CHAPTER 1: FROM STARDUST TO DUST
Word C
"The mist of stars " was not a place for mortals. It was a graveyard of dead suns and a cradle of primordial chaos, where the laws of reality grew thin and wild. In the heart of this silent, stellar maelstrom, a man stood upon nothing.
He was Han Li.
Around him, the corpse of a Star-Devourer—a beast that had swallowed celestial bodies for millennia—dissipated into shimmering motes of extinguished power. The battle had not been loud. It had been a matter of law against chaos, a silent unwriting of existence. With a thought, he recalled the manifestation of his power: a miniature black tower, its form hinting at impossible depth and age, which faded back into his palm.
His robes were pristine. His breathing even. He had reached the Nascent Soul stage—the peak of what this world could conceive as power. He could feel the threads of fate, the slow spin of galaxies, the whisper of time itself.
In that moment of absolute, silent victory, a memory pierced him. Not a vision, but a sensory ghost: the acrid taste of thirst, the gnawing hollow in a belly that had never been full, the fragile warmth of a single oil lamp in a dark room.
The immortal blinked. The infinite cosmos around him seemed to waver, eclipsed by a phantom smell of dry earth and steamed bread.
He had not felt hunger in a century. Yet, the memory was more vivid than the dying starlight.
The past, it seemed, was the only force that could still pull at him.
He allowed the pull to take him, not through space, but through the conduit of his own history. The stellar void dissolved.
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II. THE SCAR — The Boy Under the Bowl of Heaven
One hundred years earlier, the sky over Lingshui Village was not infinite, but a wide, inverted bowl of relentless blue.
Under it, in a field of cracked and lifeless earth known as the Barren Strip, a boy lay on his back. He was fourteen. His clothes, a patchwork of faded indigo and careful stitches, were worn thin. Yet, his face was a stark contradiction—possessing a fine-boned, almost elegant handsomeness that seemed misplaced, like a jewel found in a dust heap.
This was Han Li.
He wasn't studying the blighted ground. His gaze was fixed on the clouds sailing slowly toward the distant, hazy purple line of the Azure Mist Mountains.
"Where do you end?" he murmured, his voice scratchy. The village elder, Old Zhong, said cultivators lived beyond those peaks. They sat in meditation for decades, drank moonlight, and felt no pain, no cold… no hunger.
A deep, familiar ache cramped beneath his ribs, as if to argue. He pressed a hand there. "He says they ride swords of light," Han Li whispered to the empty air, a frail, wistful smile touching his lips. "Can you imagine?"
For a second, a single wispy cloud seemed to stall directly above him, as if listening.
"Han Li! Boy!"
The shout was a gunshot in the quiet. Han Li's eyes—which held a curious, un-boylike depth—snapped open. Instantly, the dreamer vanished, replaced by a child of this hard, simple world. A brilliant, practiced smile lit up his face.
He scrambled to his feet, sending puffs of pale dust into the still air, and ran toward the path.
Second Uncle stood there, a solid man shaped by sun and toil, with a bundle of sturdy Iron-Oak branches on his shoulder. His face was lined, but his eyes were the warm, clear brown of good soil.
"Building palaces in the sky again?" Second Uncle asked, his voice a familiar, grating kindness. He reached out and gripped Han Li's shoulder, the calluses on his palms rough against the thin fabric. "Clouds make poor supper. Come. Your aunt has stew going. There's even a little meat."
The word "meat" hung in the air, tangible as a coin.
Han Li's smile didn't waver. He nodded, falling into step beside his uncle. As they walked, the simple wooden bead on his wrist—dark, smooth, and always there—seemed to thrum with a single, faint pulse of warmth. It was so quick he thought he'd imagined it.
III. THE HEARTH — The Economy of Love
Their home sat at the village's edge, where the cultivated fields gave way to the wild promise of the forest. It was not much to look at: walls of worn timber and faded whitewash, a roof of aged grey tiles. It spoke of generations of patchwork repair and quiet endurance. To Han Li, it was the axis of his world.
"Aunt?" he called as they entered the small, swept-earth courtyard.
The door to the main house creaked open. His aunt appeared, wiping her hands on a faded cloth. She was a woman whose beauty had been tempered by weariness, softness still clinging to her eyes and the set of her mouth. A tired, genuine smile appeared when she saw him.
"Li'er."
She opened her arms. He walked into them without hesitation, burying his face for a moment in the familiar, sun-dried scent of her clothes. Her embrace was his harbor. She held him tightly, one hand coming up to briefly stroke his hair. "You're late," she murmured, no reproach in her tone.
"The boy was philosophizing with the horizon," Second Uncle grunted good-naturedly, setting down his load.
Inside, the single room was dim and warm, lit by the fading orange light through the paper-paneled window. The air was thick, humid, and overwhelmingly rich with a scent that made Han Li's stomach clench in anticipation: the deep, savory smell of stewed hare and the earthy, comforting aroma of freshly steamed flatbread.
No words were needed. They sat on low stools around a small, scarred table. A single oil lamp was lit, pushing back the gathering shadows.
The meal was a silent ritual. A pot of thick stew, flecked with precious shreds of dark meat and chunks of turnip, was placed in the center. The flatbread, golden and speckled with wild scallions, was piled on a cracked plate.
Han Li took a piece of bread, tore it, and dipped it carefully into the stew. He ate with a methodical, focused intensity. Every chew was deliberate, every flavor noted and savored. This was not the ravenous gulping of a wild animal, but the profound appreciation of one who knows the precise cost and value of sustenance. He watched as his aunt served Second Uncle a hearty portion, then took a noticeably smaller one for herself. Second Uncle ate steadily, his eyes half-closed in tired contentment.
The only sounds were the gentle scrape of wood on clay and the soft crackle of the lamp wick.
When the last bit of broth had been sopped up, a heavy, warm stillness settled in the room. The dull, ever-present ache in Han Li's gut was gone, replaced by a solid, grateful fullness. It was a feeling akin to peace.
His aunt cleaned the simple bowls. Second Uncle, his energy spent, lay down on his mat with a long sigh, asleep almost instantly.
Han Li moved to his own corner. His bed was a thin padded mat laid on the packed-earth floor, his blanket filled with dried grass that released a sweet, dusty smell. He lay down, the day's warmth leaching from his muscles.
As sleep pulled at him, the grand dreams of cloud-riders and immortal peaks felt distant, softened by the immediate reality of a full belly and a safe roof. His last conscious sensation was the wooden bead on his wrist, which now rested against his skin not with the strange heat from before, but with a constant, gentle warmth, like a stone left in the sun. It guided him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
IV. THE THRESHOLD — Into the Green
Morning arrived as a pale, grey light seeping through the window shutters.
Han Li awoke with the ingrained discipline of the poor. He folded his blanket with neat corners, straightened his mat, and splashed his face with cold water from the clay jar by the door.
The tools of the day were few and familiar: a large, flexible basket woven from river reeds, a coil of rough hempen rope, and an old wood-axe. The axe was his most important possession. Its head was scarred but sharp, and the haft was polished to a deep, smooth sheen by the grip of his uncle, his grandfather, and generations before.
He was tying the rope to his belt when soft footsteps approached.
His aunt stood in the doorway, a shawl around her shoulders against the morning chill. She watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable.
"You're going to the forest?"
He nodded, slinging the basket onto his back.
She hesitated, choosing her words with care. "Li'er… be cautious today. The woods… they haven't felt right lately. Old Chen swears he saw wolf sign too deep in. The birds are quiet in the deep groves." She reached out, not to stop him, but to adjust the lie of the rope on his shoulder, a habitual gesture of care. "If you feel anything amiss—a stillness that's wrong, a feeling on your neck—you leave your gathering and come home. There is no shame in a prudent retreat."
Han Li looked directly at her, meeting the worry in her eyes with a calm assurance. "I will be careful."
"Be back before the sun passes its peak," she said, her final instruction. "The light changes in the deep woods. It's easy to lose your way."
With a final nod, he stepped out.
The village was slowly stirring around him. A rooster crowed. From a nearby yard came the steady thump-thump of a loom. The mist was still clinging to the lower fields, softening the world.
He passed a neighbor drawing water from the well. They exchanged a silent, acknowledging nod.
Ahead, marking the absolute end of the tamed world, stood the forest. It was a wall of ancient, towering hardwoods and tangled undergrowth, a place of deep shadows and dappled green light. It was not a place for wandering. It was a larder, a timber yard, a pharmacy. It was necessity.
Han Li reached the last split-rail fence, placed a hand on the weathered wood, and vaulted over it.
He landed on the other side, on the soft, silent carpet of decaying leaves.
He did not look back at the safe, smoky hearths of Lingshui. He took a steadying breath, the air now cool and laden with the scent of damp moss and hidden earth.
Then, he took his first step into the vast, waiting green.