100 years before,
The heavens trembled.
Not with storm, but with transformation.
High above the mortal world, atop a peak where clouds coiled like silent witnesses, a man sat cross-legged upon an ancient stone dais. Winds capable of flaying flesh from bone raged—yet his dark robes did not stir. His long black hair lifted against gravity, drawn upward by the power gathering within.
Han Li did not move.
He did not breathe.
He was a statue carved from will.
Inside him, energy roared.
Meridians shone like molten gold, stretched to breaking. At his core, a flawless Golden Core pulsed—once, twice.
Then—
Crack.
A fissure split its surface.
His mind was ice. A seed must break to grow.
Another pulse. Another crack.
Then—shattering.
Light erupted, a silent sun born inside his soul. Agony followed—world-ending, mind-breaking pain. It would have erased lesser cultivators.
Han Li endured. In absolute silence.
Runes on the dais blazed blue, sealing the cataclysm within him, holding his body together as his spirit rewrote itself.
Amidst the chaos, a form condensed—a tiny, glowing infant, curled in repose.
The Nascent Soul.
It opened its eyes.
And the heavens answered.
Purple lightning fell from a clear sky—not to destroy, but to forge. Each bolt seared into the vortex above, feeding the transformation. The infant soul drank the lightning, growing more solid, more real, more alive with every strike.
Time lost meaning.
There was only becoming.
When the last thunder faded, silence descended—vast and deep.
Han Li opened his eyes.
No triumph roared from his lips. No smile touched his mouth. Only calm—profound, absolute. His gaze held new depth, stars reflected in still water.
A warm, eternal pulse glowed within his dantian. His Nascent Soul rested there—serene, boundless, him.
"It is done," he whispered.
And in that stillness… a memory surfaced.
Not as a vision, but as a scent—rain on dry earth.
As a sound—a mother's call.
As a feeling—the hollow ache of hunger.
The immortal peak blurred.
100 years ago
A sun-scorched village took its place.
A boy sat in the dust, knees to chest, staring at a boundless sky with eyes too sharp for his age.
That boy was him.
The beginning was calling back.
---
Lingshui Village lived in halves.
The east cradled life—humble mud-brick homes, the scent of bread, children's laughter. Green hills embraced it like a mothe
The west was a scar.
Cracked earth, relentless drought, air thick with dust and despair. Here, a bowl of watery gruel was treasure. Hunger wasn't a guest—it lived here.
---
Between the two, in the dead stretch of nothing, the boy lay on his back.
His clothes were patches upon patches, fabric worn thin as old memory. But his face—it didn't belong. Fine features, clear skin, a quiet beauty like moonlight on still water. He looked like a piece of a celestial tale dropped in the dirt.
Around his left wrist, tied with a faded red string, was a single wooden bead—dark, smooth, unadorned. It had been there as long as he could remember. No one knew where it came from.
He wasn't seeing the cracks beneath him.
His eyes traced the clouds.
"Where do you go?" he whispered. "Old Zhang says cultivators live up there. Beyond the clouds."
He let the word linger. Cultivators.
"He says they sit still as mountains for a hundred years. That they don't know death. That they never feel this…" He pressed a hand to his stomach. "…this hollow ache. They mount swords of light and chase the wind."
He smiled softly. "Can you imagine?"
Above him, the clouds drifted.
But one—a small wisp of white—seemed to pause.
As if listening.
As if recognizing.
Then it moved on, carrying his wish into the blue.
---
"Han Li!"
The voice was rough, warm, real.
Han Li's eyes snapped open. All the dreaming vanished. A smile broke across his face—bright, unguarded, alive.
He scrambled up, dusted his sleeves, and ran.
At the edge of the field stood a man in dusty work clothes, a bundle on his shoulder. He stood like a rooted tree, but his eyes were soft—sun on thawing earth.
"Second Uncle!"
The man caught him in a hug that lifted him off the ground, laughter rumbling deep. "Look at you, little sparrow! Taller every time!"
"You said next month!"
"Work ended early at the Zhong estate." He said the name with reverence. The Zhong Family—the only cultivator clan anyone here knew. "And I brought you things."
Han Li's breath hitched. "What things?"
"New clothes. Proper ones. Candies. White flour, fine as cloud-down. And…" He leaned in, voice dropping. "…real salt."
New clothes. Candies. White flour. Words from festival tales, not his life.
"Really? You're not joking? Swear on Grandmother's spirit!"
His uncle's laugh was answer enough. "Would I lie about food? Come. Your mother's steaming buns already."
---
The house was old wood and packed earth, walls telling stories of seasons endured. Inside, a single room held the smell of dried herbs and warmth.
Han Li's mother sat by the window, mending. Her hands were thin, etched with fine lines and silver needle-scars.
"Mother! Second Uncle's back! He brought flour and salt and—"
"I know, little sparrow." She smiled, warmth crinkling her tired eyes. "Come hug me."
He did, squeezing tight. She patted his back. "Sit. There are buns. And candies."
They settled at the scarred wooden table just as the door curtain rustled.
Han Li's father entered, shoulders permanently curved from a lifetime bowed to the earth. His hands were broad, knuckles swollen like tree knots, nails packed with red soil. But his eyes, when they found Han Li, held ember-warmth.
"Father! Sit! Second Uncle brought real salt! And candies!"
A faint smile softened the man's weathered face. "I know. Helped carry the bundle." He nodded to his brother-in-law—a silent exchange—and sat, movements heavy with honest fatigue.
Han Li's mother brought steamed buns on a woven tray, steam curling, and the candies in their bright wrappers.
Han Li took his with both hands, as if receiving something sacred.
For a moment, there was only the sound of eating—the quiet, profound music of a family whole.
---
Second uncle set his bowl down. The sound was deliberate.
The room stilled.
"Big brother, sister-in-law," he began, voice low and steady. "When I left the Zhong estate, old Zhong Fu himself sent word."
Old Zhong himself. The name hung, heavy.
"In three days, a physician comes to Lingshui. A miracle physician."
He paused. Han Li's mother's hand froze. His father's face went still.
"This physician… has seen three hundred winters. He is a cultivator."
The word sucked the air from the room.
"He comes to choose his final disciple. He's searched many villages. Found no one. Now… he ends his search here."
He looked at Han Li, then at his parents.
"The chosen one… will walk the cultivator's path. Learn arts that snatch life from death." Another pause, deeper. "And the family… will receive one hundred taels of silver."
One hundred taels.
Han Li's mother gasped, hand pressed to her heart. "Heavens…"
---
Han Li's mind raced.
A cultivator? Not just a doctor…
His heart hammered. Could I…?
He barely whispered it: "What if… I'm the lucky one?"
His uncle cleared his throat sharply. "There's more. Rumors say… he will pass on all he owns. Lands. Wealth. Everything accumulated in three centuries." He leaned closer. "And… he will wed his daughter to the disciple."
The silence now was thick, pressurized.
"Whoever is chosen… becomes a young master overnight."
Han Li saw hope ignite in his parents' eyes—a fierce, burning light.
His father spoke, voice rough with pride he couldn't hide. "If our Li'er… it would be heaven's blessing. He's always been… different."
He stopped abruptly. Han Li's mother touched his arm, seamlessly stepping in. "His name—Li—means strength. Balance between heaven and earth." She smiled at Han Li, love and hope woven together. "It is fate's good fortune to look upon our Li'er."
Han Li flushed, looking down at his hands—at the dark wooden bead on his wrist.
But inside, a quiet voice settled, cold and clear:
If fate does not choose me… then I will choose myself.
The thought didn't feel like a wish.
It felt like a vow.
---
That night, Han Li lay awake.
Moonlight painted a pale door on the floor.
If I am chosen…
He built the future not from legend, but from lack.
He saw himself learning the physician's art with fierce dedication. Not becoming a lord, but becoming a refuge—like the old willow offering shade to all.
He would send silver home. A steady stream, not just seasonal rain.
One hundred taels.
He counted it in transformations:
Fine white flour every day.
A new plowshare for his father.
The crumbling wall repaired.
And for his mother…
His heart ached sweetly. He saw her in the lamplight, needle in hand, fingers etched with dirt and dotted with silver scars.
With one hundred taels—
He could buy her a real sewing machine. One of iron and polished wood, with a wheel that spun like light. Her hands could rest. They could hold tea, smooth his hair, lie open in her lap without pain.
The vision was so vivid it hurt.
He didn't notice the moon slide across the sky.
He didn't hear the crickets fade.
One moment, he was staring at the dark beams, dreaming in gold and blue.
The next—dawn light, pale and new, filled the room.
The night had passed in a single held breath.
---
And in the days that followed, Han Li moved through life buoyed by a quiet, humming hope.
He waited.
He watched the road.
Until the day before the physician's arrival.
The air in Lingshui seemed to sharpen, charged with silent competition.
Parents looked at their children with new, calculating eyes.
Whispers traveled like brushfire:
"They say the tests are harsh…"
"They say he only takes one…"
"They say the last disciple he chose… vanished."
Han Li stood at the edge of the drought-cracked field, the same spot where he'd watched clouds.
The same sky hung above, boundless and indifferent.
But something felt different today.
The wind carried a faint, electric tingle—like the moment before lightning.
The hairs on his arms stood up.
He looked down at the wooden bead on his wrist.
For a heartbeat, it felt warm—not from the sun, but from within.
This changes everything, he thought, not with fear, but with a clarity that cut through hope like a blade. No one in this village remembers the nameless children born here…
…but I will make sure they remember me.
It was not ambition.
It was a promise—to himself, to the dust, to the sky that had watched him for years.
As han li was in his own thoughts,,.,.
Then finally han li heard —a sound.
Clear, cold, and resonant, it cut through the murmurs of the village and the whisper of the wind.
Dang—
A single strike of a bell, deep and carrying, like a mountain speaking.
It rolled over Lingshui, stilling the air, halting conversations mid-word.
Dang—
It came again, this time followed by a voice, amplified and distant yet unnervingly clear, calling out from the direction of the village square:
"Physician Lu… has arrived."
Han Li's heart slammed against his ribs.
It's now.
He didn't think. He spun on his heel and ran—not toward the square, but home. Feet pounding on the hard earth, breath tearing in his throat, the world blurring into streaks of brown and dull green.
He burst through the door, his chest heaving.
"Father! Mother!" he gasped, the words tumbling out. "The bell—the physician—he's here! He's in the square!"
His mother dropped the cloth she was folding. His father stood up so quickly the stool scraped loudly against the floor.
No words were needed. A look passed between them—a mixture of hope, fear, and fierce resolve.
In moments, they were moving. His mother smoothed her worn dress with quick, nervous hands. His father straightened his patched jacket, his weathered face set like stone.
Together, the three of them stepped out of their humble home and into the charged afternoon air. They joined a growing stream of villagers—parents pulling children by the hand, elders walking with determined steps, young faces alight with desperate hope—all flowing toward the same point: the village square.
Han Li walked between his parents, the wooden bead on his wrist a silent, warm weight.
The game had begun.
The future was waiting.
And his first test was not the physician's… but the walk there, through the eyes of a village suddenly full of rivals.