The mountain path was treacherous enough on a good day. In a storm like this, it turned into something far worse.
Physical strength didn't matter—not against cold, fatigue, and constant exposure.
Afterall, they were only human, just mortals.
Drenched bodies, hard labor, biting wind… it didn't take much for sickness to set in. A fever, a cough—small things at first.
But out here?
Even small things could end a person.
A serious illness was the best-case scenario.
A lingering condition could follow them for life.
The worst outcome was simpler: fall too far behind, get too sick, and the caravan would leave them.
It had happened before.
And then there were the other risks—slick patches of mud on narrow ledges, sudden rock shifts, the possibility of wild beasts or hostile Gu waiting in the brush.
A single misstep, one unlucky moment, and a life could be gone.
Quiet, relentless pressure—
the kind that didn't roar or threaten, just waited for someone to slip.
For all its size and the number of Gu Masters travelling with it, the caravan always paid a price on the road.
Each journey meant losses.
The mortal fighters were usually the first to die, and even among the Gu Masters, injuries and deaths were common.
If they ran into a migrating herd of beasts, the entire caravan could be wiped out in a single stroke.
And danger didn't always come from nature.
Some villages refused outsiders.
Others welcomed caravans only to rob them later.
"We're off! See you next year!"
A few Gu Masters turned on their mounts, calling back toward the village.
At the entrance, people had gathered to watch them leave.
"You must come again next year!"
Children shouted, unwilling to see them go.
The adults were quieter, their expressions harder to read.
"The road ahead is unpredictable. By the time they return… how many will still be the same people?"
"Life isn't easy—for them, or for us."
The caravan slowly faded into the rain.
The villagers drifted apart.
With the crowd gone, the lively marketplace disappeared as if it had never existed.
Tents and stalls had left behind nothing but a mess—trampled grass, exposed mud, and puddles forming instantly under the rainfall.
Scraps of waste stuck to the soaked ground.
On a lone hillside, Fang Yuan watched the procession disappear.
From a distance, the caravan stretched across the road like a long, bright coil, twisting down the narrow mountain path and slipping into the forest under the grey curtain of rain.
"A pity… I didn't get what I wanted this year."
His voice was calm, almost indifferent as he stood there beneath a butter-yellow paper umbrella, alone.
Rain fell in sheets, relentless and cold, drumming on the yellow paper umbrella in a steady rhythm.
Fang Yuan stood on the hillside, the soaked limestone under his feet slick and gleaming.
His flax cloth garment clung to his broad frame, and the tips of his short black hair quivered in the wind.
The umbrella offered little more than a fragile shield; droplets still ran down its edge, striking the stone in small, chaotic splashes.
Below him, the caravan wound along the narrow mountain road like a living ribbon, the muted colors of cloth and Gu blending into the gray of the storm.
Wagons creaked, hooves struck mud with a dull thud, and the occasional shout of a mortals rose above the drumming of rain.
A fat beetle slipped slightly in the slick path, and the Gu Master atop it cursed under his breath before regaining balance.
Fang Yuan's eyes followed every movement. He noted the angles of the bend in the road, the rhythm of the guards, the way the water ran off the edges of carts.
'My first life repeats, yet... the path would be different this time,' he thought.
'Jia Jin Sheng is alive.'
'The Jia Clan will behave the same, but I am not with them.'
A cart struck a puddle, sending a wave of muddy water spraying against the legs of the mortals behind it.
Their straw raincoats offered little protection; they cursed under their breath, shaking off the cold.
Fang Yuan's mind calculated silently:
'How many of them would slip before the day was done?'
'How many would succumb to fatigue, cold, or misstep?'
'It is not enough to survive the path.'
'Survival is never the measure.'
'Only the results matter.'
The caravan disappeared around a bend and vanished into the forest, swallowed by dark, wet foliage.
Fang Yuan's gaze lingered on the spot where the last wagon had turned, his expression steady, unreadable.
He shifted slightly, listening to the rain on his umbrella, the distant slap of mud under wheels, the faint hiss of water running down leaves.
'My aperture is only forty-four percent full,' he reminded himself.
'If I need to increase my talent, there are a few methods.'
'And yet... every method comes at a cost.'
He tilted his head slightly, the umbrella shaking as wind tore across the hillside.
'Everything carries a thorn.'
'Every step forward leaves behind a wound.'
'And yet, if I do nothing, the outcome is certain — and I... cannot accept certainty.'
The storm showed no mercy.
Mud ran down the mountain path in tiny rivulets, pooling in holes trampled into the ground by the crowd that had gathered to see the caravan off.
Discarded scraps of cloth and broken tools floated in the water, a chaotic testament to the brief presence of humans in this place.
Fang Yuan observed it all, silent and detached.
'This is the way of it.'
'The world does not pause for caution.'
'It only moves.'
'Those who cannot keep pace will be left behind, and those who fail will disappear without notice.'
He exhaled slowly, letting the quiet rhythm of the rain mark the passage of time.
The forest had swallowed the caravan, but he remained on the hill, watching.
'Everything repeats, yet nothing is the same.'
'Only I remain constant, and it is up to me to bear the burden of what comes next.'
A single thought pressed against him, sharp and inescapable: 'The path is thorny, and yet it is mine to walk alone.'