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Spring came the following year.
For 50 kilometers, peach blossoms bloomed in full splendor. And deep within that sea of flowers, hidden away from the world, lay a secluded estate, a pastoral sanctuary where winding paths crisscrossed and the sounds of roosters and dogs echoed through the air.
There was only one entrance, a narrow mountain stream.
To reach the estate, one had to travel by boat.
And in the heart of this peach blossom haven, a young man sat alone by the yellow earth, where fresh blades of grass had just begun to sprout. His dark robe hung loosely around him, and his hair fell freely over his shoulders as he fished quietly by the water’s edge.
He looked young, but his eyes betrayed a different story. They were distant, clouded by the weight of centuries, filled with the desolate calm of one who had seen too much.
He said nothing, just fished, watching the ripples in the stream, the sky reflected in the water, and the lazy drift of passing clouds.
Behind him, the sudden sound of children’s laughter broke the silence, light footsteps running across the soft soil.
The children...
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