Li Yuan returned at dusk.
The mountain path curved downward like an old scar, wandering through pine and stone. He is so familiar that even when his mind runs ahead, his feet remember it.
The sky was bathed in amber and pale red, that sunset making the travelers quicken their pace - not out of fear, but out of desire. Beyond the last peak, below, lies the village of Qingshui, trapped between low hills and a lazy river.
Smoke should have been rising from cooking fires by now. Children should have been shouting near the bridge. Dogs should have been barking at strangers.
Li Yuan smiled.
He packed the travelling baggage on his shoulder, stashing the courageous weight of dried rations and the small clay flask he had bought two days ago for tonight.
He imagined pouring a cup for his uncle, another for Old Ma the carpenter, perhaps even a few drops for his parents' graves.
It's only been three months since he left, but Qingshui has always felt like a place that misses its people a lot. It greets him as always.
The wind changed. The smile faded.
There was a smell in the air that didn't belong to evening meals or hearth fires. It was bitter, heavy - like rain soaked in ash.
Li Yuan slowed, his hand tightening unconsciously around the strap of his pack. His pulse picked up.
He crested the ridge.
Qingshui Village lay below, or what remained of it.
The first thing he noticed was the silence. An unnatural absence, as if sound itself had fled. The second thing was the color. Blackened beams rose like broken ribs from collapsed houses.
The river reflected firelight - not from lanterns, but from embers still glowing among the ruins. The smoke drifted downward, thin and grey, directionless.
Li Yuan stood frozen.
His mind refused to comprehend the scene. The stone well near the square had cracked down the middle. The banyan tree where elders played board games was split and charred.
The bridge—newly repaired before he left—had collapsed into the water, half-burned planks floating like corpses.
"No," he said, softly.
He ran.
As he descended very fast, slipping once, and trampling his palm, the path up the hill scraped his boots raw, but he was not feeling it. He vaulted over a fallen fence and stumbled into the village square.
Bodies lay where they had fallen.
Some were burned, some were broken. Some of the wounds were so clean that they looked unreal, as if the body had decided to disintegrate.
Li Yuan recognized faces.
Old Ma lay near his workshop, one arm missing. He knelt and screamed. Then he stood and again started to search for other people.
The twins, running along the riverbank, lay motionless, eyes open, together. His chest was tight, his breathing fast and shallow.
"Uncle?" His voice cracked. "Uncle Zhang?"
He ran from house to house, calling names, tearing aside collapsed doors, stepping through ash and blood. Each answer was the same. Silence, death and finality.
At the edge of the village, near the ancestral shrine, he stopped.
The ground there was scorched in a wide circle. The stone slabs were slightly melted, distorted as if pressed by an invisible hand. And in the center of the blackened earth was a symbol.
Li Yuan stared at it.
The mark had been carved deep into the stone, as though someone pressed, as though the earth itself had been forced to yield.
It was circular, composed of interlocking lines and sharp angles, forming a pattern that hurt the eyes if stared at too long. The lines seemed to move when he wasn't looking directly at them.
He had never seen it before.
Yet, as he stared, something stirred in his chest - an unmistakable feeling of unease, like remembering a nightmare without recalling the dream.
"What… is this?" he whispered.
The air around the symbol felt wrong. His skin prickled, and he reached out, then stopped himself an inch away, his instinct screaming.
Behind him, a footstep crunched softly on ash.
Li Yuan turned, dropping into a low stance he had learned on the road, hand already reaching for the short blade at his waist.
An old man stood a few steps away.
He was dressed simply, in worn grey robes, travel-stained but intact. His hair was white, tied back without ornament, and his face was lined but sharp, eyes dark and clear. He leaned on a plain wooden staff, its surface polished smooth by years of use.
He looked at the ruined village, then at Li Yuan, then at the symbol.
"So," the old man said quietly, "you arrived too late."
"Who are you?" Li Yuan demanded. His voice shook despite his effort to steady it. "Did you do this?"
The old man shook his head once. "If I had, you would not be standing here."
Li Yuan's grip tightened. "Then tell the truth or leave."
The old man observed him for a long moment. Finally, he sighed.
"Your village was destroyed yesterday. The marks are still fresh. Whoever did this was not interested in subtlety," the old man said.
Li Yuan swallowed. "Do you know who did it?" he asked.
"Yes," the old man replied.
The word landed like a blow.
"Tell me," Li Yuan said, stepping forward. "Tell me now."
The old man tapped his staff once against the stone.
"That symbol you are staring at—it is not a message meant for you. It is a door, my boy," the old man said.
"A door to what?" Li Yuan asked.
"To the one who ordered this." The old man's eyes hardened. "And to six others who stand between you and him."
Li Yuan laughed. "You speak in riddles while my people lie dead."
"I speak plainly," the old man replied. "You simply do not yet understand the language."
Li Yuan stared at him, anger flaring hot and sharp.
"Then teach me," he said.
The old man met his gaze. "If I do, you will never return to the life you knew."
Li Yuan looked around—the ashes, the bodies, the symbol carved into the heart of his home.
"There is nothing here to return to," he said.
Silence stretched between them. The wind stirred the smoke. Somewhere, a beam collapsed with a dull crash.
At last, the old man raised his head slightly. "My name is Qin Mo. Once, I guarded a gate like the one that left this mark."
Li Yuan's breath caught. "A gate."
"Yes." Qin Mo lifted his staff and pointed—beyond the village, toward the darkening horizon.
"There are six such gates in this world. Each is ruled by a sovereign who believes himself untouchable. Beyond them lies a seventh realm, sealed from ordinary men," Qin Mo continued.
Li Yuan followed the direction of the staff, fists clenched. "And the one who destroyed Qingshui?"
Qin Mo's voice dropped. "He stands beyond all seven."
Li Yuan felt something inside him—not grief, not rage alone, but a cold, sharpening resolve.
"Then tell me how to reach him," he said.
Qin Mo looked at the symbol again.
"If you step onto this path, every gate you open will take something from you. Flesh, memory, and mercy. By the time you reach the end, you may no longer recognize the man you are now," Qin Mo said.
Li Yuan knelt beside the symbol, placing his bloodied palm against the scorched stone.
"I don't care who I become," he said. "As long as I reach him."
The lines of the symbol pulsed faintly, once—then went still.
Qin Mo's eyes widened slightly.
"Then," the old man said, his voice grave, "your journey begins tonight. Because the first gate is now opening."