Chapter 1 – The Mortal Who Sees Beyond

The lanterns swayed gently in the cold night breeze, their dim glow casting flickering shadows against the weathered wooden walls of Willow Hollow. A small village, unimportant to the great sects of the world, yet beneath its unassuming surface lay secrets unseen by even the most powerful cultivators.

At the village’s eastern edge, a solitary figure sat beneath an old cypress tree, his posture relaxed yet deliberate. Shen Mu did not stand out. His presence was like a whisper in the wind—there, but unnoticed unless one truly paid attention.

He liked it that way.

With a slow exhale, his eyes traced the thin lines of moonlight threading through the clouds. To others, it was just the night sky. But to him, there was something more—an unseen rhythm, a pattern that pulsed beneath reality itself.

The world breathed.

And Shen Mu had spent his life listening.

The distant toll of the village bell disrupted the silence. A warning.

Shen Mu’s gaze shifted toward the village entrance. The commotion was soft at first—hurried whispers, footsteps scraping against dirt—but it grew louder as anxious voices mixed into the night air.

“Someone from the sect has arrived!”

“The Black Veil Sect?”

“No… it’s someone else. He looks… injured.”

Shen Mu rose slowly, brushing dust from his sleeves before making his way toward the gathering crowd. The villagers parted for him without realizing it, unconsciously stepping aside as though moved by an unseen force.

Near the entrance, a young man in tattered robes leaned heavily against the gate, his breath ragged, his face streaked with blood. He clutched at his chest, where a wound pulsed with faint golden light—a sign of Ether poisoning.

Shen Mu’s eyes narrowed.

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This man was a cultivator.

And he was dying.

The village elder, a frail yet dignified man, stepped forward. “Who are you?”

The injured man struggled to speak. “I… I need… to hide.” His voice cracked with exhaustion. “They’re coming.”

Whispers spread like wildfire. The villagers shrank back, fear creeping into their expressions.

A cultivator on the run meant trouble. Trouble that no mortal village wanted.

Shen Mu exhaled slowly. He could already sense the dilemma forming. The elder would hesitate, the villagers would plead for caution, and in the end, this man would be left to fend for himself. A typical outcome.

It wasn’t his problem.

And yet, Shen Mu found himself stepping forward.

“Bring him inside,” he said evenly. “I’ll take care of him.”

Silence fell. Eyes turned toward him, some in surprise, others in quiet relief. The elder hesitated before nodding.

As Shen Mu approached the wounded cultivator, their gazes met. The man’s pupils trembled slightly, as if sensing something beyond Shen Mu’s ordinary presence.

“Who… are you?” the man rasped.

Shen Mu didn’t answer. Instead, he extended his hand.

“You want to live?” His voice was calm, almost indifferent. “Then stop wasting time and listen carefully.”

Inside Shen Mu’s modest dwelling, the air was heavy with the scent of burning herbs. He had seen Ether poisoning before—cultivators who overindulged in their power, their bodies rejecting the energy they sought to control.

But this was different.

Shen Mu sat beside the injured man, studying the golden veins pulsing beneath his skin.

“Ether rejection,” he muttered. “But not from overuse. Someone force-fed you power beyond your limit.”

The cultivator flinched, eyes wide. “…How do you know that?”

“I listened.” Shen Mu’s fingers tapped lightly against the wooden table. “Your pulse is erratic, but your breathing is controlled. Meaning you’re trained. But the Ether inside you isn’t yours—it’s someone else’s. Foreign, unstable.”

The man swallowed hard. “You… you’re not a normal healer, are you?”

Shen Mu didn’t reply immediately. He wasn’t a healer. He wasn’t even a cultivator—not in the way this man understood.

But he knew Truths.

“You’re lucky,” Shen Mu said finally. “If it were any worse, you’d have already combusted from the inside.”

The man tensed. “Can you help me?”

Shen Mu’s lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, more like a quiet acknowledgment of something inevitable.

“That depends,” he said. “Can you withstand pain?”

The cultivator hesitated, then nodded.

Shen Mu reached for a small dagger, its edge gleaming under the dim light.

“Then let’s begin.”

As dawn broke, the village stirred with whispers. The injured cultivator still lived. More than that—he sat upright, his breathing steady, his complexion no longer sickly.

The villagers were stunned.

Shen Mu, however, was already moving on. The night had given him much to consider.

The sects were stirring. Something was happening beyond this village.

And for the first time in years, Shen Mu found himself curious.

Perhaps it was time to see the world for himself.