Three Winters

All things in the world possess a spirit, and beasts that awaken to cultivation transform into creatures known as yao—a general term, not meant to be derogatory.

To humans, even a creature like Qinghe, with its dragon-like form, is classified as yao.

Of course, if you pointed at Qinghe’s nose and called it a yao, Qinghe wouldn’t hesitate to teach you a lesson—swift and merciless.

Plants that awaken to sentience are fundamentally the same as beasts, but unlike yao with brains, brainless plants rely entirely on the right conditions—celestial timing and earthly advantages—to come into being.

Things like spiritual energy nourishment or the radiance of moonlight.

As a result, plant cultivators are often referred to as jing, a term that carries a touch of preciousness.

Around a thousand years ago, yao and jing were rare treasures. Though weak and demanding to care for, their adorable nature and ornamental value made them highly sought after.

For a time, there were even specialized yao-catching teams.

But then a certain genius devised a method for breeding yao, causing their prices to plummet.

Many at the time must have questioned their existence, wondering if the apocalypse was near—how else could yao suddenly become so abundant?

By the time the selling price of yao barely covered the cost, leaving only meager profits, this genius outright published the breeding method.

While it was a marvel to behold, it also left many grinding their teeth in frustration.

Fortunately, this genius had both the skill and the sense not to spread rumors like "only by hoarding yao can one survive the impending apocalypse."

Otherwise, the world itself might not have been vast enough to spare them.

From then on, yao became worthless.

And naturally, no one bothered breeding them anymore.

After all, you could cultivate whatever you wanted—flower jing, tree jing, anything you fancied.

But the process was tedious, and these jing had little combat prowess. Poisonous ones might have had some use, but most cultivators would rather spend their time on actual cultivation.

The yao craze was swept away in the vast tides of immortal cultivation history, as if it had never happened.

Nowadays, most yao and jing are genuine, naturally occurring specimens.

Compared to their domesticated counterparts, wild jing are brimming with wariness.

If you approach them politely and sincerely, hoping for a conversation, you’d be lucky to catch even a glimpse of them.

After all, no one would risk their life out of curiosity—who’s to say whether these human cultivators want to chat or find out what they taste like?

Plants, after all, are part of the human diet.

Li Yingling was no fool. She wasn’t about to march into the Valley of Ten Thousand Flowers shouting for the jing to reveal themselves.

No, this called for Li Yingling’s grand master plan.

Under the cover of night, at the spot in the Valley of Ten Thousand Flowers where the moonlight shone brightest, Li Yingling placed a man-made Wood Spirit Crystal.

This was the most effective bait from the era of yao hunting—no jing could resist the allure of a glowing Wood Spirit Crystal.

Bathed in moonlight, the crystal shimmered with a soft emerald glow, its life energy drifting gently on the breeze.

The fresh night belonged not only to small creatures but also to diligent flower jing like San Dong.

San Dong sensed that the surroundings were as tranquil as the night before.

Amidst the dense sea of flowers, a pale blue blossom cautiously transformed into a tiny girl no taller than a hand’s length.

A long dress, woven from the petals of her flower, became her clothing.

She had once seen a human wearing such an outfit, and among the myriad blossoms, San Dong had fallen in love with it at first sight.

She had worn this dress for countless winters, and though she’d seen humans in all sorts of other garments, none had ever captured her heart like this one.

She glanced up at the full, round moon and smiled in satisfaction.

This place had sparse spiritual energy, with no rare treasures to speak of. Relying solely on ambient energy, she could barely stave off starvation.

If she truly wanted to cultivate diligently and become a powerful flower jing, she had to make the most of every full moon, every night the moon’s essence descended.

Such nights were rare, and even then, San Dong couldn’t always absorb the moon’s essence.

After all, good fortune was something everyone coveted—even other yao creatures.

San Dong wasn’t necessarily weaker than them, but she disliked fighting.

As a jing, she could live far longer than most yao.

And unlike the wandering yao, San Dong preferred to stay in one place.

So she would quietly yield her spot, letting the yao absorb the moon’s essence.

The same went for humans who came to admire the moon in the flower sea.

Most were ordinary mortals, often a man and a woman, gazing at the moon together.

A simple spell could scare them away, but San Dong enjoyed listening to their laughter and the fascinating stories they shared.

If she felt safe, she would transform into a flower and listen from afar as they spoke of their dreams, their promises to return every year to see the moon together.

But very few kept those promises.

Some didn’t even return the following year.

San Dong couldn’t understand—were promises so meaningless to humans?

Perhaps it was the stories, or perhaps it was the thought that humans lived such short lives anyway, but San Dong didn’t mind giving up a little time for them.

Or maybe… it was also because humans terrified her.

There was one memory San Dong would carry with her forever—a child lost in the flower sea, crying out in fear.

The sound echoed through the valley, carried far by the wind, but no one came.

San Dong was terrified. What if it was a trap?

But the child’s cries grew hoarse, fading into quiet sobs, the most innocent pleas for help.

In the end, San Dong couldn’t resist. She took human form and showed the child the way home.

But from that day on, humans began searching the flower valley for traces of her.

They even set fire to a small hill of blossoms in their pursuit.

The flames raged for a day and a night.

The sight of the red inferno under the night sky was seared into San Dong’s memory, leaving her heartbroken for many winters.

Had she done wrong?

San Dong still didn’t know, but she had learned one thing—humans… were terrifying.

They held no reverence for life. They cared only for their goals.

San Dong never wanted to meet another human again. She no longer wished to hear their stories.

Tonight, under the radiant moonlight, San Dong moved stealthily through the flowers, heading toward the brightest spot.

Her senses were sharp, but tonight, there were no yao, no humans.

The wind carried only the scent of blossoms.

As she crept closer, her eyes fell upon the Wood Spirit Crystal, glowing faintly green under the moon.

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

In all her countless winters, she had never seen such a treasure.

She could practically taste the sweet energy it radiated.

With this crystal, San Dong could become a far more powerful flower jing.

Instinctively, she took a step forward—then froze.

Her sharp mind quickly caught up.

Since when did such good fortune exist in this world?

She knew every inch of this valley, and this crystal had never been here before.

And as luck would have it, it appeared right where the moonlight shone brightest.

San Dong suddenly felt a chill run down his spine—this had to be some human trickery!

But as he stared at the Wood Spirit Crystal, another thought crossed his mind—what if someone had accidentally dropped it?

Yet, in no time at all, San Dong made up his mind—pretend he never saw it and go home to sleep!

If it truly belonged to a human, what if they came back looking for it and found it missing? Would they burn his house down again?

Better to act like he never laid eyes on it!

That way, they’d have no excuse to torch his home!

Today wasn’t a lucky day—best to go home and sleep for safety’s sake.

San Dong still wanted to live a long, long life.

So he swiftly turned on his heels and scurried away. But after just a few steps, a rich surge of spiritual energy wafted toward him on the breeze.

He halted in his tracks, his gaze drifting toward the source of the wind.

San Dong peered cautiously in that direction.

There, nestled among the flowers, lay a small, faintly glowing blue stone—no larger than a human’s fingernail.

Was this… a spirit stone?

San Dong’s feet suddenly felt rooted to the spot.