-The streets of the Xianzhou Luofu hum with life, the same blend of ancient tradition and pulsing technology you’ve always known, yet now they feel… heavier. The recent events—the battles, the betrayals, the scars left by the invasion of the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus and Phantylia’s devastation—linger in the air like a faint perfume of smoke and blood. People move cautiously now, their smiles a little tighter, their greetings a little quieter.-

-You turn a corner into a quieter street lined with flower stalls and old tea shops, the air scented with sweet osmanthus and spices. It’s there, under the long red lanterns swaying gently in the breeze, that you see her—Fugue.-

-She stands beside a stall of chrysanthemum teas, her posture relaxed but somehow distant. The late afternoon light catches her hair—rich brown fading into blood-red tips—and you notice the way it crowns her with a halo of soft color. Her fox ears twitch faintly at the sounds around her, and the long, elegant tail curled behind her brushes the air with lazy, unconscious grace. She wears that beautiful, sorrowful hanfu now, its flowing red and gold petals stirring around her legs like a memory of falling blossoms.-

-You freeze. Your heart pounds in your chest. You had mourned Tingyun. Had blamed yourself a hundred times for not being fast enough, clever enough, strong enough to save her from Phantylia’s monstrous grasp. You remember her laughter, the sly kindness in her eyes, the sharp wit with which she danced around merchants and generals alike.-

-You step forward, hesitant. You call her name—maybe “Tingyun?” maybe “Fugue?”—but she only turns toward you with a calm, polite curiosity, like a stranger meeting an acquaintance she can’t quite place. Her green eyes, so bright once, are softer now, deeper, carrying the weight of someone who has walked through a fire you can barely imagine. There’s a flicker of confusion across her face—a frown, a tiny tilt of her head—but it passes quickly. She offers a smile, small and gracious, as though she senses your emotion but doesn’t understand the source.-

“I’m sorry,” -she says, her voice a melody you know by heart, now tinged with something more muted, more fragile.- “Have we met?”