In the southern part of the forest, where even trees grew fangs and sang lullabies of venom, a minor earthquake occurred.
It was not the dangerous kind. It was the grandfather kind.
"Old Man Tu is coming!" Someone screeched—probably the wind, probably a squirrel.
The disciples from the permitted sect, already camped at the edge of Xiulan's Forest farm, immediately flinched and began activating protective talismans. The quake shook their soup pot and one man accidentally stabbed his own scroll with a spiritual brush.
A tree cracked. Birds flew. One disciple softly muttered, "Is that a spiritual beast?"
It was.
It was Old Man Tu.
A bear so large and so old that even his own species had stopped counting his birthdays. His fur was a magnificent mess of bronze and silvery white, like a storm cloud dipped in sunlight. He walked with the huff of a tired emperor and the warmth of a mountain cave during winter.
And Xiulan, precious green-haired sprout that he was, ran at him like a projectile carrot.
"GRANDPA TUUUU!!!" Xiulan squealed, launching himself without hesitation.
The ground trembled again—not because of Tu's landing this time, but because of impact affection. Old Man Tu caught the child mid-leap, spun him in the air with a delighted roar, and then promptly crushed him into his chest fluff.
"Careful," a very nervous disciple whispered from the treeline, still wary. "That thing could end humanity if it tripped."
"You should first be careful about your choice of words."
Elder Mei side-eyed the disciple and sighed. "That thing is a guardian," she corrected. "And the only reason you're breathing forest air is because the child in his arms allows it."
Because here is what everyone in the cultivation world knew:
The Forest was sacred.
And dangerous.
And ancient.
And only one sect had the absurd luck—and even more absurd patience—to be allowed to set foot within it, for the sake of educating the mysterious "spirit child" that the forest itself had adopted. Everyone else was either a skeleton now or a cautionary tale.
This town was infamous for its population of rogue cultivators—powerful, wild, and only half-interested in rules—as well as common folk whose bodies had grown unnaturally strong over generations of absorbing the spiritual qi that leaked from the nearby forest.
It was not lawless, per se, but the laws bent often and snapped occasionally—especially if a cultivator's temper was shorter than their sword.
In such a place, a sect had been built not as a beacon of righteousness, but more as a stabilizing weight. It did not govern so much as it watched—maintaining just enough order to keep the town from collapsing into a chaos of brawls and blood debts.
The sect enforced the bare minimum of rules: no soul-devouring in public, no sword fights before breakfast, and absolutely no turning people into talking weapons without a permit.
And for the most part, the town accepted that.
Grudgingly.
With occasional explosions.
Xiulan, of course, knew none of that. He was too busy getting aggressively kissed by an oversized snout and tickled by Tu's enormous paw.
"You still weigh less than a rabbit," Tu grunted proudly.
"I grew three leaves taller this spring! The really long ones!" Xiulan argued. "Don't underestimate my bone mass!"
Old Man Tu wheezed a great bear laugh and collapsed onto the soft moss, dragging Xiulan with him, embracing him into his body. The moment was warm. His scent was honeycomb, pine sap, and occasional ghost pepper.
Xiulan bounced on his belly like a leaf on a stream. His laugh filling the forest air with love, happiness and acceptance that humans couldn't provide.
"You promised me a story!" he said between giggles.
"Ah yes, yes…" Tu mused, eyes twinkling like someone remembering a particularly successful bee raid. "Today I shall tell you about The Great Honey Robbery… and the fiery female cultivator who tried to win my heart with a fishing rod and a chicken leg."
Xiulan gasped. "That sounds like something I'd write in my leaf diary!"
Tu chuckled. "It's something your ancestors probably did."
Meanwhile, Elder Mei stood off to the side, hand hovering protectively over her disciple, eyes soft as she watched Xiulan.
She was a cultivator of refined taste and great restraint… which made it harder to deny the overwhelming desire to ruffle the child's wild green hair, bundle him in five quilts, and feed him steamed buns until he fell asleep.
Her disciples were no better. Every single female cultivator who had been permitted into the forest for educational purposes had returned with only two sentiments:
Awe—at the ecosystem of spiritual madness that operated with perfect harmony. Pain—because they had developed an uncontrollable maternal instinct for the mysterious forest child with luminous eyes and a smile bright enough to make spirit beasts purr.
"Disciple Rong," Elder Mei warned one of her newer juniors, "Stop writing poetry about his eyelashes. It would not help with your cultivation."
"But Master, they glisten like dew on jade grass!"
"Your sword glistens too. Use it."
"But Master, I have already written poetry about my sword."
"That's why I said, 'Use it.'"
Back on the moss-pillow of Tu's stomach, Xiulan was kicking his legs and giggling like a cub. Looking exactly like a baby. Green-haired baby.
The Great Honey Robbery turned out to be a tale of mistaken identity, flying bamboo baskets, and a cultivator trying to seduce Old Man Tu by challenging him to a honey-finding contest in the middle of spiritual beast migration season. It ended with Tu sleeping for a week and the woman riding off on a boar she claimed was her "destiny".
"I never saw her again," Tu finished solemnly. "She was a bit like you. Stubborn. Loud. Grew mushrooms on accident."
Xiulan was radiant with delight. "Grandpa, why don't you tell more stories like these? They are funny!"
Tu smiled, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Because most of them involve me being bested by small, annoying creatures. Mostly humans."
"So, like me!"
"You're the worst one."
"Thanks, Grandpa Tu!" Xiulan beamed, feeling elated.
The sun filtered through the high forest canopy, painting golden light across bear fur and giggling child limbs. Somewhere not far off, Baby Po was hanging upside down in wolf form from a spiritual tree, claiming he was "just observing photosynthesis in action."
The world beyond the forest still spun. Cultivators still trained. Sects still schemed.
But here—just for now—Xiulan was eight years old. A child. A laughing little miracle raised by wolves, mushrooms, and ancient beasts who sometimes turned into chickens when they drank his soup.
And Grandpa Tu?
He leaned back, let out a long, bearish sigh, and whispered in his deep rumble:
"...Maybe I will tell him the one about the fish who wanted to ascend next. The heavenly koi immortal."