Chapter 2: The Beggar Who Watched the Dying
Three months.
Three long, rotting, agonizing months.
That was how long Lingxu Mingye's small body had hung impaled on a spike at the entrance of the Central Capital—bleeding, on the verge of death… yet refusing to die.
His skin had long lost its color.
Birds perched on him freely, pecking at whatever they pleased. Flies gathered around his wounds. His breath was thin, and he struggled, lungs burning as he dragged air in, but he did it anyway.
People walked past him every day, their faces twisted with disgust.
"Traitor's spawn," some said.
"Lingxu Clan deserved their fate," others muttered.
"Colluding with demons… may they all burn."
Some threw rotten fruit.
Some spat at him.
Some pointed and laughed, teaching their children to curse the dead and dying.
Mingye heard everything.
He saw everything. And he would remember everything. Every single person who had a hand in this would rot.
Every single person who even said a word that contributed to the destruction of his clan would die. And he was going to make sure they died at his hands.
He would make their heads explode just like his brother's had. He would make their limbs sever just like they severed his. He would behead them just like they beheaded his sisters.
And he would make sure he did everything he swore to do. It may take years—centuries, maybe—but he would do it. He would survive. This severed limb wouldn't deter him. He would survive, and he would get his revenge. Even if he came back as a ghost, he would exact his wrath on them.
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Meanwhile, at the corner near the capital's bustling market street, a strange man sat quietly. He never spoke to people. He never begged either.
A straw hat covered his eyes entirely, leaving nothing to the imagination.
His beard was white and long, flowing with the wind. His hair was the same color, tied in a ponytail that extended down his back.
A small monkey perched on his shoulder—eyes sharp as it observed the passersby, narrowing whenever it saw them spitting on the boy, saying words they weren't even certain were true but believed because their leaders said so.
The monkey folded its arms across its chest. If given the chance, it would pluck the eyes out of every individual who looked at the boy with disgust.
The man raised a hand to the monkey, patting its head—a silent command to calm down. The monkey gave a low growl but listened anyway, releasing a huff.
The bowl before them was always full of coins because passersby assumed the old man was blind and destitute. A beggar. No one knew who he was; they only knew he appeared there some days ago.
What they did not know was that while they thought the man was a beggar, he had another identity. And he was here for one reason: the boy on the spike.
The boy whose aura was filled with hatred. A boy who was supposed to be dead but was alive even now. Many people complained that the boy should be taken down because he was "dead," and it wasn't a nice sight seeing a corpse—especially that of a traitor—displayed for everyone to see.
But the man knew better. The boy was alive.
And it was on a night when no one expected anything to happen that it happened—when the moon hung low and the capital streets glowed with lantern fire.
The market was still very much alive. Vendors shouted as they tried to draw customers. Children ran around. Couples strolled hand in hand, bargaining as they bought their goods.
No one paid mind when the old man exhaled deeply.
"Mnnh… my back." His voice was hoarse with age or at least, that was how he sounded.
The monkey slapped his cheek twice in annoyance.
"Yes, yes," he sighed. "I know. Time to move."
He placed a wrinkled hand on the monkey's head and stood. His joints cracked loudly.
And all of a sudden, the man disappeared. The only sound left behind was the whooshing of displaced wind.
The straw hat remained where he had been standing.
The bowl of coins trembled lightly—only, it was empty.
A heartbeat later, he appeared beside Mingye.
No one noticed the man next to the boy, floating calmly above the ground, back slightly hunched.
Up close, Mingye was more corpse than boy. His head hung forward, breath shallow, eyes dim but still open enough to see shadows.
The old man lifted his hand and flicked his fingers in a delicate pattern.
His thumb pressed to his index finger.
Middle finger flicked down.
Ring finger drew a diagonal line in the air.
Pinky curled inward.
The sequence formed a subtle sigil—glowing faintly gold before fading something older than any sect in San Tianjie.
"Chi Seal of Mirage."
With a final gesture, he flicked his sleeve.
"Heavenly Finger of Replacement. Golden Veil of Silent Night."
A soft golden ripple spread across the area.
The spike trembled.
In Mingye's place appeared a perfect replica—same wounds, same dried blood, same limp body… except this one was dead.
Completely, unmistakably dead.
The real Mingye vanished.
And in the blink of an eye, the old man and the real Mingye disappeared into thin air.
They reappeared deep in a forest. The place was eerily silent; only the wind passing through the trees could be heard.
The old man gently leaned Mingye's mangled form against a boulder, his movements slow and careful.
The monkey hopped off his shoulder, choosing to handle other "business" it deemed important.
The man placed two fingers against Mingye's chest.
A faint golden glow pulsed at his touch, stabilizing the boy's flickering life.
Mingye's eyelids twitched. He struggled to open them fully but tried anyway—only to see the blurry outline of a man, white hair glowing faintly under the moonlight.
"W…who… are… you…?"
His voice was barely above a whisper, but the man heard him.
The old man lowered his head slightly.
"Someone who should have helped you long ago. Someone who waited too long."
Mingye's lips trembled.
His eyes burned—not from physical pain but from the images in his mind every time he blinked.
"Wh…what…do…you…want…?" Mingye whispered.
The old man did not answer immediately.
Instead, he knelt in front of the boy, golden light spreading beneath his feet like a gentle sun rising.
"What I want does not matter," he said softly. "What do you want, Lingxu Mingye?"
Mingye's throat constricted. It felt too tight for him to even speak. Tears poured from his eyes as he remembered his family. Everyone was dead. Everyone was gone.
"R…revenge…"
The word tasted like blood.
"I… lived… because… I must… make them… pay… I… will… get stronger… I will… I will… make them pay!"
His shaking eyes locked onto the old man, who nodded in understanding. Mingye's grief was palpable—he could feel it pressing on him.
A slow smile spread across the old man's lips—not of amusement, but of satisfaction.
"Good," he murmured. "Very good."
The wind stilled, and the moon dimmed.
The monkey paused in the treetops, sensing a sudden shift in the air. But it was not surprised. It knew this was coming—after all, the man only had so long to live.
"Close your eyes, little one," the old man said.
Mingye obeyed instantly.
His breath slowed.
His heartbeat steadied.
The old man raised his hand, and the air filled with power older than the mortal realm, older than the demon realm, older than the heavens themselves.
Golden light pooled around his fingers.
"Sleep," he whispered. "And when you wake… you will have the strength to carve your revenge into the bones of this world."
The golden light sank into Mingye's body, and his consciousness slipped into darkness.
Peaceful darkness.
The old man stood, looking down at him with unreadable eyes.
"Your fate should have been bright from the start," he murmured. "I will return what was stolen."