasts.
"What are you?" he asked, barely a thread of voice.
The water did not answer. The fox did: she dragged his broken sword toward him, as if to show she had been guarding his things. He smiled, a grimace that hurt.
The respite did not last. Outside, the forest breathed differently: leaves stepped on with discipline, voices barely above a whisper, metal against wood. The fox tensed, ears pointing toward the light at the entrance. The young man heard it too; his hand sought the habit of a sword, but found only a jagged edge.
"They've followed my trail," he said. And in that brief shadow, the prince's serenity yielded to instinct: survive.
The fox bit his sleeve and tugged, urging him deeper into the cave. He hesitated: water fell across the entrance like a curtain; beyond, the tunnel forked in two. To the left, cold air; to the right, the scent of sweet earth and old flowers.
The steps halted before the waterfall. Three, perhaps four. A low laugh, the acrid reek of burned resin.
"Find the jade of Prince Li Jiutian," ordered Xie Moran, his voice rough and gravelly, the accent of the Demonic Realm. "I want it intact."
The fox trembled. Light flared at her tail. The young man looked at her; for the first time, there was pleading in his eyes.
"If you stay," he said, "they'll find us. If you run…"
He did not finish. Outside, a palm struck the water and the waterfall opened like a glass door. Golden light poured in.
The fox did not think. She leapt.
The forest night received them with a thousand eyes. She ran between ferns and roots, a white spark. Behind her, the pursuers' steps tore the undergrowth wide open. The young man, braced against the wall, pressed the jade to his chest and let a strand of his own Qi slip out—just enough to draw the water-curtain closed again.
"Come back," he whispered, not knowing to whom he spoke. "Come back to me."
Only an echo answered from afar.