Chapter 2 – The Unseen Threads of Fate

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh pine. Shen Mu stood at the edge of Willow Hollow, gazing toward the distant mountains where mist clung to jagged peaks like an ancient shroud.

Behind him, the village slowly came to life. Merchants set up their stalls, children laughed as they chased each other through the narrow paths, and farmers carried bundles of harvested crops toward the storage houses. To an outsider, it was an ordinary morning in an unremarkable village.

But Shen Mu could see it—the faint distortions in the air, the ripples of something unseen threading through the fabric of reality.

Threads of Causality.

Most mortals remained blind to them, unaware of the subtle forces shifting their lives. Even cultivators, for all their power, seldom paid attention to the undercurrents that dictated fate.

Shen Mu did.

A cough broke his concentration. He turned to find the injured cultivator leaning against the doorway of his modest home. The man’s robes, though still torn, no longer clung to his body like death’s shadow. His breathing had stabilized, and the golden veins of Ether poisoning had faded into faint scars.

“You should be resting,” Shen Mu said evenly.

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The cultivator chuckled, though it came out strained. “I should be dead.” He studied Shen Mu with wary curiosity. “I’ve never heard of a healer who could purge Ether rejection without using Qi or pills.”

Shen Mu didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he adjusted the loose sleeve of his robe, his gaze distant. “You weren’t dying from the Ether itself. You were dying because your body rejected what wasn’t yours. It only took a push in the right direction.”

The man frowned. “A push?”

Shen Mu tapped his temple lightly. “Your body wasn’t the problem. Your mind was.”

Understanding flickered in the cultivator’s eyes, but something else lurked beneath—unease.

Silence stretched between them before the man exhaled and pressed a fist to his chest in a formal gesture.

“I owe you my life. My name is Wei Jin. Disciple of the Ironflow Sect.”

Shen Mu met his gaze but did not return the gesture. “You’re no longer with them.”

Wei Jin flinched. A shadow passed over his features.

“I was betrayed,” he admitted, voice low. “My own sect… they—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t stay here. If they find me…”

Shen Mu studied him. The tension in Wei Jin’s shoulders, the wary flicker in his eyes—he wasn’t lying.

But truth was rarely simple.

“I won’t stop you from leaving,” Shen Mu said at last. “But if you run without knowing where you stand, you’ll die just the same.”

Wei Jin’s jaw clenched. “…Then what do you suggest?”

Shen Mu turned his gaze back to the mountains.

“You came here seeking refuge,” he said. “But what you need isn’t safety. It’s understanding.”

Wei Jin scoffed. “Understanding won’t stop my enemies from killing me.”

Shen Mu’s lips curled slightly. “Then you’ve never truly understood anything.”

Before Wei Jin could argue, a sudden shift in the air made them both turn.

The birds had gone silent. The wind stilled.

Then, in the distance, a single bell tolled.

Not the village bell. This sound was deeper, heavier. A vibration that resonated through the ground itself.

Wei Jin’s face paled.

“…They’ve found me.”

Shen Mu didn’t move. His expression remained unreadable, yet his fingers curled slightly, as if tracing something unseen.

Threads of causality trembled.

Something was coming.

And for the first time in years, Shen Mu had the feeling that his quiet life in Willow Hollow was about to end.