The village of Lingxi rested in the shadow of the emerald mountains, its fields rich with the scent of wildflowers and ripening grain. For the people of Lingxi, life was simple and unchanging. Farmers tended their crops, women wove their cloth, and children laughed as they chased one another under the canopy of the ancient banyan tree at the village center.
For Lian Yun, the youngest daughter of the village scholar, it was the only world she had ever known.
Yun was a quiet girl, her soft brown eyes always watching, her mind often lost in stories. Her father, Lian Shou, was the closest thing the village had to nobility, though his title was a hollow one. As the local scholar, he was respected for his knowledge but often pitied for his poverty. His meager earnings from tutoring the village children barely kept his family fed. Yet, despite their struggles, Lian Shou had taught Yun and her siblings to value books over coin, kindness over ambition.
Yun had grown up believing his lessons. She spent her days helping her mother in the kitchen, carrying water from the well, and tending to her father's aging books. In the evenings, she would sit beneath the banyan tree and read the poetry of long-forgotten emperors, imagining herself in the grand palaces they described.
It was a modest life, but Yun was content—until the summer of her seventeenth year, when everything changed.
The summer of Lian Yun's seventeenth year began like any other, with the sun rising over the emerald peaks and casting golden light upon Lingxi's fields. But it was not the bountiful season the villagers had hoped for. Weeks of unrelenting rain had left the earth sodden, the crops drowned, and the rivers swollen with despair.
Yun's father, Lian Shou, grew thinner with each passing day, his face etched with worry as he stared at the empty jars in their storeroom. The village, already poor, had little to spare for one another, and the debts he had accrued to keep his family afloat hung over them like a dark cloud.
Yun, too, felt the weight of their misfortune. She began rising earlier, joining her mother in foraging for wild greens and mushrooms in the woods. Yet no matter how much they gathered, it was never enough. The meals they prepared grew smaller, the broth thinner, and the silence at their table more oppressive.
One humid afternoon, as Yun was returning from the forest with a basket of roots, she heard raised voices coming from their small house. She froze, her heart sinking. She recognized her father's voice, strained and defensive, and another—sharp and insistent.
Setting the basket down, Yun crept closer, peering through the curtain that served as their door.
Inside, her father stood with his head bowed, clutching a scroll to his chest. Before him was a man in fine silk robes, his round face twisted in irritation. A large ring glinted on his finger as he waved it impatiently.
"You've had months to repay what you owe, Scholar Lian," the man said. "I've been patient, but my mercy has limits."
"Please, Master Zhou," Lian Shou pleaded. "The harvest has failed. If you could grant me more time—"
"Time won't fill my coffers," Zhou snapped. His eyes scanned the modest interior, landing on Yun's mother, who stood in the corner clutching a trembling hand to her mouth. "I've no use for your excuses. If you cannot pay in silver, I'll take what you have left."
Lian Shou fell to his knees, his voice breaking. "I beg you, Master Zhou. My family has nothing left to give."
Zhou smirked, his gaze sliding toward Yun's younger siblings, who were huddled in a corner, their wide eyes filled with fear. "Nothing? I wonder."
Yun's blood ran cold. Without thinking, she stepped into the room, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. "Take me."
All heads turned to her, shock rippling across her father's face.
"Yun, no!" her father cried.
But Yun held her ground. She stepped forward, her chin lifted, though her hands shook at her sides. "I will go with you, Master Zhou, if it will erase our debt."
Zhou's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. He saw the determination in her gaze and the quiet beauty of her features. Finally, he chuckled, his smile a blend of greed and satisfaction. "Perhaps there is value in you after all. Very well, girl. Pack your things. We leave at first light."
"No!" Lian Shou staggered to his feet, reaching for Yun, but she stepped out of his grasp.
"Father," she said softly, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, "this is the only way."
Her father collapsed back to the floor, his sobs filling the room as Zhou turned and strode out, his silk robes swishing behind him. Yun's mother moved to her side, gripping her arms. "Yun, you can't do this."
Yun forced a smile, though her heart was breaking. "It's all right, Mother. I'll find a way. I promise."
That night, Yun sat beneath the banyan tree for what she knew would be the last time. The moon hung low in the sky, its light filtering through the ancient branches. She ran her fingers over the bark, tracing the familiar grooves she had memorized as a child.
In her lap rested a small bundle containing the few possessions she would take: a worn comb, a ribbon her mother had embroidered, and a book of poetry her father had given her years ago.
As dawn broke over Lingxi, Yun stood at the edge of the village, her family gathered behind her. Her father's face was pale and drawn, his hands shaking as he handed her the bundle.
"Yun," he whispered, his voice thick with guilt, "forgive me."
She shook her head, placing a hand over his. "There is nothing to forgive, Father. I will return one day. I promise."
But as she climbed into Zhou's cart and the wheels began to turn, Yun couldn't help but wonder if those words were a lie.