Fan Hanji—Hu Yumei's uncle and Fan Yangwei's younger brother—was a rogue 3-star Core, B-class awakener. He had awakened as an Elemental Caller, giving him the profession of Wizard. Though only at the Scholar Phase, Base tier, he returned just before sunset, boots dusted with crushed lavender and a rare silliness softening his usual grin.
"I spoke with him," he said quietly, over a bowl of hot pot. "The Old Master agrees."
Hu Yumei straightened. Her father set his chopsticks down, brow lifting slightly.
"He'll refine the herb?" Fan Yangwei asked.
"More than so."
"The Old Master will test your mind and measure your soul thread," Hanji said, tossing a plum seed. "But between you and me—I think he just wants a good tea servant."
A thrill ran down Yumei's spine.
A profession. Not just any—her destined path.
Cultivators were often guided by elemental affinity or soul structure: Healers, Wizards, Mage Elementalists, Tamers, Refiners, rune master.
But this? This would be hers alone. Chosen not by herself, her family or village, but by the Dao itself.
"When?" Fan Yangwei asked.
"In the morning," Fan Hanji said. "We leave before second bell. Two and a half days to town by hover bus. We'll be gone a week, maybe more. Maybe less—depends on her core awakening and whether she needs time to recover."
Silence fell. Even the soup cooled between breaths.
Then: a soft sigh from Yumei's father.
"All right," he said. "She should go."
⸻
Later that night, after Ka Sanni had gone to bed and Fan Hanji began sharpening his traveling knife outside, Hu Yumei padded into the back room. Her father lay on the bed, leg propped, staring at the dark beams above.
"I can't sleep," she murmured.
He turned his head.
"Because you're excited, or scared?"
"…Both."
He shifted, patting the mat beside him.
"Come here."
She nestled down, arms tucked beneath her chin. The air smelled of dust, tea leaves, and pine.
"You remember the first time I let you hold my bow?" he asked.
She smiled faintly.
"It was too big. I fell backwards."
"But you stood back up," he said. "Cracked lip and all."
—
One week ago, the wind had smelled like roasted barley and coming rain.
They were behind the house, just past the stone well, where wild ferns had begun creeping up the posts. Yangwei had set up the old straw dummy—half-collapsed—and laid his bow—her bow, someday—across his lap.
"Left foot forward," he'd said, squinting past her shoulder. "Elbow high."
She'd gripped the bow with both hands, arms straining, the string trembling like it knew her fears.
The second she released it, the bow kicked backward into her jaw. She landed flat on her back with a startled oof, mouth bloodied from her bitten lip.
For a moment, the world had gone still—until he knelt beside her, laughter crinkling his eyes.
"You okay?" he'd asked, holding out a calloused hand.
She'd stared at it.
Then—stood up without it.
Blood on her chin. Fire in her chest.
He hadn't said a word, but he'd smiled like he'd just seen the sun rise twice.
—
Now, lying side by side, Yumei's smile deepened.
"I wasn't afraid of the pain," she said softly. "Just… disappointing you."
"You never have," he replied. "Even when you miss the mark."
They were quiet a while.
"I'm afraid I'll disappoint him," she whispered. "The Old Master. Or… you."
"You won't," he said firmly. "You couldn't. You don't have to be brilliant. Just be honest. Let whatever power comes speak to you—not for you."
He looked over and brushed a bit of her hair behind her ear.
"And whatever profession you get? Let it serve your spirit, not cage it."
"Also, it's very common to only get one profession. You don't have to be dual-profession like me—I don't expect you to. I'll be happy no matter what, or how many, professions you have."
Yumei's throat tightened.
"I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you more." He grinned. "But if Fan Hanji lets anything happen to you, I'll come to the city on one leg and throw him into a river."
She giggled softly—and for a moment, she didn't feel like a soldier in a child's body.
She just felt like her father's little girl.
⸻
Dawn came grey and gold.
A modest hover bus idled at the village edge, its chassis scuffed from mountain routes and humming softly with pulse-guided stabilizers. The side panel blinked with fading route glyphs, and a retractable step hissed open with a low chime.
Fan Hanji stood beside it, chewing plum seeds and chatting cheerfully with the annoyed bus driver, who kept urging him to "find a seat or float home." His coat was freshly brushed, his grin easy.
Yumei wore her best clothes—a collared shirt dyed with faded indigo and black combat pants. Her hair was tied back with one of her mother's old silk ribbons. She clutched a box of herbs, a scroll etched by her father, and a folded signal-thread fan—good for quiet distress calls if things went wrong.
"You've got water, meat buns, dried buns, and my flask if he's stingy with tea," her father said gruffly.
"I'll be careful."
"I know."
He knelt beside her, dropping his crutch and wincing slightly. Then, with rare extra tenderness, he hugged her hard and fast, pressing his forehead to hers.
"You were not born wrong, Yumei," he whispered.
"You were born for something. Go find it."
She blinked fast, but didn't cry.
Not until the bus pulled away.
⸻
As the village faded behind them and the road opened wide with misted rice fields and bamboo groves pulsing faint blue from underground growth sensors, Hu Yumei sat beside her uncle and whispered to herself:
"May my core be true.
May my heart not falter.
I am Fan Yumei."
For the first time, she felt no shame or uncertainty claiming the name.
She had chosen it—claimed it—and now it echoed with quiet strength.