Chronicles of Fates Path

A low rumble of thunder echoed across the sky, rolling over the distant mountains like a herald of impending chaos. Gray clouds gathered above Baihe Village, a small settlement on the very outskirts of the Longxia Empire, and by late afternoon, a steady rain had begun to fall. The village consisted of perhaps two dozen wooden houses set along a single dirt road, each home built with humble means. Most bore simple tiled roofs and paper-paneled windows designed to keep out the elements. Yet on this night, neither sturdy timbers nor the prayers of the villagers seemed enough to keep the storm's fury at bay.

In the farthest house at the edge of the village, a faint glow of candlelight flickered behind shutters. Inside, Lan Zhuoran knelt on a tatami mat, methodically cycling through the Five-Winds Form his late father had once taught him. Although only eighteen years old, Lan Zhuoran showed the poise and discipline of one who had been training for years. His lean arms moved in a graceful arc, palms slicing the air as if to channel unseen energy. The quiet shuffle of his feet against the bamboo floor became lost beneath the drumming of rain on the roof.

A ragged gust of wind rattled the shutters, making the small flame of the oil lamp tremble. From where she sat near a low wooden table, Madam Qiu—the woman who had helped raise him after his parents' passing—looked up with concern. She was in her early fifties, her hair pinned in a tight bun that had begun to show strands of silver. Though her features were kind, there was a seriousness in her dark eyes that spoke of hardships endured.

"Zhuoran, enough practice," she murmured gently, setting down her sewing. "You've been at it all day. Come rest before you exhaust yourself."

He came to a fluid stop, letting out a measured breath. Despite the humidity in the air, his breathing remained steady, an indication of his solid foundational training. "I'm alright, Auntie Qiu," he said, wiping a light sheen of sweat from his brow. "Something about this storm puts me on edge. It helps to focus my mind."

Madam Qiu offered a small nod. She, too, sensed the storm's peculiarity. The sky had been oppressively dark since morning, and the temperature felt oddly cool for the season. It was as if nature itself conspired to cloak the village in unease. No one in Baihe was used to weather this fierce, especially not after sunset.

Just then, a powerful clap of thunder boomed overhead, rattling clay cups and bowls on a nearby shelf. Lan Zhuoran glanced at the door, half expecting someone to burst in with news of an emergency. Though Baihe Village was far removed from major roads, the tempest might wreak havoc on their flimsy structures, or cause a flash flood along the nearby river. He could already picture trees uprooted and fields ruined.

"Let me check the door," he said. "The latch might not hold if the wind gets any stronger."

He moved across the small living area, passing a shelf lined with simple mementos. A worn wooden flute sat next to a faded scroll—one of the few possessions left by his father. Lan Zhuoran felt a familiar pang of longing. Memories of his father demonstrated how powerful the Five-Winds Form could be, but there was so much more to the old cultivation arts that had been lost to time. If only he had someone to guide him, someone who could help him master the form to its true depth.

He slid the door open just a crack, peering out into the torrential downpour. The wind whipped cold droplets against his cheeks, and his eyes narrowed at the intensity of it all. The village street lay deserted, puddles reflecting the distorted outlines of huts and fences. A bolt of lightning illuminated the muddy path for an instant, revealing nothing but wind-whipped rain. Then darkness closed in once more.

Suddenly, something moved at the edge of his vision—a faint figure trudging through the storm. Lan Zhuoran blinked, unsure if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Another flash of lightning rippled across the sky, and he saw the figure clearly: a hooded person, possibly a woman, stumbling forward with uneven steps. She clutched something long and wrapped, an object hidden beneath the folds of a drenched cloak. Though Baihe rarely received outsiders, here one stood, battered by the elements.

Uncertain of what to do, Lan Zhuoran hesitated for a heartbeat before deciding. "Auntie Qiu," he called out, voice tense. "Someone's out there."

Madam Qiu set aside her sewing and joined him. Together, they watched the figure approach, each step labored as if from great fatigue or injury. Then, with a rasping moan, the stranger collapsed against the fence bordering their yard, the muddy ground splashing around her legs.

Without a second thought, Lan Zhuoran rushed outside, bare feet sliding across wet wood as he navigated the slippery ground. Rain pelted his face, chilling him to the bone. He reached the stranger in seconds, catching her by the shoulders before she could crumple fully into the mud. The hood fell back, revealing a young woman—pale, soaked, and clearly exhausted.

"Help…" she whispered, voice almost lost in the chaos of the storm. Her eyes, half-lidded, shone with desperate urgency. Clutched in her arms was a tightly wrapped bundle that she refused to relinquish even as she struggled to remain conscious.

Lan Zhuoran felt a surge of protectiveness, though he had no idea who she was. "Don't worry. We'll get you inside," he said, though the sound barely carried over the rain.

He looped an arm around her, supporting her slight frame. The bundle between them was surprisingly heavy, enough to make him stumble. Before he could question it, however, another roar of thunder spurred him to action. Madam Qiu stood by the door, waving frantically for them to come in.

In a matter of moments, they managed to guide the stranger into the house. Water pooled on the wooden floor from her soaked cloak, and Lan Zhuoran braced her by the shoulders as Madam Qiu slid the door shut. The wind outside howled in protest, as if demanding entry.

The young woman coughed, droplets of rainwater mingling with the beads of sweat on her brow. Her breathing was shallow, her face devoid of color. In the flickering lamplight, Lan Zhuoran noticed a crimson stain seeping through her left sleeve—a wound that hinted at violence.

Madam Qiu quickly fetched an extra blanket, draping it around the stranger's shoulders. "Easy now," she said in a soothing voice, her concern evident. "You're safe here. Let's get you warm."

Yet even as the woman allowed herself to be lowered onto a straw mat, her grip on the long, wrapped object never relaxed. She blinked, trying to focus, and managed to mouth a few words. Lan Zhuoran leaned in, struggling to catch her faint whisper.

"Danger… they'll come… for this," she rasped, tapping the bundle with trembling fingers.

Lan Zhuoran's heart pounded, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension flooding him. Whoever she was, something more than the storm had driven her to this desperate state. While the thunder rolled once more, he exchanged a troubled glance with Madam Qiu. Little did he know, this was but the first of many storms that would soon engulf his life—and the fate of the entire Longxia Empire.