Celebrations have a way of drawing out both light and shadow. The Festival of Sap was meant to be a private thanksgiving: the village offered songs to the willow and small tokens to the Seedbed. Colors flared through the square, drums thumped, and children chased one another with aromatic wreaths in hand. The air tasted like honey and burnt wood.
Qingmu, carried in celebration on a woven mat with a garland of new shoots about his neck, basked in the approval. Huo Ling'er and Shi Hao walked side by side, mock-arguing over who had planted the most auspicious herb. Shi Yi sneaked extra rice cakes into his mouth, a grin plastered on his face that would not admit its pleasure.
But where drums summon joy, they also thin the veil for certain guests. As the sun dipped low, a hush of steel slid into the crowd: assassins — small and disciplined — moved like a school of fish toward the center. Their purpose was precise: snatch a child, leave no witnesses.
The first knife sang across a vendor's throat. Shouts rose and the mat toppled; the celebration tumbled into chaos. Bai'e leapt in a blur of silver and shadow, scattering attackers with a single sweep of paw. Shi Hao, eyes hard as flint, drew a blade and became a human wall, cutting, parrying, turning danger aside with practiced ease.
In the turmoil, a woman screamed. Hands reached for a bundle by the kitchen stand — a young mother clutching a newborn not of Qingmu's line but a village child borne of simple earth and mortal love. She had been named Lian, and she was one of many whose small lives were now in danger.
A masked thief lunged. With a quietness like a knife through silk, he knocked the mother to the ground and tried to snatch her child. Stone Village was small; people moved fast. Shi Yi, who had started as a scamp, found something fierce in his chest and tackled the thief. They rolled in the dirt. The thief's mask cracked. A face revealed itself — not from a great lord, but a hired hand with desperate eyes.
Liu Shen unfurled a branch like a judge's gavel and struck the square with the sternness of winter. The willow's voice filled ears and bones: "Let no one harm those pledged to the Root." The assassins, who had expected coin and ransom, found their hands stuck to their hilts; their weapons rusted in a heartbeat as if the air itself had turned on them. One by one they feared what they had come to seek and fled, leaving behind snarled ropes and ruined intentions.
When the dust settled, a small miracle had occurred: though many were hurt, no child was taken. Lian's newborn lay wailing but unharmed, and when the mother cupped the infant to her breast, a luminous tear rolled down the child's cheek — not of pain but of recognition. The system chimed an unexpected reward.
[Event: Village Defense Successful. Random Blessing Granted: Hearth Blessing to Lian's Child — a minor Blessing to stabilise local life and protect domestic spaces.]
Everyone breathed: the festival had borne a cut but also a gain. Lian's fortune — small and blessing-touched — made her a symbol of the night's victory. The villagers learned the hard lesson that celebrations would be both shield and lure from then on.
Qingmu, who had watched with wide, sticky eyes, toddled into the arms of Shi Hao. The boy's hands were still stained with ash and soil; his laugh came raw and bright. "We scared them off," he babbled, as if this were a game. But the line between play and peril had narrowed forever.
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