Gu Jun stepped into the heart of the old house.
It was still here, quiet, untouched by time's march. He crossed the worn wooden floor to the window and let his gaze stretch toward the horizon, where land melted into the sky. Golden light spilled in at an angle, painting the floor in slow-moving shadows, as if echoing the heaviness he carried inside.
His voice broke the silence, low and uncertain.
"I'm not sure anymore," he said. "Maybe... maybe Master died because of me. If he hadn't unsealed that barrier for my sake, he might still be alive. It just feels wrong."
To anyone passing by, it might've looked like he was talking to the air. And in a way, he was. But in that stillness, something shifted.
The atmosphere quivered—like a ripple through reality itself—and a shape took form.
No face, no solid features. Just a faint silhouette flickering at the edge of existence, smoke coiling into the shape of a man. It wasn't ghost or flesh—something stranger, older.
And then it spoke, its voice not heard but felt, like a sound humming through bone.
"Your master's death was written long before that moment. When the seal broke, you were nearly twelve. His fate was sealed with yours."
A pause, as if allowing that truth to settle.
"If we had chosen, those assassins would have never reached you. But he believed it wasn't needed. He chose the sacrifice knowingly."
Gu Jun exhaled, eyes fixed beyond the glass as if searching the past for something it wouldn't return.
The voice continued, measured, heavy with age.
"Guilt has no place on the path ahead. Your task now is clarity, not regret. I have existed longer than you can understand—so long, my own name feels foreign. And I've seen such sacrifice before. Rare, yes. But not new. He gave everything for a vow. One day, you may have to do the same."
The air felt denser now, like every word pressed down with gravity.
"Remember who you are bound to. Your master's hope. The will of your ancestors. Humanity's shield. Your life was never just your own."
That flickering form—Xuanzhi—was more than a voice in the shadows. He was one of Gu Jun's greatest inheritances. Not a weapon, not quite a spirit. Something in between.
Xuanzhi was a soul-fragment—an echo of the Black Tortoise, an ancient being whose consciousness had endured countless ages. Not a machine, not a ghost, but a living imprint of memory, thought, and loyalty. He had vast experience due to his long life and memory. He can be called an all-knowing memory bank. He had advised thirty precious emperors in silence.
But he wasn't invincible. His power was strange and limited. He could walk through space, slip through dimensions, vanish in shadow—but even he had limits. He does not have any attacking power. And if he uses too much of his ability, he'd fall into a deep sleep. And he could never stray far from Gu Jun.
Those limits, however, would shift in time—as Gu Jun grew stronger, so would he.
Qin Di, in one of his last lucid hours, had unleashed Xuanzhi, locking the final pieces of his long-laid plan into motion.
And now, the gears had begun to turn.
Xuanzhi's voice softened, almost like a memory whispering.
"Live a little like a human when you can. That was your father's wish. He somewhat knew what was coming. He didn't want the burden to crush you too early."
"You're skilled, but still young. This is the age when mistakes are made. Just be careful, Gu Jun. Walk with purpose."
Gu Jun nodded, silent.
Fifteen Years Ago.
In a quiet village, too small for maps and too distant for armies.
At that time, the central lands had begun to stabilize. Justice was more than a dream, law was no longer just a word. But out near the borderlands, none of that mattered. There, strength still ruled, and rules bent with the will of whoever held a blade.
Raiders and mercenaries crossed from nearby kingdoms, men whose hands bore the stains of lawless years. Treaties were ink on paper. The border was not a line—it was an opening.
And on one grim day, in that forgotten place, a boy named Lin Mo played in the dust.
He was just two and a half.
The sky was dull that day, blanketed by thick grey clouds. He sat near his home, shaping little towers out of dry dirt with his fingers. His mother worked close by, humming softly, casting small glances at him with that quiet warmth only mothers give.
Then the quiet cracked.
Voices. Steel. Screams.
Strangers charged into the village—men with dead eyes and blood-crusted blades. They weren't there to conquer. They came to slaughter.
It was chaos, not war.
Men fell with tools still in hand. Women screamed. Children ran. Animals were butchered for sport.
Lin Mo couldn't understand what he saw. Just fragments burned into him: his father's voice, shouting from somewhere he couldn't see. The old man who gave him sweet cakes fell with a blade in his chest.
His mother didn't run. She grabbed him and held him tight. He felt her heart pounding wildly beneath her skin.
And then—pain.
A grunt escaped her lips as a spear pierced her back. She didn't let go. Not at first.
But her arms grew limp.
And somehow, that was worse than the scream.
They thought she was dead. They thought Lin Mo was too.
They left.
They burned the homes, dragged off the living, and laughed as the flames ate the past.
They dumped the corpses into a shallow pit in the center of the village, including Lin Mo, still held in his mother's arms.
He didn't cry. Not a single sound. Maybe he couldn't.
He lay there, for six long hours.
Surrounded by bodies. Breathing smoke. Covered in blood. His mother's limbs stiffened around him. And above it all—the face of the man who had done it. Calm. Indifferent.
That face never left him.
Something inside Lin Mo died that day.