Pain returned before memory.
It seeped slowly into Xu Yan's awareness, spreading through bone and marrow like winter cold flooding cracked stone. His meridians throbbed with a dull, fractured ache. Each breath scraped faintly against his chest, thin and fragile, as though drawn through splintered glass.
For a long time, he did not open his eyes.
Some instinct—old, cautious, carved into him by hardship—warned that waking too quickly might snap the final thread keeping him alive.
So he lay in darkness and listened.
No roaring spirit spring.
No violent spatial storm.
No collapsing cavern.
Only silence.
A breath entered his lungs… then left again.
He was alive.
The realization arrived quietly, without triumph. Survival meant nothing by itself—only another chance to struggle forward.
At last, Xu Yan forced his eyes open.
Dim grey morning light filtered through fractured stone above him. Dust drifted lazily in the still air, glowing faintly where the light touched it. The once-raging spirit spring cavern had fallen into ruin, its fury spent as though the previous night had been nothing more than a fading dream.
Memory followed.
The spatial eruption.
The tearing pressure inside his meridians.
The instant his consciousness shattered.
He should have died.
Yet deep within his dantian, a faint current of spiritual energy still rotated—thin, unstable… but alive. Beneath it lingered something colder, quieter. A presence that did not belong to ordinary cultivation.
It did not speak.
It did not move.
It simply watched.
Xu Yan released a weak breath that almost became a laugh.
"Still breathing…" he murmured hoarsely. "Then I keep walking."
Silence answered him.
Sitting up required nearly all the strength he possessed.
The world tilted violently. Darkness crept along the edges of his vision, threatening to drag him back into nothingness. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to remain upright.
If he lay down again… he might never rise.
Minutes crawled past before the dizziness eased.
That was when he noticed something strange.
Not one object—
But two.
Half-buried beneath shattered stone lay a small storage ring, dull with age.
Beside it, almost hidden in dust and shadow, rested a broken bronze compass no larger than his palm.
Xu Yan frowned slightly.
Storage rings were already rare for outer disciples.
A compass… was meaningless to cultivators.
And yet—
For reasons he could not explain, his gaze lingered on the compass first.
He reached out slowly.
The bronze felt unexpectedly warm against his fingers.
The instant his skin touched it—
A faint tremor passed through his chest.
Not pain.
Not spiritual energy.
Something softer.
Like a distant heartbeat… answering his own.
Xu Yan's expression tightened.
"…Strange."
The compass needle, cracked and darkened by age, should not have moved.
Yet it trembled slightly—
Then settled, pointing toward the cavern exit.
A coincidence, he told himself.
Nothing more.
Still, he did not put it down.
Only after a moment did he pick up the storage ring and inspect its contents.
Three spirit stones.
Two recovery pills.
Scattered coins.
Minor herbs.
Meager.
Yet enough to keep him alive.
Xu Yan exhaled quietly and slipped the ring onto his finger.
Then, after the briefest hesitation…
He kept the compass as well.
He did not know why.
Only that throwing it away felt… wrong.
Using one recovery pill, he forced warmth through damaged meridians until his body could barely stand.
Remaining inside the ruined cavern meant death.
So he walked.
Each step along the forest path was slow and uneven, but he did not stop. Ancient trees loomed overhead, their shadows stretching long across the mountain slope.
Hours passed in silence.
Then—
The compass grew warm.
Xu Yan froze.
He slowly lifted it from his sleeve.
The needle trembled… then shifted slightly to the right, pointing deeper along the winding forest trail instead of the main outer-sect road.
His brows knit together.
"A damaged relic reacting to heat?" he muttered.
But the warmth pulsed again.
Gentle. Persistent.
Guiding.
Xu Yan stared at it for a long moment.
Logic said ignore it.
Survival said follow the safest road.
Yet something deeper—something he could not name—whispered quietly in his chest.
Go.
After a long silence, he changed direction.
The forest grew quieter the farther he walked.
Too quiet.
Several times, Xu Yan felt a faint sensation brush the edge of his thoughts. Not killing intent. Not spiritual sense.
Just…
A distant call.
Soft. Painful. Waiting.
Each time he checked the compass, the needle remained steady—pulling him forward along the same hidden route.
Unease slowly mixed with curiosity.
"What exactly are you leading me to…" he murmured.
The compass gave no answer.
Only warmth.
By late afternoon, the narrow trail opened onto a forgotten trade road carved between grey mountain cliffs.
And there—
As though placed by fate itself—
Stood a solitary caravan.
Xu Yan's gaze sharpened instantly.
The compass needle pointed directly at it.
Then… the warmth faded.
His heartbeat slowed.
So this… was the destination.
Only one merchant stood beside the cart.
Plain robes. Ordinary face. Calm posture.
Yet his eyes lingered on Xu Yan with subtle intensity.
"Hard road for someone so young," the merchant said mildly.
Xu Yan remained cautious.
Still… the compass now lay silent in his sleeve, as if its task were complete.
"What are you selling?" Xu Yan asked.
The merchant smiled faintly.
"Fortune."
Inside the cart lay scattered trinkets of little value.
Nothing remarkable—
Except a weathered treasure map marked in ancient ink.
The moment Xu Yan looked at it—
The same faint sensation from the forest surged stronger in his mind.
Pain.
Longing.
Calling.
His fingers tightened unconsciously around the hidden compass.
The needle inside his sleeve trembled once more.
Confirming.
"…How much?" he asked quietly.
The price consumed nearly everything he owned.
Logic urged refusal.
But the compass remained warm against his wrist—
Steady. Certain.
After a long silence, Xu Yan handed over the coins and spirit stones.
The merchant accepted them slowly.
His smile deepened with quiet satisfaction… and something like relief.
"Wise choice," he murmured.
Unease settled in Xu Yan's chest, heavier now.
Still, he turned and left without another word.
Behind him, the merchant watched silently.
Waiting for night.
Darkness covered the mountains.
Xu Yan rested beneath a stone overhang, hidden from beasts and wandering cultivators.
Yet sleep would not come.
Because the compass… had grown warm again.
Stronger than before.
And deep within his mind—
That distant, suffering presence pulsed clearly in the darkness.
Calling.
Waiting.
Begging.
Xu Yan's eyes opened slowly.
He turned toward the road behind him.
The compass needle pointed only one way.
Back.
For a long moment, he remained perfectly still.
Returning could mean death.
A wounded cultivator had no right to chase mysteries in the night.
And yet—
Before he consciously decided, he was already standing.
Quietly. Inevitably.
As though fate itself had tightened an invisible thread around his soul—
And begun to pull.
Far behind him, within the silent caravan,
black chains trembled softly in the dark.
Ancient golden eyes, dim from ages of waiting, opened just enough to feel the change in the world beyond their prison.
For the first time in countless years…
the endless silence had been disturbed.
A presence long lost to heaven and earth
was drawing near once more.
Not power.
Not memory.
Something deeper.
Recognition.
The faint, broken compass hidden in Xu Yan's sleeve pulsed with a final whisper of warmth—
as if answering a call older than time itself.
Inside the cage, the chained beast's breath quivered.
Hope… and terror… stirred together.
Because the one approaching…
was either the master it had searched lifetimes to find—
or the final doom that would end them both.
The golden eyes slowly closed again.
Waiting.
Listening.
Counting the final moments of night…
until fate arrived at the caravan's door.