Zhou Yang stood motionless, his breath hitching as he took in his surroundings. It was familiar—too familiar. The bustling street, the honking of cars, the neon-lit signboards hanging from buildings. He was standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green.

This… this is Earth, he thought in shock.

For a long moment, he stood frozen as people brushed past him, completely oblivious to his presence. He clenched his fists. Didn’t I go to sleep after forming the contract with Silent Reaper? Then why am I here?

He looked down at his hands. They were younger, familiar yet foreign at the same time. Everything about this place felt real—so real that the memories of the cultivation world he had spent days in started to blur at the edges. Was that all just a dream?

A single thought suddenly took over his mind.

If this is real… then maybe she’s still here.

His breath caught in his throat, and his feet moved on their own. He ran, sprinting past strangers, tracing the roads that were etched into his memory. The city blurred around him, the noise of cars and pedestrians fading into nothing. There was only one destination in his mind.

After what felt like an eternity, he reached a modest home—not too big, not too small, just perfect for a small family.

His breathing was ragged as he stood before the door, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle. He pushed it open.

The scent of freshly brewed tea filled the air.

His legs carried him forward on their own, down the hallway, past the living room, until finally—

The kitchen.

There, standing with her back turned to him, was a woman—delicate, graceful, and achingly familiar.

His breath caught in his throat.

Ying.

Zhou Yang stepped forward, his hands reaching out, yearning to touch, to confirm, to hold onto this fragile moment.

Just as his fingertips brushed against her shoulder—

Crack.

The world shattered.

----------------------------------------

The scenery shifted violently, like shards of broken glass reforming into something else. Zhou Yang found himself hovering above an enormous statue—one of a warrior standing tall with a sword pierced into the ground.

The sky was gray, the winds howling with an eerie solemnity.

Standing atop the statue’s outstretched hand was a figure dressed in white robes.

Their back was turned, but Zhou Yang recognized that silhouette instantly.

His lips parted, and a name left his mouth, barely a whisper.

"Ying?"

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The figure remained still, gazing at the distance with a concerned and lonely expression. Zhou Yang surged forward, trying to fly closer—

Crack

The world shattered once more.

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He shot up from his bed, gasping for breath. Sweat clung to his forehead, his pulse erratic. He instinctively reached for his chest, trying to steady his racing heart.

“That... was a dream?”

His surroundings were the same as before, the dim light of dawn creeping in through the windows. It hadn’t been long since he had gone to sleep, yet the dream felt like it had lasted for hours.

A voice snapped him out of his daze.

"You really are strange," Mo Ying commented, floating beside him with a curious expression.

Zhou Yang turned to him, his mind still dazed. "...What do you mean?"

Mo Ying crossed his arms, scrutinizing him. "A few minutes after you fell asleep, your presence completely vanished. I couldn’t sense your soul at all until you woke up just now.”

Zhou Yang’s blood ran cold. "You couldn’t sense my soul?"

"That's right. It was as if, for that brief period, you didn’t exist," Mo Ying said, watching him with growing intrigue.

Zhou Yang clenched his fist. If there’s no soul within a body, then that body isn’t alive. What did this mean?

His head pounded. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his voice. "Just what is happening to me...?"

Mo Ying hovered lazily, unimpressed by his troubles. "Well, you're definitely not boring."

Zhou Yang shot him a glare. "That's not helpful."

The sword spirit smirked. "Fine, fine. If you want my opinion... Maybe someone isolated your soul to make you experience that dream. That’s just a guess, though.”

Zhou Yang exhaled sharply. More questions. No answers. Again.

----------------------------------------

After sitting in silence for a while, Zhou Yang sighed and stood up. He changed into a fresh robe, picked up Silent Reaper, and walked toward the courtyard.

The crisp morning air greeted him as he stepped onto the training grounds.

He took a deep breath and unsheathed his sword.

The moment he did, his body moved instinctively, muscle memory guiding him as he executed a series of practiced strikes. His swordplay was neither elegant nor refined—it was wild, chaotic, like a storm-given form. Each swing carried the weight of his frustration, his confusion, his buried grief. The air around him rippled as the blade sliced through it, raw emotion pouring out of every movement.

But as time passed, something shifted. The chaos began to settle. His breathing steadied, his movements grew sharper, more deliberate. The storm within him calmed, leaving behind clarity—a quiet resolve that resonated with each strike.

Finally, with one last forward thrust, he finished the routine.

Zhou Yang sheathed his sword, his chest rising and falling steadily. For a moment, he simply stood there, eyes closed, letting the stillness wash over him. Then, exhaling softly, he murmured, "I feel... lighter."

It wasn’t an exclamation or a declaration—just a quiet acknowledgment, spoken almost to himself. Yet it carried a sense of finality, as though the act of wielding the sword had cleansed him of everything weighing on his mind.

A slow clap echoed from behind him.

"Amazing, Yang. You've reached the master level of Phantom Void Sword Art already," Gu Ling said, walking into the courtyard with a grin.

Zhou Yang turned and found Meng Yao standing at the side as well, watching with quiet admiration. He grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face before greeting his uncle.

Gu Ling casually picked up Silent Reaper, inspecting it for a moment before nodding. “Excellent sword.”

From beside Zhou Yang, Mo Ying’s voice rang out, audible only to him. “Of course it is.”

Gu Ling raised an eyebrow at the sword but didn’t comment further. He wasn’t a swordsman himself, nor did he care much for the level of weapons. At his realm, the difference in weapon quality mattered little.

Zhou Yang eyed him. “What brings you here this early?”

Gu Ling smirked. “Did you forget? I told you I had a gift prepared for you.”

With a flick of his hand, he retrieved a book from his storage ring and tossed it to Zhou Yang.

Zhou Yang caught it and looked at the cover.

Soundless Death Stride.

"It’s a movement technique," Gu Ling explained. "It has three levels—Storm, Shadow, and Death."

Zhou Yang's brows lifted in surprise. He had been expecting something valuable, but this... Even without reading it, he could tell—this was no ordinary movement technique.

Gu Ling grinned at his nephew's expression. "You like it, huh?" Zhou Yang nodded, his voice steady but tinged with awe. “It’s wonderful.” Gu Ling chuckled, clearly enjoying the reaction. "Then let me demonstrate you how it's done." With that, he stepped forward, making his way to the center of the courtyard.

Zhou Yang’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.