They call it Falling Blossom Valley—a place that exists and yet doesn't. A sanctuary untouched by mortal decay, where those who resist the pull of the earthly realm live ageless and unchanged. The name, they say, was chosen by Master himself, though no disciple dares ask why.

I was the youngest of his students. While the others mastered medicine, sword, music, or scripture, I wandered aimlessly among the silent petals and whispering winds. He never taught me anything. Not a single lesson. And when I tried to seek his gaze, it was always met with the coldness of stars.

I lived like a phantom flower—barely blooming, already falling. Trapped between knowing and forgetting, between devotion and defiance, I longed to reclaim the pieces of myself scattered before I ever arrived.

After many years, I saw Master again. He hadn't changed—immaculate white robes, midnight-soft hair flowing like moonlight, and a face so ethereal it felt sacrilegious to look at. In that moment, I remembered why I could never hate him. And why I could never become him.

This is the story of the quiet disciple no one noticed. Of the valley that preserves souls but silences voices. Of a girl who dared to bloom even when no one was watching.