There were trees in the forest that bore fruits of golden light, ones that sang lullabies, some that only bloomed during blood moons, and one that politely tried to stab you if you dared pluck its flowers.
But at the very edge of Xiulan's hidden garden, past the talking vines and emotionally unstable bamboo, stood The Whispering Tree. The oldest of its kind.
It was not tall enough to be majestic. It was fat enough, though.
Its bark was peeling in patterns that looked suspiciously like dramatic fan poses.
Its leaves shimmered unnaturally even on windless days.
And yet—it hummed. In a voice that sounded like poetry marinated in sarcasm and regret… and long-awaited retirement.
Xiulan first heard it one morning while watering his rune carrots, humming a tune he had learned from the frogs. He accidentally splashed water too close to the tree's roots.
"You dare drench me in unfiltered swamp juice? Is this how you repay a former Heavenly Archivist?!"
Xiulan blinked. Then rubbed his ears. "Hello?"
"Do not 'hello' me, mortal vegetable child. You are lucky I have not activated my bark defense mode."
Xiulan tilted his head. "You're... talking?"
"Oh finally," the tree said dryly. "Two centuries of standing in this emotionally constipated forest, and I get a child who can actually hear me."
As it turned out, the Whispering Tree—whose actual name was something too sacred, long, and over-explained for mortal memory—was a retired Heaven Bureaucrat. Specifically, a Tree of Cosmic Records. A living scroll. A worker bee of celestial paperwork.
"I used to file karmic logs," it groaned bitterly one day. "You know how many cultivators tried to reincarnate as phoenixes? Hundreds. I had to assign half of them as moths just for being annoying. The other half had no merit and thus ended up as chicken on a platter."
Xiulan, who by now had dragged over his mushroom stool and set up a soup pot near the roots, blinked. "Why did you get sent here?"
"I requested retirement," the tree sniffed. "But they said I had 'attitude concerns' and dropped me in the forest to 'cool off.' I've been cooling off for 243 years, and I still hate everyone."
Xiulan found him funny. Comforting even.
No one else could hear the tree.
Not Baby Po.
Not Uncle Hei.
Not Grandpa Tu.
Not even the squeaky squirrels or talkative vines.
Only Xiulan.
Which is why he had initially assumed this was one of his "spiritual whims" again. Maybe too much exposure to glowing soup. Or one too many soul herbs growing in his sleep garden. But the tree kept speaking—dry, deeply wise, and delightfully passive-aggressive—and it truly needed to cool off; its roasting is particularly scathing at times.
"You know," the tree began one morning, as Xiulan practiced writing his rune scripts on leaves, "your penmanship is fine—for someone who clearly holds their brush like a frightened goat."
Xiulan did not look up. "It's a sacred style passed down by a dancing monkey."
"Yes, that explains the lack of structure. And dignity."
Another time, while Xiulan poured tea at the roots:
"Your cultivation path is unique," said the tree, admiring the vibrant qi spiraling off Xiulan's fingers. "It's like someone took every profound technique known to the divine heavens… and then tried to mix it with bird calls, herb doodles, and bear hugs."
"Thank you," Xiulan said politely.
"That was not a compliment."
"I'll still take it."
"Can you make one on my hand?"
Xiulan looked up and blinked. Hard.
The tree sighed like a parent watching their child use a spoon upside down. "You are chaos in silk robes. But fine chaos. I have seen worse."
"Like who?"
"Most of Heaven. They'd bring chaos like it was their second nature."
Sometimes, the tree gave advice.
Rarely on request.
Once, when Xiulan was worried about why people always looked at him and then looked away blushing—regardless of gender, intent, or proximity—he sat under the tree, face buried in a dumpling.
"I don't get it," he mumbled.
The Whispering Tree yawned a leaf. "You are High Yin."
"I'm a what?"
"A spiritual polarity. Your body emits so much high yin that entire sects could use you to temper ice weapons. You are practically winter with legs."
Xiulan nodded thoughtfully. "That explains why frogs keep hibernating in my sleeves. The snakes too. But they strangle me."
"That is the least of your problems," the tree muttered. "If I were still working in Heaven, your aura would be categorized as 'illegal temptation'."
"I don't want to tempt anyone!"
"Tell your eyelashes."
Still, even as Xiulan's little fame grew, even as cultivators wandered into the forest under careful monitoring, even as Elder Mei tried (and failed) to make him wear standard disciple robes without mushroom embroidery—the Whispering Tree remained his secret.
His own myth.
When he mentioned it once to a disciple, she said, "Oh, the Whispering Tree? That is a bedtime tale. A tree that gives advice to the chosen one? No one has heard it in generations."
Xiulan blinked, then shrugged. "Must be my imagination."
Later that evening, as he told the tree what she said, the bark crackled.
"Have I lived long enough to be demoted to myth?"
"Apparently."
The tree was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Tell no one I still exist. Especially not that bird-brained Elder from the Righteous Cloud Sect. He borrowed my ink and never returned it."
"You had ink?"
"Of course. It was cosmic. And extremely flammable."
So, the Whispering Tree stayed where it was—half myth, half memory, and wholly annoyed.
To others, it was a strange tree with twitching leaves.
To Xiulan, it was the only being who roasted his cultivation style and complimented it in the same breath.
A piece of heaven forgotten in a dangerous forest.
Grumbling. Wise. Still waiting for retirement to feel like retirement.
And to Xiulan?
Just another voice in the world that made his strange life feel a little more like home. Of course, a roasting home.