The mother Mist?horned beast turned toward a hidden hollow in the tree,

  its entrance covered in thick, glowing moss.

  She gently pulled out a broad leaf—heart?shaped,

  its edges shimmering silver.

  It held a pool of milky liquid,

  carrying a faint scent of nuts and fresh grass.

  She placed the leaf before Pardy,

  stepped back two paces,

  and bowed her head.

  Her horn glowed steadily in gold.

  Pardy sat down, lifted the leaf with both hands,

  and drank in small, quiet sips.

  His movements were smooth and composed—

  far too composed for a child his age.

  But when a drop of milk touched the corner of his mouth,

  he wiped it with his tiny hand,

  and that small gesture reminded Qingyin—

  he truly was only two.

  Sunri watched in silence,

  his eyes shadowed with tangled emotion.

  Qingyin whispered, “Your son…”

  Sunri shook his head, gaze never leaving Pardy.

  “He’s like his mother… not ordinary.”

  “Where is your wife?”

  “Gone.”

  His voice was barely audible.

  “I’m looking for her.”

  Pardy finished the mist?milk and exhaled softly,

  a small smile lifting his lips.

  He stood, swayed once,

  then walked steadily toward the Riftbeast.

  The leaf trembled in his hands,

  but not a drop spilled.

  The Riftbeast lowered its head

  and carefully licked the remaining milk.

  Its movements were gentle—

  nothing like the ferocity from before.

  As the mist?milk slid down its throat,

  its breathing steadied.

  The silver stripes along its body regained their glow.

  Wounds closed visibly,

  and though still weak,

  it could stand without trembling.

  Qingyin watched,

  her master’s words rising unbidden—

  The forest has its own laws.

  Creatures from different times

  can still form twisted yet stable bonds.

  She was seeing it now.

  The Mist?horned beasts offered mist?milk—

  a liquid that healed and calmed.

  The Riftbeasts offered protection—

  their unnatural strength and speed

  driving away predators.

  Qingyin’s gaze drifted.

  Her forgotten task resurfaced—

  the Mist?horned beast’s horn.

  Her master wanted a fragment as proof of her training.

  But looking at these gentle creatures,

  who had shown them nothing but goodwill,

  her brow tightened,

  and her smile faltered.

  The thought had barely formed

  when a young Mist?horned beast approached.

  It carried a broken horn in its mouth—

  about the length of a hand,

  semi?transparent like crystal,

  its fracture smooth,

  as if shed naturally.

  The horn glowed faint blue,

  its light scattering through the mist.

  The young beast placed it at Qingyin’s feet,

  stepped back,

  and bowed.

  Its own horn shimmered with soft gold.

  Qingyin froze.

  She picked up the fragment—

  its warmth made her pause.

  “You… knew what I was thinking?”

  The beast didn’t answer,

  but its horn flickered gently,

  as if affirming.

  As Qingyin tightened her grip on the horn,

  Sunri suddenly felt the sun?mark on his palm heat up—

  not burning,

  but resonant,

  as though something was pulling him

  toward the fragment.

  The horn pulsed,

  its blue light brightening and dimming.

  The sun?mark’s gold responded,

  the two lights echoing each other.

  “What is this…?”

  Sunri clutched his wrist

  as a foreign sensation flooded his mind.

  It wasn’t language.

  It wasn’t imagery.

  It was something more primal—

  like dipping a hand into a stream

  and letting the current carry messages from upstream.

  Qingyin sensed the shift.

  “Sunri, what’s happening?”

  But Sunri had already closed his eyes,

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  letting the memory wash over him.

  It surged like a tide.

  Not human memory—

  but fragments from the Mist?horned beasts,

  spanning generations.

  Sunri saw an ancient grassland.

  Sunlight poured over lush vegetation.

  A larger, stronger breed of Mist?horned beasts lived there—

  warm?colored fur,

  horns glowing in many hues,

  calling rain,

  whispering to plants,

  healing minor wounds.

  They were not small then.

  They were revered.

  Then humans came.

  At first—

  reverence.

  Humans built white?stone altars,

  offered their best grain,

  and treated the beasts as divine messengers.

  The beasts returned the kindness—

  mist?milk healed sickness,

  helped crops grow,

  even eased the climate.

  But reverence turned to greed.

  Someone discovered that powdered horn

  could slow aging,

  strengthen the body,

  even keep the dying alive for a few more days.

  And so the hunting began.

  Not for survival—

  but for desire.

  Sunri saw a pregnant mother beast

  surrounded by more than twenty hunters.

  Her mate charged forward

  and was pierced by a poisoned spear,

  the grass stained red.

  The mother unleashed a shockwave,

  knocking several hunters down,

  and fled into the mountains,

  gravely wounded.

  Her horn broke during the escape.

  Her unborn child—

  the ancestor of this very herd.

  The scenes shifted rapidly.

  Endless fleeing.

  Across deserts.

  Over snow?capped mountains.

  Companions falling one by one.

  Until they reached this forest—

  the Mistwood.

  Ancient trees.

  Perpetual fog.

  A natural barrier.

  A sanctuary.

  But they were not alone.

  The Riftbeasts lived here.

  Their first encounters were violent.

  Riftbeasts—

  born from some law?shift long ago—

  bodies like bears,

  agile as cats,

  herbivores with a predator’s aggression,

  silver stripes glowing in the dark.

  They saw the Mist?horned beasts as invaders

  and attacked.

  The conflict lasted seasons.

  Both sides suffered.

  Both dwindled.

  The turning point came one rainy dusk.

  A mother Mist?horned beast,

  weakened after a difficult birth,

  could not produce enough milk.

  Her newborn was dying.

  At that moment,

  an injured Riftbeast staggered past—

  fang marks from a giant serpent on its body,

  poison spreading,

  amber eyes fading.

  The mother did something unthinkable—

  she shared half of her remaining mist?milk

  with the Riftbeast.

  The milk eased the poison,

  pushed the beast into a brief “enhanced state,”

  and its wounds healed rapidly.

  In return,

  the Riftbeast drove away all nearby threats—

  including a night predator drawn by blood—

  allowing the mother and child to recover.

  From that day,

  a twisted but stable symbiosis formed.

  Mist?milk for healing.

  Riftbeast strength for protection.

  Riftbeast droppings enriched the soil,

  growing the plants the Mist?horned beasts fed on.

  Mist?horned shockwaves drove off smaller predators,

  reducing the Riftbeasts’ patrol burden.

  Eventually,

  they developed a complex territorial system—

  Riftbeasts marking borders with hides and bones,

  avoiding the Mist?horned nesting grounds,

  creating an invisible safe zone.

  Mist?horned beasts allowed Riftbeasts

  to approach at certain times

  to collect limited mist?milk

  for healing or battle enhancement.

  Not friendship—

  but a hard?won pact

  forged through blood,

  trial,

  and necessity.

  It was this pact

  that allowed two natural enemies

  to coexist in the Mistwood.

  At the end of the memory,

  Sunri saw a figure.

  A gray?blue robe.

  Long hair drifting like seaweed in the fog.

  Lunelle stood by this very stream,

  her hand resting on the brow of an old Mist?horned beast.

  A crescent mark glowed faintly on her palm.

  The beast’s horn shone in response—

  not gold,

  not blue?white,

  but pure silver,

  like condensed moonlight.

  The old beast released a long, resonant call.

  The entire herd gathered around Lunelle,

  their horns weaving a net of light.

  They kept that memory close—

  treasured it.

  To them,

  Lunelle was not a passerby.

  She was…

  an awakening.

  The old beast she touched

  died naturally three months later.

  Its shed horn was preserved by the herd—

  the very one now in Qingyin’s hands.

  The young doctor halted mid?stride.

  “The pain from that day still lingers.”

  “But some have been healed, and some still choose to watch over.”