Chapter 1: Chains and Shame
The sun rose slowly over the ancient rooftops of the capital, casting its light not as a blessing but as a cold witness to disgrace. Along a narrow stone-paved street, a figure staggered forward, one step at a time, as if death clung to his back and urged him onward.
His body was draped in rusted iron chains—a thick loop dug into the skin of his neck, others bound tightly around his wrists and ankles. Each movement sent the chains clanking, scraping against bone and flesh alike. His limbs trembled, not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion. He had long passed the point where pain mattered.
His bare feet dragged over the rough stone. From the soles and up to the shins, blood seeped with every step, marking a crimson trail behind him. Torn skin, half-healed wounds, and infected gashes told stories of endless torment. His legs were failing, muscles barely clinging to his bones. Hunger had stripped him of all weight, all pride—his body nothing more than a husk, a starved silhouette that looked more corpse than man.
Behind him marched two imperial guards. Their armor gleamed under the morning sun, spears held upright but ready. One of them jabbed the butt end into his back, forcing him forward when he slowed.
"Walk," the guard hissed.
He didn't answer. He didn't look up. His eyes were lost, not blinded, but hollow—eyes that had seen too much, lost too much, forgotten how to see anything except the path ahead. Not because it led to freedom. But because there was no other direction left.
The street was alive with noise. A crowd had gathered, pressing against the sides like vultures waiting for the final breath of a dying animal. They didn't whisper. They didn't pity.
They cursed.
"Traitor!"
"Scum like you should have died in the womb!"
A rotten tomato burst against his chest, the sour pulp soaking through the torn cloth that barely covered his upper body. Another splattered against his shoulder. The weight of vegetables and filth began to mix with the weight of the chains. But worse than the blows were the words. Words wrapped in venom, shouted by children and elders alike.
"You deserve this!"
"May the heavens strike you again and again!"
A child, no older than ten, laughed as he hurled a raw egg. It cracked against the side of the prisoner's face, yellow dripping down his cheek and into the corner of his mouth. He didn't flinch.
Then came the cow dung. A full lump of it flung from the hand of a woman, landing against his chest and sliding slowly down his front. The stench mixed with the blood and sweat, a foul coating on already ruined skin.
More eggs. More tomatoes. A turnip. A stone.
"Bastard!"
"Qi-less dog!"
"May your soul rot with the demons you served!"
The air buzzed with rage, but the man didn't raise his head. Not once.
The chains around his legs kept his steps short and uneven. Every forward motion dragged the iron links across the stone, and with them, the open wounds on his ankles. Blood trailed him like a shadow. A small pool formed at each place he staggered, marking a slow, torturous procession.
And still, the guards said nothing more than "Walk."
They didn't need to say more. The punishment was not in words. It was in the exposure. In the shame. In the deliberate slowness of the march, so that the entire city could drink in the sight of what he had become.
The buildings loomed above—carved in ancient stone, draped in red banners of the imperial clan. From the windows and balconies, nobles and commoners alike leaned forward to catch a glimpse. Some threw things. Others just watched, lips curled in disgust.
But no one helped.
No one offered a hand.
He was alone.
Utterly, undeniably alone.
A group of younger cultivators stood at a corner, robes pristine, hair tied in warrior's knots. They laughed and mocked him openly.
"Once thought he could challenge the heavens, now can't even walk straight."
"Look at that. No sword, no qi. Just bones and chains."
A particularly sharp pebble found his cheek, splitting the skin open. Blood trickled down to his jaw. He didn't stop. His breathing had slowed into a rhythm—not of survival, but submission. One step. Pain. One step. Curse. One step. Rotten fruit.
The Imperial Square loomed ahead, where the real judgment awaited. But the journey itself was punishment enough. The capital, once a place of honor, sacred cultivation, and pride, had become a twisted stage for humiliation.
A sudden gust of wind blew across the street, lifting dust and the rancid smells of the crowd's offerings. It caught in his lungs and made him cough. Each breath shook his ribcage. He bent forward, barely managing to stay upright. His legs quivered. The blood from his feet grew darker. But he kept moving.
The guards behind him said nothing. Only pushed.
He was not being walked to death.
He was being walked to erase him.
And that was what this was. A public erasure. No past. No name. No memory.
Just a walking corpse beneath chains and curses.
As the procession reached the open square, the crowd grew. So did the voices. They screamed and laughed and spat. Not one voice questioned. Not one hand hesitated to throw filth. No one looked at him and saw a person.
He was alone.
And still walking.
The sky dimmed under a veil of grey clouds, hanging heavy as the wind picked up with a chill that whispered of the approaching winter. The air stung cold, sharp like invisible blades brushing against the skin. Dust and dried leaves scattered with every gust, curling around feet, hooves, and the iron chains that screamed across the stone road.
He no longer walked.
He couldn't.
His body—drained, broken, bloodied—had finally reached its limit.
Somewhere near the city's east gate, where cobbled roads gave way to the long forest path, his legs collapsed underneath him. His chest hit the cold ground with a muffled thud. The chains clattered around him like dying echoes. His face pressed into the dirt, unmoving, his eyes closed, lips pale, and his breath shallow—barely there.