Emperor's Reckoning

Chapter 1266: Enya, The Immortal Phoenix

The sun hung high in the bright blue sky, its warmth filtering down through the swaying canopy of trees. A lone bird soared above, its wings gliding effortlessly across the expanse, casting a fleeting shadow over the forest below.

Beneath the serene sky, the scene on the ground was anything but peaceful. A young boy was dashing through the undergrowth, his small hands clamped over his head in a desperate attempt to shield himself. His feet moved like a whirlwind, kicking up dust and leaves as he bolted forward. His wide eyes were glued to the ground, terrified of whatever lurked behind him. His teeth clenched tight, his breath frantic.

"I can’t look back, I can’t look back!" the boy muttered between gasps, heart pounding in his chest.

But the curiosity tugged at him. Summoning a spark of courage, he risked a glance over his shoulder, expecting to see something chasing him. To his shock, there was nothing—no monster, no danger, only the quiet forest stretching behind him.

"Huh?" He blinked in confusion.

In his moment of distraction, his foot caught on a root, and he stumbled forward. Panic surged through him as the ground rushed up to meet his face.

But the impact never came.

The boy hesitated, eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the pain. Yet all he felt was... air? Slowly, he opened his eyes and found himself suspended in midair, hovering above the ground like some kind of magic trick.

"Wha...?" he began to mumble, but his voice caught in his throat as he looked up.

A woman stood there, holding him effortlessly by the back of his robe, her grip firm but gentle. Her beauty was striking, but it did nothing to ease the boy’s nerves. Her lips twitched in mild annoyance as she regarded him, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

The woman lifted him higher, her grip still firm as she brought him closer to eye level. Her sharp gaze pierced through him, and the boy could feel her impatience bubbling beneath the surface.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Hmm?" she asked, her voice deceptively calm.

"S-Sorry," the boy stammered, squirming slightly.

"HOW MANY?" she demanded, her tone snapping like a whip.

The boy winced, his small voice trembling. "B-But I feel fine... I’m sure Uncle Ma would let me!"

Her brows furrowed deeper, not at all swayed by his excuse. Without a word, she slowly raised her other hand, deliberately forming her fingers into a flick. The boy’s eyes widened in fear, already knowing what was coming.

Thwack.

The woman’s flick landed right on his liver. The boy’s eyes bulged as the force hit him like a crashing wave. His heart thumped so loudly he could hear it in his ears, and the pain jolted through his body like a lightning bolt. He let out a scream, clutching his side as his entire body convulsed from the impact.

"Hmm?!" The woman raised an eyebrow in slight surprise as she watched him writhe, but her grip didn’t waver.

The boy’s screams subsided quickly, reduced to silent sobs. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, but he bit down on his lip, trying to keep them from spilling over. The flick had felt like a thousand thunderclaps at once, rattling his very bones.

The woman sighed, her stern expression softening—just a little. "I told you, didn’t I? Don’t push yourself. You’re not strong enough yet."

The boy nodded, barely able to muster the words.

The woman carried the boy like he weighed nothing, holding him by the back of his robe as if he were a mere suitcase. Her focus remained solely on the child, but beyond the trees, two figures stood hidden, watching the scene unfold.

Both men had their arms crossed, observing with mixed emotions.

"I feel bad for the boy," muttered one, his eyes fixed on the flicked child.

"Well, you should, after what you’ve done," the other man replied, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Hey, he sneaked past me and drank the Monkey King’s Wine while I was stoned! That’s on him."

"That’s no excuse," the second man shot back, not missing a beat.

The first man huffed and turned away, his voice rising in indignation. "Hmph! Shave your ugly mustache, catfish, and stop ogling her."

"Unlike your rotten wine, this pair is a work of art," said the second man, a sly grin forming as he adjusted his gaze toward the woman in the distance.

"Oh, you moth—" Before the insult could land, the first man lunged at his companion, starting a playful but heated scuffle.

Their bickering, however, didn’t escape the woman’s notice. She paused for a moment, eyes narrowing as she looked in their direction. With a sigh, she rolled her eyes, clearly recognizing the source of the noise, and without a word, she turned back toward the hut, disappearing inside with the boy still dangling by her side.

The men continued wrestling, oblivious to the fact that they’d been caught, their scuffle muffled by the trees.

The hut, though simple in appearance, had a distinct aura of a healer’s domain. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with jars, herbs, and strange ingredients, some of which were labeled in a language only a practiced physician would understand. The scent of medicinal herbs and burning incense filled the air, a mixture of earthy tones and faint sweetness that hinted at healing properties.

Three cauldrons bubbled in the corner, each filled with a different concoction, their contents swirling and gurgling like small whirlpools of liquid remedy. The constant bubbling might have seemed like overkill to any outsider, but to her, it was routine—each cauldron served a specific purpose. The liquids inside varied in color, from pale lavender to a deep emerald green, and the heat coming from them added warmth to the hut, making it feel like a living organism.

A wide wooden table stood near the bubbling cauldrons, covered in a scatter of scrolls, medicinal tools, and a few half-finished potions. Mortars and pestles were scattered about, some still filled with ground herbs, while the scent of fresh mint and dried lavender lingered in the air.

Without much care, the woman dropped the boy onto the bed, its simple straw mattress giving a slight creak under his weight. The bed was tucked in the far corner, away from the busy space where she worked, its covers rumpled and worn from years of use.

She scuffed, barely giving him another glance, and turned back to her desk, where an array of dried plants and scribbled notes awaited her attention. There was no room for distractions here, not even the boy who had, once again, tested her patience.

The boy, now sitting on the edge of the bed, swung his legs in frustration. Boredom gnawed at him like an uninvited guest, and the bubbling cauldrons had long since lost their intrigue. He had tried to escape before, but his attempts were always futile. Aunt Enya had a way of finding him no matter how far he thought he’d gotten.

With a sigh, he planted his feet on the floor and slowly shuffled over to where Aunt Enya was busy at her table. "Aunt Enya," he said, his voice a little whiny from the dullness of the day.

Aunt Enya glanced at him for a moment but quickly turned her attention back to the herbs and ingredients she was carefully sorting. She didn’t seem in the mood for conversation, but Lyon was persistent.

"What are you doing?" Lyon asked, now standing at her side, peering at the jumble of plants, vials, and powders.

"It’s called planning a concoction," Aunt Enya replied, her voice steady, not even looking up as she continued her work.

"It looks boring," Lyon muttered as he sat on a nearby stool, resting his chin in his hands, his eyes lazily watching her go through the motions.

"Without this," Aunt Enya said, her tone sharp as she measured out a pinch of powder, "you would have died."

Lyon’s eyes widened, and he gulped, the boredom now replaced by nervous curiosity. "Really?"

Aunt Enya’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous sparkle as she shot him a playful glance. Lyon flinched, quickly covering his liver with both hands, his face pale as he shook his head frantically, "N-No need for another flick, Aunt Enya!"

She smiled to herself, going back to her work, while Lyon sat beside her, now more intrigued but far more cautious.

Enya paused, her hands stilling for a moment as her gaze shifted toward Lyon. The boy was staring at the ceiling, his face painted with utter boredom. She raised a brow, amused by his restless energy, before turning back to the task at hand.

"Lyon," she called, her voice gentle but firm, "help me sort this one."

Lyon blinked, startled out of his daydream. "Eh? I... I have no idea how," he stammered, his eyes darting from the assortment of herbs and ingredients to her face, unsure of what she expected.

Without waiting for an answer, Enya grabbed the stool and pulled it closer, positioning Lyon beside her. "You’ll learn," she said matter-of-factly, her arm wrapping over his shoulders, gently guiding him toward the table. Her scent was soothing, and her movements deliberate, giving the boy no time to protest.

Her finger pointed to a small bundle of herbs. "This one is for calming fever," she explained softly, her voice suddenly warm and nurturing. "And this one," she gestured to a vial of crushed petals, "is for healing wounds."

Lyon’s initial hesitation faded as Enya continued speaking. Her words were like a soft melody, drawing him in. Before he knew it, he found himself carefully sorting through the ingredients, mimicking her motions.

The world outside his boredom faded, replaced by her steady instructions, the fragrance of the herbs, and the way her arm remained protectively around him as they worked side by side. Without realizing it, the lesson had begun—seamless, natural, as if it had always been meant to happen.

---

Lyon smiled softly, the memory of his younger self still fresh in his mind as he stood by the bed, now a man but still the same mischievous boy at heart. The chamber around him was a mesmerizing mix of warmth and power, fitting for a being as legendary as the Immortal Phoenix. Yet the Immortal Phoenix before him was a shadow of her former self—her once radiant feathers now few and far between, her form fragile, as though even breathing was a monumental effort.

"L-Lyon... is that you?" Enya’s voice was weak but unmistakable, her eyes fluttering as if pulling herself from the brink of sleep just to see him.

"It’s me, Aunt Enya," Lyon replied, a gentle smile on his face, though his heart clenched at the sight of her like this. He had never imagined her so weakened.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Enya’s beak-like mouth. "The pig succeeded," she murmured, her words laced with pride, though laced with exhaustion. She tried to lift herself up, but Lyon’s hand quickly pressed against her chest, gently stopping her.

His fingers hovered, poised for a flick, mirroring the very same gesture from years ago.

"Heh, I taught you well," Enya said, her smirk widening before she let out a defeated sigh. "Alright, alright. Let me sleep, and don’t bother me."

Lyon chuckled. "Of course, Aunt Enya," he said, his voice soft, like the boy she had once guided, now looking after her in return.

As Enya’s breathing slowed into a steady rhythm, Lyon sat beside her bed, his presence a quiet vigil over she who had taught him so much. Though his heart was heavy, his smile remained—grateful for the bond they shared, even in this moment of frailty.