Three beds. Three men. Still unconscious.

The doctors had no answers. The tests showed nothing. Their bodies breathed, their hearts beat, but their minds had gone somewhere else. Somewhere no machine could follow.

"Miss Bai?"

She turned. A nurse stood behind her, clipboard in hand, expression professionally sympathetic. "The police are here. They have... questions. About the river. About how you survived."

Bai Yue’s jaw tightened. The river. Of course. They thought she had drowned. They had probably filed a report, maybe even planned a memorial.

"Isn’t that the woman?" a voice whispered from down the hall. "The one who was pushed in? I thought she was dead."

"So she was telling the truth about that Lin Hua woman?"

"I heard she framed her—"

"Enough." A security guard appeared, flanked by two officers. His face was stern. "Miss Bai Yue, we need you to come with us. There are procedures. Questions about your disappearance—"

"I didn’t disappear," Bai Yue said. "I was pushed. You already know that."

"We know what Lin Hua said," the officer replied carefully. "But she’s claiming you fabricated the whole thing. That you staged the attack for attention."

Bai Yue laughed. It came out hollow. "I staged getting shot? I staged three men falling into comas? For what, exactly? A book deal?"

The officer didn’t blink. "Ma’am, please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be."

They reached for her arms.

"Wait—"

"We’re just following protocol—"

"Let go of me—"

"Ma’am, if you resist—"

"ENOUGH."

The voice cut through the corridor. Not loud. Not angry. Just... absolute.

Everyone froze.

A woman stepped out of the elevator. She wore white nurse’s scrubs and sensible shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a simple bun. Her face was pleasant, unremarkable, the kind of face you’d pass in a hallway and forget immediately.

But her eyes—

Her eyes held galaxies.

Bai Yue’s breath caught. "Tiān—"

"Shh." The woman pressed a finger to her lips, smiling faintly. "We don’t need a scene."

The officers stared at her. The security guard blinked. The nurses in the hallway stood frozen, their coffee cups halfway to their mouths, their expressions blank and distant.

"What..." the officer started. "Who are you?"

"I’m the one who’s going to fix this mess," Tiān-Mìng said. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Honestly. This is what I get for playing games. Mortals and their paperwork."

She waved her hand.

The officers’ eyes went glassy. The security guard’s grip loosened. The nurses blinked once, twice, and then turned and walked away, their coffee cups forgotten on the floor.

"What did you do to them?" Bai Yue whispered.

"Nothing permanent. They’ll wake up in a few minutes with a headache and a vague sense that they forgot something important." Tiān-Mìng looked at the ICU door. "They’re still asleep?"

"All three of them. The doctors don’t know why."

"I do." The goddess’s voice softened. "They’re fighting. Same as you did. Trying to find their way back."

Bai Yue’s throat tightened. "I can’t take them to the river. They won’t let me. The police, the hospital, they think I’m— they think I did something."

Tiān-Mìng was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed again, longer this time. "I really am sorry, you know. For all of it. The games. The tests. The..." She gestured vaguely at the corridor, the hospital, the whole sterile mess of the modern world. "This."

"You already apologized."

"I know. I meant it then. I mean it now."

Bai Yue looked at her. At the goddess in nurse’s scrubs, standing in a hospital hallway, looking almost... tired.

"I don’t need apologies," Bai Yue said. "I need my family back."

Tiān-Mìng nodded slowly. "I can’t undo everything. I can’t make them remember the other world—the modern one. That would break the timeline."

"I don’t want them to remember. I just want them home."

"Then I can do that much."

The goddess raised her hand.

The air in the corridor rippled. It wasn’t wind, exactly, but something behind the wind, something deeper and older. The fluorescent lights flickered. The linoleum floor seemed to breathe.

"The children," Tiān-Mìng said. "Where are they?"

Bai Yue’s heart clenched. "The waiting room. Down the hall. They’ve been there for days. Zhēn won’t eat. Rui Xuě won’t talk. Yòu Lín keeps asking when his father will wake up."

"Bring them."

"The children and the three men," Tiān-Mìng clarified. "All of them. Now."

Bai Yue didn’t wait for more explanation. She ran.

The waiting room was small, cramped, filled with plastic chairs and old magazines and the smell of stale coffee. Zhēn was curled in the corner of a couch, her small body tucked into a ball, her white hair spread across the cushion like spilled milk. Yòu Lín sat beside her, his orange hair a mess, his amber eyes fixed on the door.

Ruì Xuě stood by the window, his back to the room, his purple eyes staring out at the city lights.

Hóng Yè was pacing. He had been pacing for hours, his long legs eating up the small space, his arms crossed tight over his chest.

"They’re awake," Bai Yue said. Breathless.

Everyone turned.

"The men? My father?" Yòu Lín was on his feet.

"No. Not yet. But they’re going to be."

She looked at Hóng Yè. The teenager’s face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, his jaw tight with exhaustion he refused to acknowledge. "The shaman woman is here. The one from the river. She’s going to send us back. All of us."

"Back where?" Hóng Yè demanded.

"Home."

She didn’t wait for more questions. She grabbed Zhēn’s hand, pulled the sleepy girl to her feet, and led them all back down the corridor.

Tiān-Mìng was waiting by the ICU door. She looked at the cluster of children, at Zhēn’s tired eyes, at Ruì Xuě’s guarded stillness, at Yòu Lín’s barely contained energy, at Hóng Yè’s suspicious glare, and her expression softened.

"They don’t remember," Bai Yue said quietly. "None of them. Not the way I do."

"They will. When you’re through." Tiān-Mìng crouched down in front of Zhēn. The little girl stared at her, wary. "Hello, little star. You’re very brave, aren’t you?"

Zhēn said nothing. She just pressed closer to Bai Yue’s leg.

Tiān-Mìng smiled. It was a small thing, fragile around the edges. "I’m going to put you to sleep now. Just for a little while. When you wake up, you’ll be home. With your family. All of them."

"Promise?" Zhēn’s voice was barely a whisper.

The goddess hesitated. Then she nodded. "Promise."

She touched Zhēn’s forehead.

The little girl’s eyes fluttered closed. Her body went slack, and she slumped against Bai Yue, breathing soft and even.

Yòu Lín moved forward, his face pale. "What did you—"

"Sleep," Tiān-Mìng said, touching his cheek.

He crumpled. Ruì Xuě caught him before he hit the ground, his purple eyes wide, his arms wrapped around his brother’s unconscious form.

"Ruì Xuě—"

"Don’t." His voice was sharp. "I’m not going to fight you. I’m too tired. But I need you to know....I’m only letting you do this because I trust her." He looked at Bai Yue. "Not you."

Tiān-Mìng inclined her head. "Fair enough."

She touched his shoulder.

He folded, slow and quiet, curling around Yòu Lín like a shield.

Hóng Yè was the last. He stared at the goddess with those too-old eyes, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

"If you hurt them," he said, low and even, "I don’t care what you are. I will find a way to make you regret it."

Tiān-Mìng met his gaze. "I know," she said. "That’s why I’m not going to."

She reached out.

Hóng Yè’s eyes closed. His body relaxed, just slightly, and then he was gone, slumped against the wall, his red hair falling across his face.

Bai Yue stood alone in the corridor with the goddess and the three unconscious men in their hospital beds and the pile of sleeping children at her feet.

"Li Hua," Bai Yue said.

Tiān-Mìng stiffened.

"She’s still in this world. She pushed me into the river. She—"

"I know."

"Don’t send her through. Please." Bai Yue’s voice cracked. "She’s caused enough damage. In both worlds. I don’t want her anywhere near my family ever again."

The goddess was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded.

"She stays," Tiān-Mìng said. "I’ll make sure of it. This world, this time, she’ll live out her life here. Far from you. Far from anyone you love."

"Thank you."

"Don’t thank me. I should have done it years ago."

She raised her hand.

The portal opened.

It wasn’t dramatic. No thunder, no lightning, no swirling vortex of color. The air simply......parted. Like a curtain drawn back from a window. On the other side, Bai Yue could see green. Not the gray-green of city parks or the dusty green of highway medians. Jungle green. Ancient green. The green of a world that had never known concrete.

She could smell it, too. Damp earth. Wild ginger. Woodsmoke.

Home.

"Go," Tiān-Mìng said.

Bai Yue didn’t wait. She gathered Zhēn in her arms, the girl was light, too light, when had she become so light?, and stepped through the portal.

The air changed. The temperature shifted. The sterile hum of the hospital faded, replaced by the buzz of insects and the distant call of something wild.

She was standing in a clearing. The same clearing. The one where they had collapsed after the temple, after the fight, after everything.

Han Shān’s body lay on the ground beside her. Then Zhāo Yàn’s. Then Yàn Shū’s.

The children were scattered around them, still asleep, still peaceful.

"Bai Yue?"

She spun.

Zhēn was sitting up. The little girl’s purple eyes were open, wide and confused, her white hair tangled with leaves. She looked at the jungle around them, at the sky above them, at the familiar clearing.

"Mummy?" she said again. "I’m hungry."

Bai Yue’s legs gave out.

She dropped to her knees, pulled Zhēn into her arms, and held her. Tight. So tight the girl squeaked in protest.

"You’re here," Bai Yue sobbed. "You’re here, you’re here, you’re here—"

"Mummy, you’re squishing me—"

"I don’t care. I’m not letting go."

"Mummy—"

"Not ever again."

A groan. Then another.

Bai Yue looked up.

Han Shān was pushing himself upright, one hand pressed to his head, his white hair falling across his face. Beside him, Zhāo Yàn was already on his feet, wobbling slightly, his nine tails flicking behind him like he was checking that they were still attached. Yàn Shū sat up slowly, blinking behind his crooked glasses, looking around the clearing with dawning recognition.

"What..." Han Shān started. "What happened?"

"The temple," Yàn Shū said. His voice was hoarse. "The collapse. I remember... we were running. And then—"

"And then nothing," Zhāo Yàn finished. He looked at his hands. Flexed his fingers. "My head feels like I was asleep for a very long time."

Bai Yue laughed. It came out wet and messy and probably a little unhinged.

"You were," she said. "Sort of."

Three sets of eyes turned to her.

She was kneeling in the mud, Zhēn in her arms, tears streaming down her face. She must have looked insane. She felt insane.

"Are you alright?" Zhāo Yàn asked. He was already moving toward her, his hand outstretched. "Bai Yue, you’re crying—"

"I’m fine," she said. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I’m fine. I’m just..." She looked at them. At Han Shān’s guarded concern. At Zhāo Yàn’s outstretched hand. At Yàn Shū’s gentle, questioning eyes.

They don’t remember, she thought. They don’t know what we almost lost.

And that was okay. That was better than okay.

"I’m just glad you’re awake," she finished.

Zhāo Yàn’s eyes narrowed. He knew she wasn’t telling the full truth. But he didn’t push. Instead, he pulled her to her feet, steadying her when she stumbled.

"We should move," Han Shān said. He was already scanning the jungle, assessing threats, planning their next move. "The temple collapse might have drawn attention. We need to regroup."

"The children," Yàn Shū added, already moving toward Hóng Yè’s unconscious form. "Are they—"

"Just sleeping," Bai Yue said. "They’ll wake up soon."