The wind carried ash. However, not the thick, choking kind born from firestorms, but a thin, persistent dust that clung to clothes and skin alike, evidence of something that had burned long ago and never truly healed. Dao Wei stood at the edge of a ridge, looking down at the settlement below.
From a distance, it looked whole. Stone walls still stood, and banners, faded but intact, hung from tall wooden poles. At the center of the village rose several large structures built from reinforced stone and lacquered timber, their roofs curved in the old noble style of Arrata. Even now, faint formation marks lingered on their foundations.
But closer inspection told a different story.
The outer ring of the village had collapsed inward. Houses leaned against one another like tired old men, roofs caved in, walls cracked and patched with mismatched stone and mud. Narrow alleys twisted between them, cluttered with broken carts, rusted tools, and dried-up spirit wells.
The village was split into two.
Power and decay, standing side by side.
Dao Wei descended the ridge and walked toward the gates. There were no guards. The wooden doors stood open, one hinge broken, swaying gently in the wind. Carved above the entrance was a sigil, once proud, now chipped and weathered, marking Ashen Village as a subsidiary settlement under a minor noble house.
Inside, people moved quietly.
Too quietly.
Men and women passed by with lowered gazes, their clothes worn thin, spiritual fluctuations weak and uneven. Children carried bundles of firewood larger than their frames.
Dao Wei's steps slowed.
In Qingling, a village like this would have been abandoned entirely, swallowed by beasts or annexed by sects. Here, it barely lingered, held together by habit and fear rather than hope.
However, there was a subtle pressure in the air.
At the center of the village, elevated slightly above the rest, stood the ancestral hall of House Yan. Its stone steps were clean, and metal bands with etched, fading elemental runes reinforced the gates.
Dao Wei passed beneath their gaze without slowing.
He continued walking, leaving the noble quarter behind and entering the crumbled side of the village. The air here felt heavier, tinged with exhaustion and resignation. A collapsed spirit lamp flickered weakly at a crossroads, its formation core cracked.
Nearby, an old man coughed violently, leaning against a wall as he tried to grind dried medicinal roots with trembling hands. The Qi in his body leaked with every breath.
No one helped him.
Not out of cruelty, but because they could not afford to stop.
Dao Wei knelt beside him. He pulled out a pestle, grinding slowly, steadily, adjusting the rhythm until the roots released their remaining essence. The old man stared at him, clearly startled.
In a world where the strong ate the weak, kindness was rarely shown.
"Easy," Dao Wei said softly. "Steady your breath, old man."
The man's coughing eased a little.
Dao Wei stood and continued walking.
Whispers followed him.
"Who is that?"
"A wanderer?"
"He doesn't feel dangerous…"
At the far edge of the village, near the boundary where stone gave way to dead soil, Dao Wei saw a small house leaning dangerously to one side. Its roof was patched with scrap wood. A single window was cracked, mended with cloth and resin.
Yet, from the ground around it, faint signs of life struggled to emerge. Small shoots pushed through the ash-stained soil, green and stubborn.
Dao Wei stopped.
From within the house came the sound of a quiet argument.
"You can't go back out tonight," a young girl's voice said, sharp but strained. "The bandits were seen near the eastern road."
"Sister, we need the herbs," a boy replied, softer, stubborn. "Or we won't be able to feed for the next two days."
Silence followed.
Then the door creaked open.
A girl stepped out first, no older than seventeen. Her posture was straight, eyes alert, body tense in a way that spoke of long responsibility. Earth-aspected Qi clung to her faintly, untrained but solid. Behind her came a boy, younger, thinner, his presence gentle, almost invisible, yet resonant, like a seed buried deep underground.
Their eyes met Dao Wei's.
For a brief moment, the wind stilled.
Dao Wei felt a connection. The quiet kind. The kind that changes nothing immediately, yet alters everything over time.
"Do you guys know where I can find shelter?" Dao Wei asked.
The girl studied him long and hard.
Then she nodded once.
"If you don't cause trouble," she said, "you can stay here."
Dao Wei inclined his head.
The house smelled of dried herbs and old smoke.
The kind of scent that came from people who used everything they had and wasted nothing. Dao Wei ducked slightly as he entered, the low beam brushing his hair. Inside, the space was small but orderly. A single table. Three stools, one with a cracked leg, carefully reinforced by rope. Clay jars lined the wall, each marked with faded symbols naming medicinal roots.
The girl closed the door behind them and slid a wooden latch into place. Only then did she relax, just a fraction.
"My name is Qing Yao," she said, turning to face him. Her voice was steady, but Dao Wei could hear the fatigue beneath it. "This is my brother, Qing Chen."
The boy nodded politely, eyes curious rather than fearful. His gaze lingered on Dao Wei a moment longer than necessary, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
"I'm Dao Wei," he replied.
Qing Yao gestured to the stool with the cracked leg. "Sit. It's the sturdiest one."
Dao Wei did, and surprisingly, the stool held.
For a moment, none of them spoke. Outside, the wind scraped ash against the walls, and somewhere in the distance, a structure collapsed with a dull, final thud. However, no one reacted, sounds like that were common here.
"You're not from Khar'ta Province, are you?" Qing Yao said at last.
"No."
"Cultivator?"
"Yes."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Then why aren't you in the noble quarter?"
Dao Wei met her gaze evenly. "It's too loud there."
That answer seemed to satisfy her more than any explanation could have. She turned away, stirring a pot suspended above a weak flame. The broth inside was thin, medicinal, not nourishing.
Qing Chen watched Dao Wei openly now. "You feel… quiet," he said.
Qing Yao shot him a sharp look. "Chen."
"It's fine," Dao Wei said gently. He looked at the boy. "What does quiet feel like to you?"
Qing Chen thought for a moment. "Like when the wind stops before a storm," he said. "Everything listens."
Dao Wei's fingers tightened slightly on his knee.
Perceptive, he thought.
Qing Yao served the broth into three bowls, hesitating before handing one to Dao Wei. "We don't have much," she said.
"Thank you," he replied, accepting it anyway.
They ate in silence. Qing Chen drank slowly, savoring each sip. Qing Yao barely touched hers. Dao Wei noticed, but did not comment.
After the meal, Qing Yao gathered her courage. "You said you wanted shelter," she said. "How long?"
Dao Wei considered the question. The fact of the matter was that he didn't even know how long he was going to be stuck in this world, talk more of when he was even going to leave.
"A while," he said truthfully.
Qing Yao nodded. "Then you help. No freeloaders."
A faint smile touched Dao Wei's lips. "Fair."
Night settled quickly. In Arrata, twilight was brief, swallowed by a sky permanently bruised with crimson fractures. Qing Yao barred the door and checked the small warding talisman hanging above the frame, a crude thing, barely functional.
"It won't stop bandits," she murmured flatly. "But it might make beasts hesitate."
Dao Wei studied the talisman. Its lines were sloppy, its core chipped. And yet, it still tried.
Later, they laid out bedding. Qing Yao and Qing Chen shared the inner room. Dao Wei took the space near the door. As he lay down, he extended his awareness outward, anchoring it gently to the house itself.
The walls creaked less.
The flame burned steadier.
And the talisman pulsed once, then stabilized.
In the darkness, Qing Chen whispered, "Will he leave like the others?"