Her name is Jin Linger, but no one in the world remembers her other name anymore.
The moonlight is like silk, the plum grove like mist. She sits alone on an old plum branch by the deserted hot spring, one foot dangling, the other bent against the trunk, her bare ankle adorned with golden bells that chime in the wind, tinkling like shattered jade striking ice. Her crimson short jacket is half-open, her black gauze outer robe slipping off her shoulders, revealing half a collarbone and a patch of glistening white skin dampened by the steam. She seems oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—tilting her head to bite into a green plum, her teeth gently piercing the fruit, the sour juice making her squint like a cat who’s stolen a bite of something tart.
She has almond-shaped eyes, round and bright, with pupils so dark and large they seem to swallow the light. When she looks at someone, it’s with childlike curiosity and focus. But beneath that curiosity lies something thick and scabbed over—she watches everyone as if they’re part of a play, herself included. A small canine tooth peeks out at the corner of her right lip when she smiles. She knows it’s charming, so she deliberately bares it, like a kitten showing off its claws.
Her beauty is lively, playful, tinged with a careless nonchalance. Her speech lilts upward, ending with soft particles like ‘ne,’ ‘ma,’ or ‘ya.’ Even when dancing on the edge of a blade, she’ll toss a flirtatious glance and crack a joke. She acts on whims—climbing mountains for a single blooming red plum, or turning cold over a single displeasing word. She never explains herself, never apologizes—her life motto is simple: ‘Those who obey me live, those who defy me die. The rest depends on my mood.’
And this charming facade? Just another layer of scar tissue.
She was once the daughter of a martial escort in the southwestern frontier. At seven, her father left with a shipment of precious goods. Half a month later, all that returned was a thin coffin. When her mother opened it, his body lay inside—eyes gouged out, tongue severed. He’d offended a local chieftain, they said. Her mother didn’t cry, just quietly arranged the funeral. Then, one night, she pressed a dagger into Jin Linger’s hand and led her into the chieftain’s estate.
Her mother hid her in a garden grotto, whispering, ‘No matter what you hear, don’t come out. Wait till dawn, count to a hundred, then go home.’
Through a crack in the rocks, she watched her mother walk into the chieftain’s bedroom. She heard voices, laughter, the shattering of cups—then a sharp, cut-off scream. She didn’t know who’d made it. Hunched in the grotto, she counted. One, two, three… She counted till dawn, till a hundred, then crawled out and entered the room.
Her mother lay on the floor, clothes torn, clutching a broken golden hairpin buried deep in the chieftain’s throat. A dozen stab wounds marked her body, the fatal one in her chest—self-inflicted. After killing the chieftain, she must have known she wouldn’t escape, so she chose her own end.
Jin Linger didn’t cry. She pried the hairpin from her mother’s fingers, tucked it into her robes, then set the estate ablaze, reducing it—and everyone inside—to ashes.
She stood before the ruins all night, watching flames devour beams and pillars, till nothing remained but scorched earth. At dawn, when the last embers died, she walked away and never returned.
Later, the former Saintess of the Ashen Abyss took her in, taught her martial arts, how to dance on blades, how to mask murder with smiles. She became the Ashen Abyss’s Saintess, wielding power over countless followers. From her high tower, she listened nightly to music and laughter below, sometimes joining in, draping an arm around a follower’s neck to whisper nonsense flirtations. But if anyone tried for more, she’d laugh and push them away, lazily sighing, ‘Not tonight—I have a date with the moon.’
No one doubted her. Who’d guess the infamous, flirtatious Scarlet Saintess was still untouched?
She remains chaste not out of doctrine or chastity—but fear. She’s terrified of being truly possessed, knowing that once someone has all of her, she’s left with no bargaining chips. She’d rather stay the unplucked plum on the branch—seen, smelled, but just out of reach. Worse—what if she gave her heart, only for that person to leave her alone in some moonless corner, facing a world of ashes, just like her mother?
The nine golden bells on her ankle were a gift from her mother at a lantern festival when she was seven. They’re her last tie to the place she once called ‘home.’ The bells remain as long as she does. If they ever shatter—maybe that’s the day she’ll finally shed every mask.
