The white peaks of the Guangyuan Mountains shimmered in the morning mist. High above, a flock of cranes drifted lazily across the sky, their wings cutting arcs of silver through the haze. From somewhere deep within the valleys came the steady toll of a bronze bell, each note echoing like a call to awaken the spirit.
On a flat terrace halfway up the mountain, rows of disciples in gray Daoist robes moved in unison, striking and sweeping with open palms. Their motions raised little eddies of dust, the sound of fabric snapping crisp in the air.
At the front stood a middle-aged elder, his hair bound tightly beneath a jade crown. His movements were fluid, each rise and fall of his arms carrying the effortless grace of flowing water. Behind him, however, the younger disciples only managed clumsy imitations—more form than essence.
At the very end of the line, a youth with arched brows and an earnest expression struck each motion with unusual precision. His name was Li Yuan, one of the nameless juniors of Ling Peak, and unlike the others he dared not slacken.
It was tradition in the Qi Ling Sect: at dawn on the first day of each month, every disciple not burdened with urgent duty had to gather at the Lecture Platform of Qi Peak and perform the sect's foundational technique, the Mysterious Qi Palm, for half an hour. Li Yuan did not see the sense in such an old-fashioned rule—but he was too lowly to question it.
A deep clang rang out from the mountaintop bell. The session had ended.
The leading elder drew his palms together and lowered them with practiced finality. Hands clasped behind his back, he swept a piercing gaze over the disciples.
"Better," he said with a nod. "Seven or eight more joined us this month than last. Remember—though our sect may no longer shine as it once did, the rites and traditions of our forebears are not to be abandoned. Train diligently."
With a flick of his sleeve, a green lotus unfurled beneath his feet. It expanded into a platform of light that bore him upward into the sky. The disciples bowed deeply.
"Farewell, Elder!" they called as his silhouette vanished into the clouds.
When the courtyard emptied, Li Yuan turned to leave. He had risen in the dead of night to climb from Ling Peak, and now longed for rest.
But three disciples intercepted him. The one in front, a lean youth with narrow eyes, smirked."Li Yuan, how's that neck wound of yours?"
Li Yuan paused. His hand went unconsciously to the faint scar at his throat. He bowed politely."Much better, Brother Wang. Thank you for asking."
The smirk widened. A short, heavyset disciple beside him snorted."Better? You're lucky to be breathing. Imagine—a disciple of Qi Ling Sect, nearly killed by a mortal swordsman! The story's already spreading through the mountains. People will laugh themselves sick."
Several others nearby chuckled under their breath. The tale had clearly traveled far.
Li Yuan did not bristle. It was true. His skills had failed him; no shame in fact. Shame required pride, and his skin was thicker than their jests. He even smiled faintly, his brows lifting in an apologetic curve.
"I've always been slow to grasp technique," he said. "If not for Brother Wang stepping in, I might not be here at all. Allow me at least to thank you."
From his sleeve he produced a small luminous stone and held it out, cheeks tinged red."This spirit stone is but a trifle, yet I hope you won't refuse it."
For a heartbeat, Wang Chuan froze. He had expected anger, or at least humiliation—not this open, almost bashful gratitude. With the other disciples staring, he stammered, "We—we are brothers of the same sect. Helping one another is only natural. How could I take such a thing?"
He shoved the stone back into Li Yuan's hand and turned away sharply, face strangely flushed. Even his friends looked baffled.
Li Yuan thanked him again with a sincerity that only deepened Wang's discomfort. But once the crowd dispersed, Li Yuan's expression cooled back to calm. Such mockery was nothing. He had endured worse.
In truth, he was not of this world at all. In another life, on another earth, he had been an ordinary youth cursed with a hereditary illness. Twenty-seven years old when his body failed him.
When he opened his eyes again, he was here—in a world of cultivation, rescued as an infant from kidnappers by Qi Ling disciples, discovered to possess a spiritual root, and taken up the mountain.
That root, however, was middling at best. The sect classified them as Heavenly, Earthly, and Human, each divided further into grades. Heavenly roots were the stuff of legend. Even an Earthly root was rare enough that perhaps not a single disciple among a hundred possessed one. Li Yuan's was Human, mid-grade. With perseverance and centuries of toil, he might—might—reach the rank of elder.
At nineteen years of age he had only just entered the first stage of Qi Refinement. To mortals, such power made him an immortal. To cultivators, he was scarcely more than scenery.
Still, the path promised longevity. Two centuries of life for a Qi Refiner; five for one who built a Foundation. Enough to watch dynasties rise and fall. That alone was worth enduring ridicule.
By midday, he had returned to his small cave-dwelling on Ling Peak: a modest three-story pavilion inherited from a predecessor. A simple token opened the faint protective barrier—hardly enough to deter more than beasts or bandits, but it marked the place as his.
He settled beneath the old osmanthus tree in his courtyard, poured a cup of tea, and lay back in a creaking lounge chair. Cultivators no longer needed daily meals; a sip of tea or a mouthful of spirit rice every few weeks sufficed. The chair rocked gently as the fragrance of blossoms drifted above him.
For a moment, he considered napping. Cultivation demanded not only effort but patience. In his past life, he had learned the futility of rushing. He sought only steadiness, the quiet accumulation of strength, the right moment.
His hand brushed the stone table beside him, tracing grooves worn by years of wind and rain. His fingers pressed into a small hollow—
—and in that instant, his consciousness flipped upside down.
The world of courtyard and mountain vanished.
He stood instead in the heart of a vast shadowed forest.
(End of Chapter 1)