The mountains did not welcome him.
Li Chen learned that within the first day.
The forest grew denser as he climbed, ancient trees blocking out the sky until only thin blades of light pierced the canopy. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and decay. Every step sank slightly into the soil, as if the earth itself wished to pull him back.
By noon, hunger gnawed at his stomach. By evening, his legs trembled with exhaustion.
This was the weight of a mortal body.
He had no spiritual energy, no secret techniques, no miraculous encounters. Only a half-burned blade with a chipped edge and a will hardened by the sight of ash where life once stood.
When night fell, the forest changed.
Sounds crept in rustling leaves, distant howls, the soft scuttle of unseen creatures. Li Chen climbed into the hollow of a fallen tree and pressed his back against the rough bark, blade resting across his knees. He did not sleep. He closed his eyes only long enough to rest them, opening them again whenever a sound grew too close.
Fear existed.
He acknowledged it, then buried it.
At dawn, he moved again.
For three days, he wandered without direction. He followed streams when he found them, trapped what small animals he could, and chewed bitter roots when meat was scarce. Once, he nearly died when a venomous snake struck at his ankle. He crushed its head with a rock, then burned the wound with a heated blade, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached for hours afterward.
Pain, too, became something to endure.
On the fourth day, he found the bones.
They lay scattered across a small clearing human bones, bleached white by time and sun. Among them were fragments of cloth, long rotted, and a rusted ring bearing an unfamiliar symbol.
Cultivators.
Li Chen did not know how he knew, but certainty settled in his chest. Mortals did not die like this. Mortals were buried, burned, forgotten. These remains had been left where they fell, as if even their killers deemed them unworthy of attention.
He crouched and searched carefully.
Most things had been taken, but beneath a skull cracked cleanly in half, he found a small pouch. Inside were three dull stones, faintly warm to the touch.
The moment his fingers closed around them, something stirred.
It was subtle so faint he almost dismissed it as imagination. A whisper beneath his skin. A warmth that did not belong to blood or muscle.
Li Chen froze.
He closed his eyes and focused.
The warmth pulsed weakly, like a dying ember.
He remembered the cultivators' glow, the way fire bent away from them, the casual cruelty of power. His breath slowed. His thoughts sharpened.
This is it, he realized. The thing that separates them from me.
Instinctively, he pressed one of the stones to his chest.
Pain exploded outward.
Li Chen gasped as heat surged through his body, racing along unseen paths. His vision blurred. His heart thundered as if trying to escape his ribs. He fell to his knees, fingers digging into the dirt.
Then nothing.
The warmth vanished.
The stone in his hand crumbled into dust.
Li Chen panted, sweat soaking his clothes. His entire body ached, muscles screaming as if he had run for days without rest. Yet beneath the pain, something had changed.
When he opened his eyes, the world felt heavier.
No the opposite.
Sharper.
He could hear the wind brushing leaves far beyond the clearing. He could smell damp earth and old blood. His senses stretched, fragile but undeniably expanded.
He stared at his trembling hands.
Spiritual energy, he thought, though the term came from nowhere. Or perhaps from somewhere deeper.
He did not rejoice.
He sat there until his breathing steadied, then placed the remaining two stones back into the pouch. He did not dare use them again. Whatever he had done had nearly killed him.
As night fell, clouds rolled in, obscuring the stars. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Li Chen lay beneath the tree canopy, staring into darkness.
For the first time since leaving the village, exhaustion dragged him toward sleep. Just before consciousness slipped away, a sensation brushed his mind cold, ancient, and vast.
A presence.
Far above the clouds, beyond mortal sight, something shifted.
He did not know it yet, but the thread beneath Qing River Village had begun to tighten.
And Heaven had noticed.