The dirt road leading out of Willow Village stretched endlessly beneath the afternoon sun. Its surface was cracked and pale — the color of dry bones.
Wind swept across it, carrying the faint scent of earth and ash. Dust rose into the air, turning the world hazy and gold.
A boy sat at the edge of that road. His clothes were patched at the elbows and knees, his shoes thin enough to show skin.
His name was Shen Yelan.
He had been sitting there since morning, chin on his knees, eyes tracing the slow drift of clouds. His gaze held neither joy nor despair — only a quiet wondering, as if he were trying to see beyond the sky itself.
From afar came the laughter of villagers — the rhythm of hoes in the fields, the bark of dogs, a mother calling her child.
Ordinary sounds; warm to others, hollow to him.
A pebble rolled from under his foot and tumbled down the path. He watched it bounce away until it vanished. That road led to Qinghe Town, where cultivators of the Radiant Sword Sect came to recruit new disciples.
Yelan let out a breath that was almost a laugh — thin, tired, quiet.
"Choose disciples…" he murmured. "They never come for people like us."
He lifted his hand and looked at his fingers — rough, calloused, a farmer's hands. A mortal's hands.
The sunlight caught his dark hair, and for an instant the dust around him glimmered like scattered stars. Then the wind shifted, and the illusion broke.
A voice called from behind the hill.
"Yelan! Come home!"
It was a man's voice — rough and weary. His father.
Yelan stayed a moment longer, staring at the road. Then he stood, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned toward home.
His shadow stretched long across the dirt, like something reaching for a future it could never touch.
The wind followed him.
---
His home stood at the village's edge — a slanted wooden hut with a roof patched by old tiles. Thin smoke rose from the chimney, gray and hesitant.
Yelan pushed open the door. It groaned.
Inside, the air smelled of damp wood, ash, and old herbs. A small fire burned. A man sat on a straw mat, holding a cracked pipe.
This was Shen Liang, once a cultivator, now a crippled man.
"You're late," Shen Liang said without turning.
"I was watching the clouds," Yelan answered softly.
Shen Liang gave a small grunt. "Clouds don't fill the stomach."
"No," Yelan said. "But they make the hunger quieter."
The older man's pipe clicked. For a while, neither spoke. The fire popped, lighting an old sword on the wall — a relic from another life.
"Village Elder Wu came," Shen Liang said suddenly. "The Radiant Sword Sect is recruiting in Qinghe Town."
Yelan's hand paused. "…Recruiting?"
Shen Liang gave a rough laugh. "Don't waste your thoughts on it. The sect only chooses those Heaven favors."
The words landed heavily.
"I know," Yelan said.
He poured soup from the pot — barley water, thin and gray. He gave one bowl to his father and sat with his own.
They ate in silence.
After a long while, Shen Liang spoke again, quieter.
"When I was young, I thought strength could change everything. I bled for it, begged for it… and lost everything. Remember, Yelan. The heavens have their own will. You can't fight it."
Yelan didn't answer. He stared into the fire. The flames danced in his eyes.
---
When the last light faded, Yelan went outside with two empty buckets. At the village well, a group had gathered — women, men, and a few youths in outer-sect robes.
The laughter quieted as he came.
"Ah… look who's here," one youth said, smirking. His robe was new, his tone sharp. "Careful not to let bad luck touch the water."
Yelan set his buckets down. His expression didn't change. He lowered the rope into the well.
The youth stepped closer. "Heard your father used to be a cultivator. Pity he ended up crippled. Guess Heaven didn't like his kind either."
Yelan kept pulling up the water. His hands didn't tremble.
When his sleeve brushed the boy's robe, the youth frowned. "Watch where you're touching. You think filth can mix with purity?"
Yelan's gaze lifted — not in anger, just calm and steady.
The boy faltered, then sneered. "What, you gonna stare me to death?"
Yelan didn't answer. He picked up the buckets and turned away.
As he walked, he heard a whisper — not cruel, but soft, almost pitying.
"He'll never go far. Some people just aren't meant for that path."
He didn't look back. The water sloshed over his hands — cold, clear, almost cleansing.
---
The moon rose that night.
Its pale light spilled over Willow Village, turning everything silver and still.
Shen Yelan sat outside, his back against the fence. Inside, his father was asleep. The coughs had grown worse.
Yelan stared at the sky. He remembered stories of cultivators who could soar through the heavens and split mountains. As a child, he dreamed of that. But dreams wither without hope.
He took out a small piece of copper — dull, bent, the only thing left by his mother. He rubbed its smooth edge.
In the distance, the lights of Qinghe Town flickered. Tomorrow, the sect's banners would rise there.
He closed his eyes.
"If Heaven won't open its gates," he whispered, "then I'll carve my own."
The wind stirred. The grass swayed as if listening.
He opened his eyes. The stars were cold and distant, yet something in his chest answered them — a quiet pulse, small but stubborn, like the beginning of fire.
He sat there until the night grew deep.
When he stood, his shadow stretched long in the moonlight. He looked back at his home — at the dim light, at all he had known.
Then he turned toward the road.
Tomorrow he would walk to Qinghe Town.
Not because he believed they'd accept him, but because he refused to be told where he didn't belong.
At dawn, Shen Yelan was awake. The air was cold, mist curling over the fields.
He packed a small bundle: a change of clothes, a worn book, and some dried grain.
He stood in the doorway, watching his father sleep. The old man's face looked softer in the pale light.
Yelan wanted to say something — but what? That he would return with fortune? That he would defy Heaven? It sounded childish.
He bowed deeply toward the doorway and whispered, "I'll come back."
Then he turned and started walking.
The road was damp with dew. Each step left a faint print, soon faded by the wind. He didn't look back.
As the sun rose, the world before him widened, quiet and endless. Somewhere beyond the hills waited Qinghe Town — and the fate he had chosen to chase.
Shen Yelan walked on, the morning light at his back.
And so, under the rising sun, Shen Yelan took his first step toward immortality.