Hylisi smiled faintly, the expression brief and restrained, as if she had long ago learned not to linger on gestures that invited misunderstanding.

"You are younger than my son," she said, her voice calm and measured, "yet more mature than him in ways that matter. I have neither the right nor the intention to reject your gift."

She inclined her head once–acknowledgment, not submission.

The mainland slipped into evening slowly, as if the land itself hesitated to move forward after what had unfolded during the day.

The market did not quiet from exhaustion.

It fell silent from fear.

Stalls were dismantled with unusual speed. Baskets were emptied and stacked away without bargaining or chatter. Voices dropped before dusk even arrived, merchants speaking only when necessary, eyes flicking often toward shadows and corners as though words themselves had become dangerous.

Hylisi closed her stall with her own hands.

She did not rush.

She did not call for help.

Each movement was calm, practiced, precise–folding cloth, stacking crates, covering baskets–as though the chaos of the day had been nothing more than an inconvenience to be tidied away before nightfall.

When the last basket of berries was secured, she turned toward the treasure hunters.

"You should rest here tonight," she said evenly. "The mainland isn't dangerous after dark–but wandering without shelter is foolish."

There was no warmth in the offer.

No expectation of gratitude.

Just practicality, delivered without ornament.

Kiaria nodded once in acceptance and issued quiet instructions. The group moved with efficiency born of long habit. Temporary tents were raised near the outskirts of the mainland–close enough that a faint glow from Hylisi's modest house remained visible through the trees, yet far enough that no one felt observed or encroached upon.

The camp settled.

Weapons were laid within arm's reach.

Armor straps were loosened.

Breaths slowed.

Night arrived gently, carrying with it the sounds of insects and distant wind, as though the land itself wished to pretend the day had never happened.

The Chief did not sleep.

He sat alone near the dim edge of the firelight, knees drawn slightly inward, eyes fixed on the ground as though answers might rise from the soil if he stared long enough. The events of the day replayed in fragments–voices raised and silenced, the weight of Kiaria's gaze, the sound of tongues striking earth.

And beneath all of it, more persistent than memory or fear–

Hylisi.

Standing before him.

Not screaming.

Not pleading.

Not accusing.

Just looking at him with a stare that carried the weight of something abandoned.

Hylisi noticed him then–sleepless, motionless save for the slow, mechanical act of tossing small pieces of wood into the fire. Each piece burned quickly, as though even the flames had no patience left.

She approached without sound.

"You alright?" she asked.

The Chief startled, rising too quickly, as though caught in wrongdoing.

Her hands paused mid-step.

She did not look at him immediately.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to the low stone step opposite her.

The word was not harsh.

It was not gentle either.

He obeyed.

For a moment, neither spoke. The fire crackled softly between them.

Then the Chief bowed his head.

"I came to apologize," he said.

The words left him heavily, as though dragged up from somewhere deep and unwilling. They were not rehearsed. Not shaped to sound respectable. Just raw and incomplete.

Silence lingered.

Then he bowed his head again, deeper this time.

"I was wrong," he said plainly. His fingers curled slowly against his knee. "You saved my life. You offered help when you had no obligation. And I…" His voice faltered once. "…I treated you like a problem to escape."

Hylisi finally looked at him.

Her gaze held no accusation.

No forgiveness.

Only honesty.

"I didn't ask for your apology earlier," she said. "Because it wouldn't have meant anything then."

He nodded once. "I know."

She returned to the cloth in her hands, stitching carefully, needle passing through fabric with practiced ease.

"You know?" she echoed. Her fist tightened slightly around the cloth. "Then tell me–do you know why I asked you to marry me?"

The Chief swallowed.

"I thought I did," he said.

"You thought I was shameless," she said calmly. "Or predatory. Or desperate."

"…Yes," he admitted, without defense.

She did not react.

Instead, she lifted her gaze toward the darkened mainland, where scattered lights flickered like wary eyes.

"You heard how they spoke about me today," she said. "Didn't you?"

He did not answer.

"If a man had stood beside me," she continued quietly, "do you think they would have dared?"

The Chief's chest tightened.

"No," he said.

Hylisi nodded once, as though confirming something she had never doubted.

"Then tell me," she said, her voice still level, "your wife and son–alive, but missing–do you truly believe they are spared such words?"

His breath caught.

Images surfaced unbidden. A woman standing alone. A child beside her. Eyes lingering too long. Whispers growing bold.

"…No," he said hoarsely.

She met his gaze fully now.

"That is why I asked," she said. "Not because I desired you. Not because I wished to bind you." Her tone sharpened–not with anger, but clarity. "But because the world listens differently when a man stands at a woman's side."

She leaned back slightly.

"'Marry me' was bait," she said simply. "A lie the world understands. A shield it respects."

The Chief clenched his jaw.

"You could have explained," he said quietly.

She shook her head.

"And you would have believed me?" she asked softly. "Or would you have thought I was justifying something ugly?"

Silence answered for him.

She looked toward the window of her house.

"My son was there," she said. "And still you thought I would do such things."

The words were not raised.

They landed heavier than accusation.

"No mother is like that," she continued quietly. "Not one who still stands."

The Chief's shoulders sagged.

"I saw them," he said. "My wife. My son. Just now." His voice cracked once. "Standing where you stood today."

Hylisi did not interrupt.

"I failed you," he said. "And them."

She studied him for a long moment.

Then she spoke again–neither gently nor harshly.

"I didn't need you to marry me," she said. "I needed you to understand."

He lifted his head.

"I do," he said. "Now."

She nodded once.

"That's enough," she replied.

Inside her house, the lamp flickered softly. Beyond the thin walls, her son slept soundly, his quiet snoring the only proof that, for this moment at least, the night had chosen peace.

Kiaria stepped out of his tent without sound.

The firelight caught the edge of his monochrome cloak as it shifted behind him, the luminous fabric folding and unfolding like a living shadow. His gaze moved once–taking in the scene before him.

Hylisi.

The Chief.

No words.

No judgment.

Just recognition.

He began walking toward them.

Mu Long moved before anyone else could react.

The axe slid free from his back in a smooth, deliberate motion and struck the ground with a dull, heavy thud. The sound carried farther than it should have in the quiet night.

Mu Long dropped to one knee.

His head lowered completely, posture rigid, spine straight despite the humility of the stance. His right fist pressed firmly against the left side of his chest.

"Patron," he said, voice steady but strained, "forgive me for what I did today."

He did not look up.

"I failed to act when I should have," Mu Long continued. "I allowed weakness to silence me. I swear–by my life and by my cultivation–I will stand for justice for the weak. I will not stain the name or teachings of Elder Mu Li again."

The night held its breath.

Kiaria stopped in front of him.

"Action," he said calmly, "speaks better than words."

Nothing more.

He stepped past Mu Long without waiting for a response.

Mu Long remained kneeling, unmoving, head still bowed long after Kiaria had passed him.

Kiaria did not acknowledge the Chief at all.

Not with a glance.

Not with a pause.

To him, the Chief might as well have been a shadow cast by the fire.

Kiaria stopped before Hylisi.

"Lady Hylisi," he said evenly, his tone stripped of threat but heavy with authority, "tell me the truths of this place."

A brief pause.

"And the truths of those beads."

Hylisi inhaled slowly.

"If you're asking about my ability," she said, lifting her right hand into the firelight, "it is something I was born with."

Her fingers trembled–not from fear, but memory.

"My right hand is… excessively soft," she continued. "Soft enough that even a shallow scratch can cut deep. My son inherited it from me."

She turned her palm slightly, the skin pale and unmarked, almost delicate to the point of fragility.

"The outer leafy coats of those berries are brittle," she explained. "Any pressure causes them to shatter instantly. But hands like mine–" her voice tightened, "–can pluck them cleanly without breaking the seal."

She laughed once, quietly. Bitterly.

"For a long time, I thought this hand was a curse."

Her breath shook.

"Until that night."

Tears slid down her face, unrestrained now.

Kiaria's gaze softened–not in pity, but in allowance.

"You may stop," he said. "If continuing will wound you further."

She shook her head immediately.

"No," she said. "If I stop now, it will remain poison inside me."

She drew in a breath and forced herself onward.

"We were a happy family," Hylisi said. "Truly happy. Then one night… my son came running into my room."

Her lips curved faintly at the memory.

"He was holding one of the beads. He had found it near the forest edge and wanted to show me."

Her fingers curled.

"Before we could even speak about it, my husband returned home–with his friends. They were drunk."

She swallowed hard.

"When they saw me… their expressions changed."

The fire crackled loudly.

"They hit my husband," she said flatly. "No warning. No reason."

Her hand clenched.

"My son ran to him. The bead was still in his hand."

Her voice broke.

"My husband's blood touched it."

Silence deepened.

"The Yin yolk solified," she whispered. "And the Yang core revealed itself."

Her breath came faster.

"My husband didn't even eat it. The bead was crushed beneath his bleeding palm–and the Yang essence flooded into him. His wounds closed instantly."

She looked up, eyes wet.

"We were shocked."

Her lips trembled.

"That miracle… cost him his life."

Kiaria's expression darkened.

"They understood what it was," she continued. "They threatened us. Ordered us to show them where it came from."

Her shoulders shook.

"My son had no choice. They dragged him to the forest."

She closed her eyes.

"One of them rushed forward and plucked a bead himself. His hands were hardened–martial cultivation, twisted techniques."

Her voice dropped.

"The coat shattered."

She opened her eyes.

"He died on the spot."

A pause.

"They forced my son to do it instead."

Her lips parted, breath shallow.

"He was right-handed," she said softly. "By luck–or curse–he plucked it cleanly."

Her tears fell freely now.

"They became greedy," she said. "Shameless. They forced us to pluck every bead we could find."

Her gaze lowered.

"My husband's throat was under their blades."

A long silence followed.

"We obeyed."

She wiped her face with her sleeve, unbothered by decorum.

"One of them consumed a bead directly from my son's hand," she said. "It burst in his mouth."

Her voice hollowed.

"He died too."

Her jaw tightened.

"That was when my husband fought back."

She inhaled sharply.

"He saved us."

Her voice broke completely.

"And he died doing it."

The night seemed heavier.

"For two years," Hylisi continued, quieter now, "we lived in trauma. Everything we had was gone. We were pitied. Harassed. Looked at like prey."

She laughed softly.

"No one stood for us."

Her gaze hardened.

"So I stood up myself."

She looked at Kiaria.

"By day, I built this business."

Her eyes darkened.

"And by night… men came to my door."

She raised her right hand again.

"I played along," she said. "But never let them touch me."

Her voice turned cold.

"I kept the beads in my right hand. I led them into the forest."

Her lips pressed thin.

"And I killed them."

She collapsed forward slightly, shoulders shaking.

Kiaria stepped closer.

"You do not need to cry," he said quietly.

She looked up at him.

"You are strong."

His voice carried weight–not comfort, not dismissal.

"Strong people do not rot in self-blame," Kiaria continued. "They decide what comes next."

He straightened fully.

"Let your sweat and blood shape this land," he said. "Not your tears."

He paused.

"And you will never need to ask anyone to marry you again."

Her breath caught.

"The gift I intend to give you," Kiaria continued evenly, "will protect you and your son–for as long as you draw breath."

Silence followed.

Hylisi wiped her tears slowly.

"…Mmm," she replied softly.

She smiled.

Not brightly.

But genuinely.

"I will guide you tomorrow," she said. "I'll explain the terrain. This land. Everything."

Her smile lingered.

And for the first time that night, it was peaceful.

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