The wind was colder than it had been in the village.
Shen Yelan walked along the road, his small bundle slung across one shoulder. Dew still clung to the grass. Every breath carried the scent of soil and the faint sweetness of wildflowers. Behind him, Willow Village was far out of sight, hidden by mist; ahead, the faint outline of Qinghe Town shimmered beneath the pale sky.
Caravans passed him one after another — traders with full carts, farmers driving oxen, a few cultivators on horseback, their robes bright, their eyes sharp. Each time they passed, Yelan stepped aside, lowering his gaze. Dust rose around him, settling on his hair and sleeves.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher. He stopped under a tree, untying his bundle. Inside were a few dry buns and a flask of water. He ate slowly, saving each bite, his eyes never leaving the distant road.
Then came the creak of wooden wheels. A small wagon approached, drawn by an old mule. The driver was an elderly man with a thin beard and steady eyes.
"Boy!" the old man called. "Heading to Qinghe Town?"
Yelan nodded. "Yes, elder."
"Hop on, then. The road's long, and the sun's cruel."
Yelan hesitated but bowed. "Thank you." He climbed onto the wagon. The boards were rough, smelling faintly of hay and grain. The wagon jolted forward again.
The old man smiled. "You've got the look of someone chasing something. What is it? Gold? Luck? A girl?"
"None of those," Yelan said softly.
"Then it must be something foolish," the old man chuckled. "Only fools walk this road alone."
"Maybe," Yelan replied. "But some roads don't allow company."
The old man said nothing for a while, then nodded. "That's true enough."
They traveled quietly. The road grew livelier — more wagons, more travelers, more hopeful faces. Once, they passed a group of young cultivators wearing white robes marked with the Radiant Sword Sect's emblem. Their laughter carried arrogance; their eyes held the easy confidence of those born under Heaven's favor.
One noticed Yelan staring and smirked. "Rootless boy," he muttered. "Don't stare too long. Heaven's gate doesn't open for those without roots."
Yelan said nothing. His hand tightened on the wagon's edge.
The old man's voice came gently. "Don't mind them. People born with light forget how heavy darkness feels."
Yelan turned his head slightly. "Elder, have you been to Qinghe Town before?"
"Many times," the man said with a faint smile. "But never for the same reason. Some go there to begin something… others, to end it."
The road curved, revealing a wide river glinting under the sun. Beyond it, the city walls rose high, banners of white and gold fluttering. The sword-shaped emblem of the Radiant Sword Sect blazed like fire.
The old man slowed the cart. "That's as far as I go, boy."
Yelan climbed down and bowed. "Thank you, elder."
"Go," the man said. "Whatever you seek, don't let anyone tell you it isn't yours to chase."
The wagon rolled away, leaving Yelan by the riverbank. The water shimmered, carrying the scent of the city ahead. He crouched, washed the dust from his hands, and stared at his reflection rippling in the water.
"Low roots," he murmured. "Then I'll carve my own place."
He stood and crossed the bridge.
The crowd thickened near the gates — traders shouting, hopeful youths clutching tokens, parents whispering prayers. Shen Yelan walked among them, quiet and steady, his eyes fixed on the Radiant Sword Sect's banners above.
The golden sword caught the sunlight, spilling brilliance across the road. For a moment, it felt like the heavens themselves watched.
Yelan drew a breath and stepped through the gate.