Chang Le drifted in darkness for what felt like an eternity.
Sound reached him first—a distant murmur, indistinct and thin. Then came weight. His body felt as though it belonged to someone else, heavy and unresponsive. With effort, he pried open his eyelids.
A worn wooden beam came into view.
Sunlight filtered through cotton-paper windows set in wooden lattice frames, spilling pale shafts of light into the modest room. Dust motes floated lazily in the air.
He lay on a hard plank bed beneath a faded quilt. The furnishings were sparse but neat: a square wooden table, two mismatched chairs, a wardrobe with flaking lacquer, and several sealed clay jars stacked in the corner. The air smelled faintly of dried herbs, smoke, and something else—subtle, almost imperceptible—lingering Spiritual Qi.
This was not the blood-soaked valley of the Black Wind Mountains.
The door creaked open.
Ye Yuetang stepped inside carrying a bowl of steaming medicine. She still wore white, though the cloth was coarse now, its edges frayed. Her complexion was pale, fatigue shadowing her features. Yet when she saw his eyes open, something in her gaze brightened—only briefly—before her usual composure returned.
"You're awake," she said quietly.
She set the bowl down and approached the bed, cool fingers wrapping around his wrist. A faint thread of Spiritual Qi flowed from her touch as she examined him.
His throat felt scorched. "Yuetang… where are we? How long…?"
"Wuyou City." She withdrew her hand. "You've been unconscious for four months."
"Four—?" He tried to sit up and was immediately swallowed by pain. His meridians felt like shattered glass. His Dantian—empty. Completely empty.
He reached inward in disbelief.
Nothing answered.
His cultivation was gone.
"That day, you forced your secret art," Ye Yuetang said evenly. "Your meridians ruptured. Your Dantian nearly collapsed. Qingyun Sect would not let it go. We had to leave."
She helped him sit and lifted the bowl, blowing gently across the surface before holding it to his lips. The medicine was bitter enough to twist his face.
"I carried you north," she continued. "Crossed through the Star Moon Sword Sect's territory. Entered the domain of the One-Thought Pudu Sect. This is Wuyou City. Qingyun Sect's influence doesn't reach here."
For now, she didn't add—but he heard it anyway.
The words struck him harder than the medicine. She had carried him. For four months.
He looked at her waist.
The brilliant blue flying sword, Qiu Shui—gifted by her master—was gone. In its place hung a plain steel longsword, dull and unremarkable.
"Yuetang… where is Qiu Shui?"
She paused, only slightly. "Sold it."
The world seemed to tilt.
That sword had been one of her most treasured possessions. Its value far exceeded ordinary Spirit Stones. And she had sold it—for him.
Memories of his reckless "heroics" before losing consciousness burned with shame. He had thought himself noble. Sacrificial. Brave.
What had he truly given?
He grabbed her hand. It was cold. There were calluses on her fingers—new ones.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice breaking. "Yuetang… I swear, I will repay you. One day I'll find you a sword better than Qiu Shui. The finest in the world—"
Emotion surged through him. He pulled her into his arms.
She stiffened instinctively, then slowly stilled.
He lowered his head, intent on pressing his lips to hers—
—and met her calm, level gaze.
Clear. Composed.
Faintly questioning.
You just woke up. Your body is ruined. Your cultivation is gone.
And this is your first thought?
The heat drained from his face. Mortification crashed over him.
"I—" He floundered. "Before I passed out, I swallowed a family secret pill. A Supreme Body-Forging Pill. It has… side effects. A Yin-Yang toxin. It requires special dual cultivation to neutralize or my foundation might—"
Even he could hear how absurd he sounded.
Ye Yuetang watched him without expression. A flicker—just a flicker—of amusement touched her eyes.
"Mm."
She gently extricated herself and straightened her robe.
"You've just woken up. Rest. Take your medicine."
She turned and left.
Chang Le stared at the ceiling in silence, wishing he could dissolve into the wooden planks beneath him.
The days that followed were quiet.
Ye Yuetang left each morning and returned each evening with food, herbs, and scraps of information. She had joined the Loose Cultivator Alliance, accepting escort missions and low-level beast-clearing tasks.
A Golden Core cultivator reduced to such work.
His chest tightened every time he thought about it.
His body gradually recovered. He could walk again. But his Dantian remained empty—a hollow cavern where power once flowed.
He could not remain like this.
When Ye Yuetang accepted a mission to gather Silver-Line Grass from the western hills, he insisted on coming.
"You have no cultivation," she said.
"I won't go far," he replied. "If I stay inside any longer, I'll grow moss."
After a moment's consideration, she agreed.
They left their quiet alley and reached a secluded street corner.
Ye Yuetang formed a sword seal. The plain steel blade rose with a soft hum. She stepped onto it gracefully.
Chang Le summoned the lid of his ancient bronze furnace from the System space. It appeared with a dull glow beneath his feet.
Together they rose—one on a sword, one on a furnace lid—an odd pair drifting toward the western gate.
Wuyou City spread beneath them in dazzling splendor. Towering walls etched with glowing runes. Palaces and pavilions shimmering with spirit-light. Flying artifacts streaking like meteors across the sky.
The grandeur stirred something in his heart.
And made him feel very small.
They gathered the Silver-Line Grass without incident.
While Ye Yuetang worked efficiently, Chang Le wandered nearby, carefully selecting genuine Grade-One spiritual herbs this time.
He fed them into the System.
The cauldron rotated smoothly. The light was steady.
A pill formed—earthy yellow, etched with spirals.
Primary Effect: Can jump high.
Side Effect: Cannot fly.
Chang Le stared at it.
"…So a Bounce Pill."
He swallowed it anyway.
Warmth spread through his legs.
Better than nothing.
On the return journey, they passed over the mortal district west of the city.
From above, it looked worn and gray.
Up close, it was worse.
Earthen huts leaned at dangerous angles. Thatch roofs sagged. The air felt stagnant. Evening approached, yet no cooking smoke rose from chimneys.
Villagers sat outside their homes, thin as skeletons, eyes empty.
Death lingered here.
Then came the smell.
Rich. Fatty. Stewed meat.
It drifted through the silence like temptation itself.
Chang Le's stomach growled.
"In a place like this?" he muttered. "Someone's cooking meat?"
He followed the scent to a crumbling courtyard.
A large clay pot bubbled over an open flame. Steam billowed.
A figure squatted beside it, back turned.
"What are you cooking?" Chang Le called lightly as he stepped forward and lifted the lid.
The figure spun around.
The face was wrong.
Sunken sockets. Cracked lips. Eyes clouded white and empty.
Chang Le froze.
Steam poured upward.
Chunks of meat floated in murky broth.
And among them—
A small child's head surfaced slowly.
Skin split. Eyes half-lidded.
Staring.
The world went silent.
Chang Le dropped the lid. It shattered on the ground.
He staggered backward and collapsed, retching violently.
The rich aroma lingered.
Now it was unbearable.
The villager let out a hoarse laugh and reached into the boiling pot with bare hands—
A flash of steel cut through the air.
Ye Yuetang stood between them, blade drawn. She struck the creature's wrist, knocking the meat aside.
The thing hissed but did not retreat far.
Without looking at the pot, she knelt beside Chang Le and rested a steady hand on his back.
"Wuyou City," she said quietly, "is not without sorrow."
"One Thought of Universal Salvation can ferry immortals."
"But it cannot save mortals."
She lifted her gaze toward the distant, radiant skyline of the Immortal City.
"This is the cultivation world."
Chang Le slowly raised his head.
The gleaming city stood untouched in the distance.
Behind him lay a village of starvation and madness.
The chill that crept into his bones was colder than any blade.
What was cultivation?
To seek transcendence?
Or to stand above suffering and call it fate?
For the first time, he wasn't sure which path he had chosen.