A Drop of Red in the Green

The Outer Herb Gardens of the Azure Mist Sect smelled of wet earth, crushed mint, and insignificance. For Jing, it was paradise.

He knelt in the mud, his robes stained green at the knees, carefully pruning the leaves of a Moon-Whisper Fern. Around him, the morning mist clung to the low hills, hiding the towering, jagged silhouettes of the inner peaks where the "real" cultivators lived.

Jing hummed a soft, off-key tune. He was eighteen, with messy brown hair and a spiritual root that the Elders described as "disappointingly average." He had a Wood Spirit affinity, which meant plants liked him, but swords did not. In a sect that worshipped the blade, he was little more than a glorified gardener.

He didn't mind. Swords were loud. Plants were quiet.

* CRASH.*

The silence shattered. Something heavy slammed into the spirit soil three rows over, sending a plume of dirt and shredded cabbage into the air.

Jing yelped, falling backward onto his rear. He scrambled up, grabbing his trowel—a woefully inadequate weapon—and crept toward the impact site.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice trembling. "Please don't eat the spirit radishes. The Elder counts them."

In the center of the crater lay a figure.

It was a girl. She wore the snow-white robes of the Frozen Sword Peak, now stained with a shocking amount of crimson. Her hair was black ink spilling over the tilled earth. A silver sword, cracked down the middle, lay just out of her reach.

Jing gasped. He recognized the uniform. An Elite Disciple.

She moved, a ragged, jerky motion. She rolled onto her back, and Jing saw her face. She was devastatingly beautiful, with skin like porcelain and eyes like shattered ice. But her side was torn open, a nasty gash leaking spiritual energy and blood.

She tried to summon her Qi, but coughed, blood flecking her lips. Her eyes locked onto Jing. There was no plea for help in them. Only the cold calculation of a cornered predator deciding if he was a threat.

"You," she rasped. Her hand twitched toward the broken sword.

Jing dropped his trowel. "You're hurt."

He didn't run away. He didn't bow and scrape, as was protocol when an Outer Disciple met an Elite. He rushed forward, falling to his knees beside her.

"Don't move," he said, his hands hovering over the wound. "The Qi turbulence is tearing the wound wider."

The girl stared at him. She seemed confused that he wasn't cowering. "Get away," she hissed. "I'll kill you."

"You can kill me later," Jing said, reaching into his pouch. "Right now, you're leaking."

He pulled out a jar of Spirit-Mending Paste—his own concoction, made from the very herbs he grew. It smelled of honey and fresh rain. He scooped a glob onto his fingers.

"This will sting," he apologized.

He pressed the paste into the gash on her side.

The girl flinched, her body seizing. She grabbed his wrist with a grip that could crush stone. Jing winced but didn't pull away. He channeled his meager Wood Qi into the paste, activating the healing properties. A soft, green light glowed under his fingers, warm and soothing.

The tension in her grip slowly faded. The bleeding stopped. The jagged edges of the wound began to knit together.

Jing sighed in relief, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He smiled at her—a genuine, sunny smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"There," he said. "Good as new. Well, almost. You should rest for an hour."

He reached over and plucked a small, blue Star-Flower growing nearby. He tucked it behind her ear.

"For the pain," he explained. "My mother used to say flowers help."

The girl lay frozen. She touched the flower. She looked at the healing wound. Then, she looked at Jing.

For Xiulan, the Blood-Lotus Fairy, life had been a series of transactions. Pain for power. Obedience for survival. Blood for status. No one had ever touched her without trying to hurt her or use her.

But this boy... his hands were warm. His Qi was soft. He didn't want anything.

Something in her mind, a jagged glass structure built of trauma and discipline, shattered. In the void it left, a new, singular truth took root.

She sat up, ignoring the stiffness in her side. She reached out and touched Jing’s cheek. Her fingers were cold, stained with her own blood, but her touch was reverent.

"What is your name?" she asked. Her voice was no longer a hiss. It was a hollow, hungry thing.

"Jing," he said, blinking.

"Jing," she repeated, tasting the word.

She stood up. The broken sword levitated into her hand. She looked down at him, her eyes darkening, the ice melting into a chaotic, swirling ocean.

"You are mine now," she said.

Jing blinked again. He assumed she meant he was now her servant, or perhaps her debtor. "Oh. Um. Okay? Do you need more paste?"

Xiulan didn't answer. She turned and vanished in a blur of movement, leaving Jing sitting in the mud, confused, with a bloody handprint on his cheek.