Que moça é essa tão ousada?

Along the mountain path in late autumn, clusters of shrubs bore leaves tinged with a deep purplish-red, from afar resembling vivid blossoms. The sky stretched clear and blue, while the autumn breeze carried wisps of white clouds drifting into the distance.

Amid such a picturesque scene, a young girl sat resting against a tree, her back leaning on a stone, yet she showed no interest in the beauty surrounding her. She pressed her hand against the hilt of the sword at her waist, glanced at the children nearby, then withdrew her gaze to look up at the sky, her face etched with utter desolation.

“Mother? Sit here; it’s not cold,” a timid girl of about five or six pointed hesitantly to a spot beside her.

That spot was another large stone, but unlike the one she sat on, it was thickly layered with yellow leaves, clearly placed there by human hands.

“I’ve told you so many times, don’t call me mother. You’re not allowed to call me that,” Hong Xiaoduo muttered, feeling as though she was losing her mind. Yet, seeing the children’s innocent expressions, her irritability softened. Sighing, she wondered what she was doing—quibbling with a few pitiful children?

Xiaoduo couldn’t help but think: if she had known it would come to this, when she saw them being beaten by that man last night, would she have just looked away and walked off? Perhaps things wouldn’t have turned out this way.

She was already overwhelmed, unable to sort out her own troubles, yet she still found herself meddling in others’ affairs, trying to defend the helpless.

“This is s