Teacher by day, Farmer by passion

Years spent buried in forbidden knowledge—truths no mortal was meant to hold.

Years where time slipped by unnoticed, like sand through dead fingers.

Years lived not as a person, but as a mind unraveling in silence—

Until she no longer realized what pieces of herself had been lost.

When she finally stepped out of the accursed library, her feet brushing the grass once more, Sarah realized the world had changed.

The Hua family she once heard of—honored and noble—had withered to a shadow of itself.

Their name, once sung with reverence, was now spoken only in whispers.

"A hundred years have passed since the Great War!"

A child's voice cracked through the silence.

"We surrendered! Why must you hunt us to the very end?!"

He stood trembling in the ruins of a village, tears streaming down his soot-streaked cheeks, shouting at soldiers from the Wood family whose blades gleamed in the sunlight.

Sarah hovered silently above the scene, her robes fluttering, eyes cold.

She had come searching for a name—a memory. A lifeline to who she was indebted to.

But what she found was a broken line, on the verge of annihilation.

When the soldiers raised their swords to strike the boy, she acted.

She didn't chant. Didn't raise a hand.

Just a whisper, soft as a lullaby:

"Stop."

And the world obeyed.

She had moved in an instant, faster than she could even have thought and what remained of the soldiers were only empty husks of armor.

Their bodies had simply... unraveled. Disintegrated. Gone without a scream.

She stood before the child, who did not flinch despite seeing the death she brought.

Instead, he looked up at her—eyes wide not with tears, but hope.

"Will you save my family, Saviour?"

His voice was soft. Gentle.

Despite the tears, there was a stillness in him that reminded her of herself.

And in his reflection, she saw her true appearance.

She was not the girl she remembered.

She no longer winced at death, no longer recoiled at power.

There was no hesitation in the destruction she brought.

Time had hollowed her, sharpened her.

She had changed—in body, in spirit, in soul.

Still, she placed a hand on the boy's head, her voice a promise etched in eternity.

"The Hua family... I will try my best to save you."

And thus began the Great Truce.

She fought not with armies, but with truths no human should hold.

She bent the heavens.

Ripped through veils. Broke bloodlines that had ruled unchallenged for millennia.

Victory was no longer a question.

It became a burden.

Because when the last stronghold of the Wood family fell and their legacy teetered on extinction… it was not their strength, nor their pleas that saved them.

It was the same boy—now grown into the proud head of the Hua family—who knelt before Sarah and begged for mercy on their behalf.

And that, more than anything, broke her.

She had become so consumed by her war that the very people she swore to protect had to shield others from her.

So she left.

No fanfare. No grand departure.

Only a single message passed down for the Hua family:

"I am Sarah. Remember this well: it was not I who saved your family from the destruction caused by the Wood (Lin) Family, but the coward of the Hua family who saved me and died fighting. Be grateful to him, not me."

And with that, she vanished.

Gone without a trace.

After her departure, Sarah drifted along the winding path of the dark valley river.

She had the power to soar across the river in a single breath now.

But she didn't.

Not because she couldn't—but because she was too late.

Her mother was gone.

Not even the wind remembered her mother's name.

No ashes. No headstone. Not even a rumor.

Just silence—

And how could they?

Her family had been no one special.

There was no legacy. Nor excellent lineage.

They were just poor and meant to be forgotten and replaced after death.

Sarah stood where their home used to be.

The ruins were gone now, replaced by a cheerful house, laughter echoing from inside.

A new family lived there.

A very happy one.

Her voice broke in the still air.

"Mom… I'm sorry."

She stared at the moonlight as she remembered bedtime stories, told beneath flickering candlelight, on creaky wooden floors.

Her favorite had always been Little Fool.

The story of a boy, strange and bright, who believed that even the poor could fly.

That people like them could reach the skies.

That order and hope weren't just for the wealthy.

He'd say, "We can fly too."

When she once asked how, her mother had smiled and whispered:

"A plane. He says he'll build us a plane. And guess what? It worked."

Sarah had gasped, eyes wide.

"Really!?" she had squealed, back then.

So full of wonder. So full of belief.

Now she hovered in the very sky she once dreamed of.

She whispered, almost to herself:

"Why build a plane," she whispered, "for those never meant to leave the ground?"

Her smile twisted—bitter, brittle.

"The sky was never meant for the poor… only preserved for the powerful."

Her eyes darkened.

"Why make it convenient when the poor are taught to see it as prestige?"

She paused.

"I understand now why they called him a fool.

Why they burned his blueprints.

Why they erased his name."

Her gaze turned sharp, bitter.

"The five great families—"

Her soul force crackled faintly in the air.

"—are the reason there is no progress.

They feared the dream of a fool…

because he dared to give wings to the ground-bound."

Just then, something tugged at Sarah's senses.

She turned.

A flicker of soft orange light moved in the dark—a lantern swaying gently in the breeze.

A girl stood by the riverbank.

Barefoot. Sleeves caked in mud.

Straining to push a rotting boat that refused to move—

as if the river itself mourned the dead.

Inside the boat… an old woman lay still. Eyes closed. Arms crossed over her chest.