Chapter 3: The Last Light of a Dying Immortal
Mingye did not know how long he slept.
There was no sun when he closed his eyes.
There was no moon when he sank into darkness.
There was no time, no sensation—only a deep, heavy silence that felt like sinking into the deepest river.
Then suddenly, breath rushed into his lungs and his eyes snapped open.
He jerked upright, chest heaving, breath trembling as his mind replayed everything in sharp, jagged flashes—the spike, the blood, the mockery, the birds eating away at him, the old man appearing beside him, the golden light, the forest…
He sucked in a cold breath and whipped his head around.
"Wh–where…?"
The forest was quiet. No sound could be heard; it was like everything was on pause as Mingye searched around for the man who had taken him away from the spike where he had been placed as an object of mockery for the whole world to see.
But the old man was gone.
Mingye's heart clenched painfully.
"Sir…?" he called in a cracked voice. It had been a while since he last spoke. He cleared his throat, then tried again. "Old man?"
He turned around, searching left and right.
A tired, raspy voice drifted from behind.
"…I'm right here, child."
Mingye froze. He turned slowly toward the direction of the voice—and what he saw shocked him.
The white-haired man leaned weakly against a moss-covered boulder. His shoulders sagged like they carried a great weight. His breaths were shallow and trembled as he struggled to breathe.
A thin line of blood trailed from the corner of his lips, staining his beard.
The man Mingye saw now did not look like the one who saved him before. This one looked like a weakened echo, a fading version—yet Mingye knew deep down it was the same person.
Mingye's eyes trailed over him and he gasped when he noticed the man's limbs.
His arms, once coated in smooth gold, were flickering—phasing in and out of existence. His legs, also gold, were losing their solidity, pieces fading like scattering dust.
A cold chill ran down Mingye's spine.
"Y–you…!" he stammered.
The old man smiled faintly, his eyes half-closed. "Ah… you woke sooner than I expected."
Mingye crawled forward instinctively—
But halfway there, he froze again.
Because something felt wrong with his own body.
His breath hitched. Slowly, he lifted his trembling hands. His eyes widened as he stared.
His hands were whole. Not mangled. Not bloody stumps. Not reeking of rot. Perfectly whole.
He had fingers again. He could clench them into fists. He looked down and saw his legs—intact and healthy. No flies. No ants. No birds pecking at decaying flesh. His legs were attached to his body. Perfectly alive.
A strangled sound escaped his throat as his mind struggled to comprehend.
The old man chuckled softly, though the laugh was accompanied by a cough that brought up more blood—thicker than before.
"Surprising, isn't it? To regain what was stolen?"
Mingye's heart thundered. He scrambled the rest of the way toward the man, disbelief and confusion choking him.
"Y–you… you healed me…?"
"I returned what belonged to you," the man corrected gently. "Life. Limbs. A path forward."
Blood dripped from his mouth as he spoke, yet he seemed unconcerned.
Mingye reached toward him instinctively, but the old man raised a weak hand, stopping him.
"Don't," he whispered. "Save your strength."
"Why… why would you save me?" Mingye asked quietly.
Everyone who passed him had left him to rot. Yet this stranger—this dying man—had saved him. Why?
The old man had nearly no strength left. His golden limbs flickered like candlelight struggling to stay lit.
"Why…? Why save me? I—I'm nothing. You don't even know me…"
The old man breathed out a long, tired sigh.
"I told you," he murmured. "I am someone who should have helped you long ago."
His eyes closed briefly as he said that.
"That makes no sense…" Mingye muttered.
The man chuckled. "I never said it would make sense to you." He sighed. "Your future… should have been a bright one. Far brighter than being left to rot on a spike."
Mingye looked down. His hands trembled in his lap.
"Bright…?" he scoffed. "My future will never be bright. There is nothing bright about it. It's going to be filled with blood… as I avenge my people."
The old man did not deny it.
"I know," he said softly.
"You… didn't need to sacrifice yourself for me…"
The old man gave a weak smile—one that held both warmth and resignation.
"Silly boy. At my age… 'sacrifice' means little. I have lived long enough. Far longer than the heavens permitted."
He coughed again—harder this time. His entire body convulsed and a heavy splatter of blood hit the forest floor.
"Old man!" Mingye cried, reaching for him—
But again, the man lifted a hand.
"No. Don't panic."
The tremor in his voice betrayed his state.
"The path ahead belongs to you, boy, not me."
Mingye wasn't listening—his mind raced, searching for ways to save the man.
"Let me get you water, or some herbs—there must be something I can do—" Mingye scrambled to his feet but collapsed. His legs trembled violently; he hadn't walked in three months.
"Sit, boy," the old man said sternly. His tone left no room for argument.
Mingye frowned. "I can get you—"
"There is no need," the old man continued gently. "My time was over long before I met you."
Those words hit Mingye like a boulder.
"Then why?" he whispered. "Why waste your last strength on me?"
The man's golden leg flickered, almost transparent now.
"Because I needed to choose a successor before my light went out."
"Successor…?" Mingye echoed weakly.
The man nodded.
"And I chose you."
"But I'm nothing! I'm weak!" Mingye slammed his fists against the ground. "I'm not smart either. A smart person would have hidden when he walked into that massacre. A smart person would have searched for survivors. I—"
"You were a child, and you still are a child," the man interrupted gently. "One whom the world wronged because of its selfishness." He drew in a breath. "Never say you are weak, young one."
"But I am," Mingye whispered. "I was the weakest in my clan. I couldn't even gather energy in my dantian. I couldn't do anything. I'm just a mortal…"
The man tsked. "Would someone weak survive being hung on a spike with no limbs, no food, no water, while birds fed on him?"
Mingye frowned. "That's not the same thing."
"But it is," the man insisted. "You are not weak, boy."
The old man reached forward with effort and flicked Mingye's forehead.
"Listen," he said firmly. "Every cultivator begins as a mortal. No one is born an immortal. Not even I."
"Do not look down on yourself," he continued. "You have not yet discovered your talent. But you will. And with training, you will surpass anything you believed impossible."
Mingye shook his head desperately.
"But who will train me?! You're— you're—"
Dying.
The man let out a raspy laugh.
"Hah… don't worry. There will be someone to guide you. There always is."
"What can I do for you?" Mingye asked. "Anything. There must be something I can do."
The old man stared at him for a long moment.
Something deep and distant flickered in his fading eyes—regret, sorrow, longing.
"My last request…"
His voice softened into a whisper.
"When you grow strong… when fate turns its wheel…"
He paused, breath hitching.
"…After you get your revenge, or while you are getting your revenge… change this world. Change our world."
"Is there anything else?" Mingye asked softly.
"…my grandchild…" the man whispered.
Mingye leaned closer.
"…I need to apologize to…"
Silence.
The man's eyes remained open, staring past Mingye… but they no longer saw him.
His lips were frozen mid-sentence.
His breath was gone.
"Old man…?"
No response.
"Old man…?"
Nothing.
Mingye grabbed the man's shoulders—only for his hands to pass through gold that had turned to light.
The man's body was dissolving.
Golden cracks ran across his skin, glowing from within like a lantern breaking apart.
Then small motes of light drifted upward.
First from his fingers.
Then his arms.
Then his legs.
Piece by piece, his body disintegrated into pure, shimmering light—like fragments of a star.
The forest canopy glowed softly as the lights floated, danced, and disappeared into the sky one by one.
The wind stirred, carrying the lights away. The forest that had been eerily still finally regained its life. Wind brushed past Mingye and birds began to chirp again.
A monkey—the same one who had left before—turned as the gathered lights briefly took the shape of the old man.
"Take care of him," the man's voice whispered.
The monkey scoffed. He hadn't needed to be told; he planned to do that all along.
He nodded, and the man smiled as the last of his remnants faded into the wind.
The monkey knew it was time to go back to the boy.