The night the village burned, the sky was unusually clear.
Li Chen remembered that detail because it felt wrong, wrong that the stars shone so brightly while screams tore the earth apart below them. The heavens, vast and indifferent, watched in silence as if this were nothing more than a trivial correction.
He was fourteen years old.
At that age, Li Chen already understood hunger, exhaustion, and the weight of survival. He had learned how to trap rabbits in winter, how to recognize poisonous herbs by smell alone, how to lower his head when elders spoke and how to raise it only when necessary. What he had not learned. What no mortal village could ever teach was how fragile life truly was when placed before beings who called themselves cultivators.
The village of Qing River lay tucked between two low mountains, hidden from trade routes and ignored by officials. Generations lived and died there without ever seeing a city wall, let alone a flying sword. For them, the world ended at the river bend to the east and the old forest to the west.
That night, the forest caught fire first.
Flames climbed the ancient trees like starving beasts, casting long shadows that twisted and danced across the dirt paths. Dogs barked wildly before their cries were cut short. Then came the sound thunder, but not from the sky. It was the roar of something tearing through the air.
Li Chen was hauling water from the well when the first body fell from above.
It struck the ground ten paces away, bones snapping like dry wood. Blood soaked into the dirt, steaming faintly. Li Chen froze, the bucket slipping from his hands. He did not scream. His throat locked, instinct screaming at him to stay silent.
A man descended from the sky, robes fluttering as if moved by an invisible wind. He looked no older than thirty, his face calm, almost bored. A faint glow surrounded his body, pushing ash and heat away as though the fire itself feared him.
"A low-grade spirit vein," the man muttered, gaze sweeping over the village. "Barely worth the trip."
Another figure landed beside him, this one laughing softly. "Still, the sect master said to cleanse the area. Mortals breed resentment when left alone too long."
Li Chen did not understand the words. But he understood the tone.
They walked through the village as one might walk through tall grass careless of what lay beneath their feet. With a flick of a finger, a home collapsed. With a wave of a sleeve, fire surged. People ran. People begged. None of it mattered.
Li Chen crawled beneath the well's stone lip, pressing his body into the mud. His heart hammered so loudly he feared it would betray him. Through a crack between stones, he watched his world end.
He saw Old Wu, who taught him how to set snares, try to shield his granddaughter. A cultivator glanced at them, eyes narrowing briefly, then exhaled.
They turned to ash.
Li Chen bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, forcing himself not to make a sound.
Time lost meaning. The fire raged. The cultivators spoke casually about pills, missions, and upcoming inner sect trials. To them, this was not slaughter. It was routine.
Eventually, the flames died down.
"Nothing special," one cultivator said. "Let's go."
They rose into the sky, light trailing behind them like mockery, and vanished beyond the mountains.
Silence followed.
Not the peaceful kind but the kind that comes after everything living has either fled or died.
Li Chen did not know how long he stayed hidden. Minutes. Hours. When he finally crawled out, dawn was breaking. Smoke hung low over the ruins. The river reflected red and gold, as if stained by memory.
There were no survivors.
He walked through the village slowly, stepping around charred beams and collapsed roofs. Here was where he used to sleep. Here was where meals were shared. Here was where laughter once existed.
Nothing remained.
Li Chen knelt in the center of the ruins and stared at his hands. They were shaking not from fear, but from something colder. Something that settled deep in his chest and refused to move.
He waited for grief.
It did not come.
Instead, a single thought formed, clear and sharp.
The heavens allowed this.
Not fate. Not chance. Heaven.
The cultivators had spoken of sects, of spirit veins, of cleansing. That meant there was order to this cruelty. Structure. Rules written beyond mortal reach.
Li Chen stood.
He gathered what little remained a half-burned blade, a water skin, dried grain spared by luck. He did not bury the dead. There were too many, and the earth itself seemed unwilling to close over them.
Before leaving, he bowed once to the ruins.
Not in prayer.
In farewell.
He turned toward the mountains.
The path ahead was unknown. Dangerous. Likely fatal. But Li Chen understood something now that no one had ever taught him.
If mortals were ants, then he would no longer crawl.
If Heaven ruled all things, then one day.
He would sever it.
As he stepped into the forest, unseen by him, deep beneath the scorched earth of Qing River Village, a thin thread of spiritual energy trembled and quietly awakened.