Chapter 16: The Weight of Time and the Shadow of the Past

"To seek knowledge is a journey of a lifetime, but to understand its weight is a burden not all can bear."

Morning came with an unexpected tug—quite literally.

It started with a simple conversation—one of those idle exchanges that one has while sipping tea and watching the sunset.

I had mentioned to Mr. Yan, in passing, that I enjoyed reading history.

"History?" He had leaned forward, eyes gleaming with interest. "You like reading about old wars and ancient rulers?"

"Not just that," I had said, swirling the tea in my cup. "History isn’t just about battles and empires. It’s about people. The choices they made, the dreams they had, the mistakes that shaped everything after them."

Mr. Yan nodded thoughtfully. "So you seek wisdom from the past?"

I chuckled. "Something like that." Well Since I don’t know much about this land, I thought understanding its past might help me navigate this present world.

I should have realized then that I had said too much.

Because, as it turned out, Mr. Yan was the kind of person who took things very seriously.

I had barely opened my eyes when I found myself being dragged along the stone-paved path leading out of the tavern. The culprit? Mr. Yan, looking unusually excited for this early in the morning.

"You said you liked reading history, right?" he asked, his grip firm on my wrist as if I were a sack of rice he was hauling to market.

I yawned, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from my eyes. "I did say that, but I didn’t expect you to take it this seriously."

"Of course I did!" Mr. Yan said, puffing out his chest. "

At this point, I could only sigh and go along with it.

Mr. Yan’s house was nothing extravagant, but it had an undeniable warmth to it. A courtyard filled with potted plants, a small yard with tree lazily spreading its shadow, and a wooden house that had clearly stood through generations.

As soon as we stepped in, his wife greeted us with a bright smile. She handed me a cup of fresh water, and I took a sip, feeling an odd sense of belonging in this place.

Then, Mr. Yan disappeared into one of the rooms and returned with an old book—so old that its pages were slightly torn, yellowed with age, as if carrying the dust of centuries within them.

I reached out to take it, running my fingers over the fragile cover. Time had left its mark on this book, just as it did on all things. History, after all, was not immune to the passage of time.

"It’s a biography," Mr. Yan explained, "written by a great man in his later years after traveling the entirety of the mortal world. It’s been passed down in my family for generations."

I looked up at him, curiosity piqued. "Your family?"

A shadow flickered across his face, and for a brief moment, he seemed hesitant. "My family was once influential," he admitted. "But... things happened."

I didn’t press further. Tragedies are like old wounds—prodding them only makes them hurt more.

Instead, I simply murmured a quote I remembered from Confucian literature:

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"The past is not dead, nor is it gone—it simply waits for those who dare to remember."

Mr. Yan stared at me for a moment before chuckling. "You really do like history, don’t you?"

I smirked. "Well, I did just get dragged here against my will, so I might as well enjoy it."

With that, I opened the book and began to read.

The words on the pages were profound, yet filled with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a historical record—it was a personal account of a man’s journey, his triumphs, and his heartbreaks.

The words on the pages were not just words. They carried weight—like echoes from a time long past.

It began with four friends.

In a world where the immortal path had been severed and the ways of heaven hid itself from mortal eyes, these four men walked a different path—the path of martial arts. Through sheer discipline, training, and willpower, they rose to the top of the mortal world.

At first, they were heroes.

They destroyed corrupt sects. They toppled tyrants. They were the sword that cut away the rot in the world.

But power is a strange thing.

But as time passed, their victories turned into something else.

Their hunger for power grew. The darkness that once lurked in the shadows began to creep into their hearts.

And then, everything changed.

It starts as a means to an end. But eventually, it becomes the end itself.

Over time, the four friends began to change. Their victories piled up, but so did their hunger for more.

They no longer fought just to rid the world of evil. They fought to conquer it.

Until, one day, their unity was shattered by something none of them had expected.

Love.

One of them—one of the strongest among them—met a woman.

And he fell in love.

And she changed him.

For this man, love was a revelation. Through her, he realized that there were things in this world beyond power—things that made life worth living beyond endless conquest.

His friends noticed the change. But his friends did not see it the same way.

They did not understand why he had changed. More importantly, they did not want him to change.

At first, they teased him.

"You’ve gone soft," one of them laughed.

"Are you going to throw away everything for a woman?" another scoffed.

But as time went on, their laughter faded.

Because he was changing.

His goals shifted. His ambition dimmed. He no longer spoke of conquest, of ruling, of war.

And the others… they did not like that.

They had built an empire together. They had sworn an oath.

And now, one of them was turning away.

It felt like a betrayal.

So, driven by fear and anger, they decided to do the unthinkable.

The shift was subtle at first. Conversations became shorter. Disagreements arose.

So, driven by fear and anger, they decided to do the unthinkable.

And then came the final betrayal.

On a cold, snowy night, the tree of them made their move.

They ambushed him.

They knew they couldn’t defeat him, not in a fair fight. So instead, they took the one thing that had changed him—the woman he loved.

Holding her hostage, they forced him into submission.

And when he knelt before them, begging them to stop—begging them to remember their bond—

They slit her throat.

The snow turned red.

And something inside him snapped.

He did not scream.

He did not cry.

He simply rose to his feet, blood staining his hands as he held the lifeless body of the woman he loved.

And in that moment, the man who had once been their brother was gone.

Only wrath remained.

And then he swore an oath.

An oath that only ended with blood.

Broken by grief, consumed by rage, he swore revenge.

He abandoned everything—his past, his name, his mercy.

For years, he wandered the mortal world, seeking power not for conquest, but for retribution.

His path was paved with blood.

He no longer fought for justice.

He no longer fought for power.

He fought for revenge.

One by one, he hunted them down.

The first died begging for mercy.

The second tried to fight back—but he was no match for the monster his former friend had become.

The third fled, but no one can run forever.

When it was over, he was alone.

A man who had won every battle… and lost everything else.

A man with no home, no love, and no purpose beyond the revenge he had carved into existence.

And yet, despite all his strength, all his power, he could not bring back what he had lost.

I shut the book gently, exhaling a slow breath.

The weight of the story settled in my chest—a tale of love, betrayal, vengeance, and loss.

I glanced up at Mr. Yan. "This… this isn’t just history, is it?"

He gave me a small, knowing smile. "History is written by those who survive it."

I leaned back in my seat, staring at the sky. The clouds drifted lazily above, as if unaware of the tragedies that had unfolded beneath them.

"Does the book say what happened to him in the end?" I asked.

Mr. Yan shook his head. "No one knows. Some say he became a ghost, a shadow wandering the lands. Others say he simply disappeared. Perhaps, after all his vengeance, he no longer had a reason to exist."

I closed my eyes, letting his words sink in.

"To seek power is easy. To lose oneself in it is even easier. But to find something worth holding onto… that is the hardest path of all."

As I sat there with Mr. Yan’s that day, My mind was somewhere else , I couldn’t help but wonder—was history doomed to repeat itself?

And if so…

Who would be left to write it?

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