The wind drifted across the jagged edges of the ridge, where the sky met mountains and silence lingered like a breath before speech. Little Water stood there, unmoving, his long silvery-blue robes fluttering softly. He watched the horizon, where his brothers had vanished one by one, each taking a different path. Though they had laughed and said their farewells, he could feel the weight of something quietly cracking within him.
His body felt cold. Not from wind, but from within.
He pressed a hand against his abdomen. The once vibrant flow of spiritual qi within his dantian was disordered, flickering like a candle in a storm. His cultivation core—so carefully nurtured—was fracturing. He knew the signs: spasms of inner qi, soul dissonance, delayed response to elemental flow. These were symptoms of a backlash from the Reverse Merging art they had used. The others had stabilized. He had not because he Took everyone else Troll on himself.
Each breath felt like a struggle to keep balance.
He moved to the shade of a cliff, pulled out a slender jade slip etched with swirling symbols. It held the forbidden sealing art discovered by Little Life during their time in the Wind Clan's ancient archive—hidden beneath the Lake of Spirituality atop the Forbidden Mountain. That was before they had all gone their separate ways.
Before he sealed his fate.
But before using the art, there was one more thing to do.
Little Water retrieved a second talisman from his storage ring. This was an Fake disguise technique—one he'd modified for subtlety. His real appearance, blessed—or cursed—with otherworldly beauty, was enough to draw attention even among ascended cultivators. If he walked into the world as he was now, even a passing glance would mark him as divine.
His fingers moved with elegance, infusing the talisman with his last traces of spiritual energy. As the illusion settled, his high cheekbones softened, his silver-blue eyes dulled, and his porcelain skin took on a tanned, average tone. His frame shortened, his presence muted. He now looked like an ordinary mortal in his twenties—neither poor nor noble, a traveler unworthy of second glances.
Only then did he sit down and begin the sealing process.
The forbidden art was like frost flowing through molten metal. His veins burned, then chilled, then burned again. One by one, his meridians were locked, his dantian wrapped in seals that shimmered with watery symbols. As the final strand of spiritual qi faded from his core, the connection between his body and the world was severed.
He opened his eyes.
Everything was quieter.
The wind was just wind. The sky was just blue. He was no longer a cultivator.
---
His journey took him across the southern ridges of the Middle Realm, through towns that barely noticed his presence. He traveled on foot, avoiding sect cities and immortal waystations. He spoke little, bought only what he needed, and always moved with the deliberate slowness of a mortal.
His destination: the White Market.
A place wrapped in lies and hidden in the bones of a mountain long forgotten by maps.
---
White Market.
The entrance was behind a waterfall where no water flowed. One had to knock on a hollow stone three times, speak nothing, and wait.
The stone cracked open with a hiss, revealing steps carved from bone-white stone. The descent spiraled into dim torchlight and stale air thick with mineral scents, iron, and ash. At the bottom lay a city without sky—a marketplace veiled in secrets.
Stalls were built into the walls, carved from ancient stone and pulsing with warding talismans. Glowing spirit lamps hovered near the ceiling. People moved in slow rivers: masked cultivators, cloaked traders, beastkin mercenaries, and slaves with empty eyes.
The name "White Market" was a farce. Nothing here was white.
Little Water walked as a nobody.
---
He spent days blending in, exchanging common goods for information. Gossip led to rumors, rumors to whispers. Somewhere beneath the western wing, past the Old Bone Street, he heard of something buried deeper—a platform of teleportation.
"Some say it leads to the Mortal Realm," a masked vendor muttered. "But you'd need cubes. Or a monster's core... or pure soul energy."
Little Water thanked him and moved on.
He wasn't interested in rumors. He wanted answers.
---
One evening, while wandering past a collapsed tunnel, he felt something strange. A faint ripple—a presence like watching eyes with no body. He stepped into a ruined archway, half-swallowed by moss and dust. The air grew heavy.
A sign written in dried blood hung on the wall:
"Take. But do not steal. Pay, or be cursed."
He entered.
Shelves lined the walls, many empty, others holding strange trinkets. Dust coated everything. The shop had no keeper, but its rules were ancient.
At the far end, he found it.
An old leather-bound book, frayed at the edges. Its cover read:
"Root of Heaven Lies in the Dust: Pathways of Mortality."
He opened it and read.
The book didn't teach techniques. It whispered philosophies, deep insights into the Mortal Realm. It spoke of a world where spiritual qi was faint, where life was fragile, and yet where one could, through comprehension and understanding, rekindle the spirit.
It said:
> "Only when Heaven no longer hears you, will you learn to listen to the Earth."
> "Cultivation is not rising above the world—it is sinking into it."
And most importantly:
> "Time in the Mortal Realm flows differently. A hundred years there is but one here."
He placed three silver coins beside the book and left. No curses followed.
---
He found the teleportation platform behind the dried root cellar of a forbidden alchemy shop.
It was cracked, old, humming faintly. Ancient runes circled a stone disk. He pressed his hand to it.
The array rejected him.
A voice echoed from the formation:
"Requirement not met. Insert five Spiritual Cubes or equivalent energy."
He had neither.
And so, once again, he returned to the surface paths of the White Market.
He sought the Manager.
---
The Manager's Pavilion hovered above a blackstone tower, guarded by masked spirit beasts with blood-red eyes. The Manager himself was a pale man draped in white silk and wearing a silver monocle over one eye.
"You're no one," the Manager said, sipping ink-colored tea. "And you want what?"
"Five Spiritual Cubes," Little Water replied.
The Manager scoffed. "And who might you be to ask that?"
"I know your Queen," he said calmly.
"Many do."
He leaned forward. "Ask her about Shen Yu'er."
The Manager's hand froze. A black crystal lit up at the corner of the room. A voice answered a minute later.
"I don't know that name."
Little Water didn't flinch. "Ask Little Dark."
Silence followed. Moments passed.
Then, the Queen's voice returned—soft, almost breathless.
"He is my friend. Greater than family. Give him what he asks. And nothing more."
The Manager blinked. "That's... rare."
"I don't owe anyone," Little Water said, standing. "I will repay you when the time comes."
He left with the cubes.
---
Back at the platform, he placed them into the designated slots. The runes lit up, swirling like a whirlpool of mist and memory.
The world shifted.
Little Water closed his eyes and stepped forward.
----To be Continued ---