The silence in the Valley of Returning Winds wasn't silence. It was the void left after a scream. It was the absence where a mountain had stood. Yao Jun stood within it, wreathed in the impossible. The black fire – the Void Flame – flowed over his skin like liquid shadow, cold and utterly silent. It didn't burn him; it unmade the frost that had tried to claim him, erasing its existence without trace or steam. The air around him tasted hollow, stripped of potential, as if reality itself held its breath, wary of the devouring darkness he wore like a second skin.
The hooded figures remained, statues carved from reverence and dread. Their unseen gazes were physical weights pressing against the corona of void fire. He felt their power, ancient and deep, humming in the air like taut wires, forming the invisible symbols that contained the Flame's ravenous edge. It wasn't a cage; it felt more like... guidance. A channeling of the unthinkable. They didn't speak. They didn't move. They simply witnessed the impossible legacy igniting in the corpse of the cheerful disciple.
The white-gold flames of Master Wu Tian's pyre guttered and died, their sacred work complete. Only embers remained, glowing like dying stars on the blackened stone platform. The wind, the eternal mourner of the valley, swept down again, colder now, carrying the scent of sacred ash and something deeper, older – the scent of endings. It plucked at Yao Jun's thin tunic, but the Void Flame absorbed its energy, its chill, leaving only stillness within its dark embrace.
What am I? The question echoed in the hollow space of his stolen mind, a pitiful whisper against the vast, cold indifference of the Flame. He wasn't Yao Jun. He wasn't the Earthling whose memories were dissolving like smoke. He was the crucible. The vessel. The walking oblivion. The borrowed grief for the Master warred with the terror of his own existence, creating a sickening churn in his gut that the Void Flame did nothing to soothe. It merely observed, a silent, alien intelligence coiled within his stolen bones.
The tallest hooded figure lowered its hand. The shimmering symbols of light flickered once, intensely bright against the backdrop of void fire, then dissolved like mist in sunlight. The containment lifted. The Void Flame didn't surge outward in triumph. It... pulsed. A wave of deeper cold radiated from Yao Jun, causing the remaining embers on the pyre to instantly blacken and crumble to lifeless dust. The hooded figures, as one, took another step back. The air crackled with unspoken tension.
Then, the figure who had ignited the pyre turned its hooded face fully towards Yao Jun. No features were visible within the deep shadow, only an impression of profound age and impossible focus. It raised a hand, not in threat, but in a slow, deliberate gesture – palm open, fingers slightly curled. An offering? A command? A farewell?
A small object, dark against the pale palm, rested there. It was a scroll tube, made of a dull, grey metal that seemed to drink the weak light. It looked ancient, pitted with time, sealed with a simple wax insignia – a stylized mountain peak wreathed in wind.
Take it. The words didn't sound in the air; they resonated directly within Yao Jun's skull, bypassing his ears, vibrating in the marrow of his stolen bones. The voice was dry, like ancient parchment scraping stone, devoid of inflection, yet heavy with finality. It wasn't a request.
The Void Flame rippled around Yao Jun's hand as he moved. He felt its reluctance, its predatory stillness wary of the offered object. But the compulsion in that mental command was absolute. His hand, trembling slightly – a tremor that felt alien in the Flame's controlled darkness – reached out. His fingers, wreathed in shifting blackness, brushed the cold metal of the tube. The Void Flame recoiled infinitesimally where it touched, as if the metal held a faint echo of the sacred fire. He took it. It was heavier than it looked, dense with secrets.
As his fingers closed around it, another wave of sensation hit him, weaker than the pendant's grief but sharp and clear: A sprawling complex of impossible architecture clinging to floating islands amidst clouds. Towering gates inscribed with celestial beasts. The roar of distant training grounds. The name surfaced: Heavenly Sky Martial Academy. It was an image, a destination, imprinted with the Master's final will, carried by the tube.
The hooded figure lowered its hand. Its unseen gaze lingered on Yao Jun, on the Void Flame, for a heartbeat longer. Then, without a sound, without a rustle of cloth, it turned and walked away, vanishing into the swirling mist as if it had never been. The other figures followed suit, melting into the grey veils like ghosts returning to their tombs. In moments, Yao Jun was utterly alone on the valley floor. Alone with the ashes of the greatest martial artist, the scent of sacred wood turned to dust, the mournful wind, and the silent, devouring darkness cloaking him.
The Void Flame chose that moment to recede. It didn't vanish. It flowed back into him. The sensation was profoundly unsettling. It was like swallowing liquid ice, a cold torrent pouring inwards, concentrating back into that singular point of absolute zero behind his sternum. The darkness peeled back from his skin, receding into his pores, leaving behind only a lingering chill deep within his bones and the faint scent of ozone and vacuum. The pressure, the terrifying awareness of its alien sentience, diminished but didn't disappear. It coiled within him, a sleeping dragon of annihilation, watchful and cold.
He was left shivering violently, despite the Flame's residual chill within him. The sudden absence of its external presence felt like losing a limb, yet its internal presence was a constant, chilling reminder of the abyss he carried. He looked down at his hands. They were just hands again – large, calloused, scarred. No frost, no black blood. Normal. The lie was almost worse than the monstrous truth. He clutched the cold metal scroll tube and the warm jade pendant beneath his tunic – twin legacies, one of sorrow, one of purpose, both terrifying.
The climb back to the stone chamber was a blur of exhaustion and existential dread. Yao Jun's body moved on autopilot, muscles remembering the treacherous path his stolen mind could barely register. Every scrape of boot on stone, every gust of wind threatening to pluck him into the abyss, felt distant, insignificant compared to the void yawning within his own chest. He reached the ledge, pushed aside the reed curtain, and stumbled into the sparse chamber. The familiarity of the rough stone walls, the simple pallet, offered no comfort. It felt like a tomb he had crawled back into.
He collapsed onto the pallet, the scroll tube clutched to his chest like a talisman against the darkness inside. He didn't sleep. Sleep was a luxury for the living, the unburdened. He drifted in a grey limbo, haunted by fragmented images: the Master's serene face in the flames, the depthless black eyes of the Void Flame, the suffocating weight of the hooded figures' gaze. The borrowed grief for Wu Tian was a dull ache, now overlaid with the sharper, more personal terror of his own monstrous existence.
When the weak grey light filtering through the opening finally brightened to a pale, misty dawn, Yao Jun dragged himself upright. Purpose, however fragile, was the only lifeline he had. The scroll tube. The Academy. It was the only direction offered in this terrifying new world. He broke the wax seal on the tube. Inside, on a single sheet of aged, resilient parchment, were words written in a strong, flowing hand he instinctively recognized as Master Wu Tian's:
Jun'er,
If you hold this, the path has darkened, and I am gone. Grieve not overly long. The wind returns, life endures. Your path lies east, to the Heavenly Sky Martial Academy. Seek the Cloud-Soaring Peaks. Present the jade.
Trust not the whispers in the dark, even those that sound like my voice. Trust the strength in your laughter, even when your heart is heavy. The world needs light, Jun'er. Even, perhaps especially, the light that burns in the deepest dark.
Walk your path. Live.
- Wu Tian
The words were simple, direct, yet cryptic. 'The light that burns in the deepest dark.' Did the Master know? About the Void Flame? About him? The thought was chilling. 'Trust not the whispers in the dark...' Were those the Flame's whispers? The parchment offered no answers, only a destination and a final, impossible injunction: Live.
He packed the meager belongings in the chamber – spare rough-spun clothes, dried rations, the water gourd. He slipped the scroll tube and the jade pendant into a worn leather pouch tied securely at his waist. The pouch felt heavy, laden with destinies he hadn't chosen. He took one last look around the stone chamber that had been Yao Jun's home. It felt alien, empty, already belonging to the past. He stepped out onto the ledge, into the damp, cold dawn of the Valley of Returning Winds.
The descent this time was different. He was acutely aware of his own body – the power coiled in unfamiliar muscles, the disturbing efficiency of his lungs drawing in the thin air, the way his senses seemed sharper, picking out details on distant rock faces, the subtle shifts in the wind's mournful song. It was Yao Jun's body, honed by training under a martial god, but piloted by a consciousness that felt like a clumsy impostor. Every movement felt observed, judged by the silent entity coiled within his chest.
He navigated the treacherous path with a focus born of desperation. He couldn't afford to fall. He couldn't afford to die. What would happen to the Void Flame if this vessel perished? Would it explode? Dissipate? Find another host? The possibilities were all horrifying. He reached the valley floor faster than before, the ingrained muscle memory asserting itself. He didn't linger by the cold ashes of the pyre. He turned east, as the scroll commanded, and began walking.
The world beyond the Valley of Returning Winds was a shock. Lush, verdant forests replaced the desolate cliffs. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and vibrant life. Birdsong, raucous and unfamiliar, replaced the wind's dirge. Sunlight, filtered through the dense canopy, dappled the forest floor in shifting patterns of gold and green. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
Every rustle in the undergrowth made him flinch. Every bird taking flight sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. The sheer aliveness of the forest was overwhelming, a sensory assault after the sterile grief of the valley and the cold void within him. He felt like a ghost walking through a vibrant dream, disconnected, intrusive. The Void Flame stirred faintly at the surge of life energy around him. He felt its cold hunger sharpen, a subtle pull towards the rustling leaves, the chittering insects, the warm-blooded creatures hidden in the shadows. It wasn't active malice; it was the inherent nature of a force that consumed existence. He clamped down on it, mentally, instinctively, forcing the cold point in his chest to remain dormant. Sweat beaded on his brow, cold despite the exertion.
Days blurred into a monotonous, exhausting trudge. He followed game trails, kept the rising sun on his left in the mornings. He ate sparingly from his rations, drank from clear streams, slept fitfully in the hollows of ancient trees, always alert, always listening to the whisper of the Void Flame and the louder, more insistent whisper of his own fear. The scroll's directions were vague – 'East, to the Cloud-Soaring Peaks'. He saw mountains in the distance, hazy blue giants scraping the sky. He hoped they were the right ones.
He practiced moving. Not fighting – the thought of unleashing even a fraction of Yao Jun's martial skill, potentially triggering the Void Flame, was paralyzing. But walking. Running. Jumping over fallen logs. Climbing steep inclines. He forced the stolen body to obey his stolen will, trying to bridge the gap between mind and muscle. He found moments of startling grace, movements flowing with unconscious power, followed by clumsy stumbles that left him sprawled in the dirt, gasping with frustration. The Void Flame observed it all, a silent, chilling audience.
One afternoon, deeper into the forest than he had yet ventured, he felt a familiar resonance. The jade pendant at his waist pulsed warmly against his skin. He stopped, hand instinctively going to the pouch. The warmth intensified, pulling him gently off the main trail he'd been following, leading him through dense ferns and under towering, moss-draped trees. The air grew cooler, damper. The vibrant sounds of the forest muted, replaced by the soft drip of water and the low hum of... something else.
He pushed through a final curtain of hanging vines and stumbled into a small, hidden clearing. In the center stood a stone. Not a boulder, but a worked stone – an ancient, weathered plinth, covered in intricate carvings worn almost smooth by time. Moss clung to its sides. Atop it sat a small, perfectly smooth sphere of the same pale green jade as his pendant. It glowed with a soft, internal light, pulsing gently in time with the warmth against Yao Jun's chest.
He approached cautiously, the Void Flame stirring with wary curiosity. This was no natural formation. This was a marker. A shrine, perhaps? The carvings on the plinth depicted stylized mountains, swirling winds, and figures in postures he instinctively recognized as martial stances, though far more archaic than anything he knew from Yao Jun's memories. The air hummed with latent energy, ancient and profound, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.
He reached out, drawn by the resonance of the jade. His fingers hovered over the glowing sphere. The Void Flame within him rippled, a wave of cold washing through him. The sphere's light flickered, dimming momentarily as if repelled. Then, as his finger finally touched the cool, smooth surface, the jade pendant flared hot against his skin.
A jolt of pure information, not images or words, but raw understanding, slammed into him.
Connection. Network. Waypoints. The Jade Path.
He understood. This was a node. One of many scattered across the land, markers on an ancient path known only to those bearing the jade. It confirmed his direction – a subtle, reassuring pull towards the distant mountains, sharper now, more defined. It also confirmed the pendant's significance. It was more than a memento; it was a key. A compass. A lifeline.
He withdrew his hand, the connection snapping. The sphere's glow returned to its steady pulse. The understanding remained, a new layer of certainty laid over the bedrock of his terror. He bowed deeply to the ancient plinth, a gesture of respect born from borrowed instincts and newfound knowledge. As he turned to leave the clearing, the pendant warm against his skin, he felt a fraction less lost. The path, though terrifying, was real.
Days later, the forest began to thin, giving way to rolling foothills. The distant mountains loomed larger, their peaks indeed seeming to pierce the clouds – the Cloud-Soaring Peaks. Hope, fragile and cold, flickered in his chest. Then, he smelled it.
Smoke. Not woodsmoke, but the rich, greasy, mouth-watering aroma of roasting meat. It cut through the forest scents, potent and undeniable. His stomach, Yao Jun's stomach, growled ferociously. He hadn't eaten properly in days, subsisting on dried rations and foraged berries. The smell was torture. It was also a sign of people.
Caution warred with hunger and a desperate need for human contact, however risky. He followed the scent, moving silently through the thinning trees, the Void Flame a cold ember of vigilance within him. He emerged onto the edge of a wide, shallow river. On a flat, grassy bank on the far side, a scene unfolded that was so jarringly normal it felt surreal.
A young man sat by a roaring campfire. He was huge – easily a head taller than Yao Jun and built like a bear crossed with a bull. Muscle strained against simple, travel-stained clothes. He had a broad, open face, currently smeared with grease, and dark eyes fixed with rapturous intensity on the source of the heavenly smell: an entire boar, skewered on a spit over the fire, its skin crackling and glistening, dripping fat that sizzled in the flames. Beside him lay a colossal hammer, its head dented and scarred, looking like it could level a small building. A worn satchel spilled over with what looked like scrolls.
The giant man tore a massive chunk of meat from the haunch with his bare hands, heedless of the heat. He blew on it briefly, then shoved almost half of it into his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head in pure ecstasy. A low, rumbling moan of pleasure vibrated from his chest. Grease ran down his chin.
Yao Jun stared, transfixed. The sheer, uncomplicated vitality of the scene, the primal satisfaction, was a universe away from the desolation of the valley and the chilling void within him. Hunger roared in his belly, momentarily eclipsing fear. He stepped out from the tree line, the movement catching the giant's eye.
The man froze, a huge chunk of meat protruding from his mouth. His dark eyes, previously glazed with pleasure, snapped into sharp focus. They swept over Yao Jun, taking in his worn clothes, his thin frame, the wary exhaustion etched on his face. The giant slowly chewed, swallowed the enormous mouthful with an audible gulp, and wiped his greasy hand on his trousers.
"Oi!" His voice was a deep rumble, surprisingly clear despite the mouthful. "You look like death warmed over, brother! And thin as a winter reed! Come! Share Bao Siwen's fire! Meat's almost done!" He patted the grass beside him with a hand the size of a dinner plate. The gesture was open, friendly, utterly disarming.
Yao Jun hesitated. Bao Siwen. The name meant nothing. The invitation felt like a trap baited with irresistible temptation. The Void Flame remained still, watchful, but didn't sense immediate threat. Only overwhelming hunger, emanating from the giant like heat from a furnace. Yao Jun's own hunger, sharp and insistent, pushed him forward. He found himself wading across the shallow, cold river, the water soaking his worn boots and trousers up to his knees.
He reached the bank and approached the fire. The heat was intense, welcome after the internal chill. The smell of the roasting boar was intoxicating. Bao Siwen grinned, a wide, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He used a crude but wickedly sharp knife to slice off a huge, dripping portion of meat from the boar's flank and thrust it towards Yao Jun on the point of the blade.
"Here! Eat! Build some muscle on those bird bones!" Bao Siwen boomed. "Traveling alone through these woods? Brave, or foolish! Sit!"
Yao Jun took the offered meat, the heat searing his fingers. He sank onto the grass, the giant's presence a solid, almost comforting weight beside him. He tore into the meat. It was hot, greasy, perfectly seasoned with wild herbs, and utterly delicious. Flavor exploded on his tongue – a sensation so vivid, so real, after days of bland rations and existential dread, that it almost brought tears to his eyes. He ate ravenously, the simple act of chewing and swallowing a grounding anchor in the storm of his existence.
Bao Siwen watched him eat, a pleased expression on his broad face. He tore off another massive chunk for himself. "Good, eh? Old Bao knows his fire! Heading to the Academy too, I reckon? Got the look about you. Scrawny, but... something in the eyes." He tapped the side of his own head. "Got the hunger. Not just for meat!" He laughed, a booming sound that startled birds from the trees downstream.
Yao Jun managed a nod, his mouth full. Academy. Yes. He couldn't trust himself to speak yet. His voice might betray the wrongness, the tremor of fear, the alien consciousness.
"Me too!" Bao Siwen announced, thumping his chest. "Gonna learn the big moves! Swing this hammer like a god!" He gestured to the colossal weapon beside him. "Maybe write some poems about it too. Poetry and pounding, a fine combination!" He pulled a slightly grease-stained scroll from his overflowing satchel and waved it vaguely. "What's your name, brother?"
The question hung in the air. Yao Jun froze, a piece of meat halfway to his mouth. Name. His stolen name felt like a lie on his tongue. His real name was dust. He swallowed, forcing the meat down. "...Jun," he managed, his voice rough from disuse. "Yao Jun." Saying it felt like donning a mask.
"Yao Jun!" Bao Siwen repeated, committing it to memory. "Good name! Strong! I'm Bao Siwen! Remember it! We'll be famous together!" He beamed, then his expression turned thoughtful as he chewed. "You know, Yao Jun... you look hungry. Like really hungry. And Old Bao has a whole boar here..." A mischievous glint entered his dark eyes. "How about a little contest? Settle the digestion? See who can put away the most meat before the sun touches that peak?" He pointed a greasy finger towards a distant mountain spire visible above the trees.
An eating contest. It was absurd. Juvenile. After the horror of the Void Flame, the grief, the soul-deep terror, this giant wanted to see who could eat the most roasted boar. Yao Jun stared at him. And then, something utterly unexpected happened. A sound escaped Yao Jun's lips. It started as a choked cough, then a disbelieving snort, then blossomed into actual, genuine laughter. It was rusty, unfamiliar, the laughter of a body remembering joy its pilot had forgotten. It felt strange, almost painful, but it was real.
Bao Siwen roared with laughter in response. "That's the spirit! A laugh! See? Food and fun! Best medicine!" He slapped his thigh, making the ground tremble slightly. "So? You in? Or scared Old Bao will leave you picking bones?"
The challenge hung there, ridiculous and wonderful. The Void Flame remained coiled, silent. The crushing weight of his existence lifted, just a fraction, replaced by the simple, immediate challenge: Eat. Yao Jun looked at the mountain of meat on the spit, then at Bao Siwen's expectant, grease-smeared grin. The absurdity of it, the sheer, uncomplicated humanity, was a lifeline thrown into his ocean of dread.
He grinned back, a real grin that stretched Yao Jun's unfamiliar facial muscles. It felt alien, but good. "You're on, Bao Siwen," he said, his voice stronger now, laced with a borrowed confidence. "Prepare to be humbled."
Bao Siwen's eyes widened, then crinkled with delight. "Humbled? By a sparrow? We'll see, Yao Jun! We'll see!" He grabbed his knife, sliced off another enormous hunk, and shoved it towards Yao Jun. "Let the feast begin!"
And so, amidst the scent of roasting meat and woodsmoke, by the banks of a nameless river under the shadow of the Cloud-Soaring Peaks, Yao Jun – the ghost, the vessel, the bearer of the Void Flame – engaged in a gloriously ridiculous eating contest with a giant who loved meat and poetry. He ate until his stomach ached, laughed until his ribs hurt (a sensation wonderfully free of ice spikes), and for a few precious hours, the void within him receded, silenced by the sheer, greasy, life-affirming absurdity of Bao Siwen. The journey to the Heavenly Sky Martial Academy had found its first, improbable companion. The cheerfulness felt borrowed, brittle, a shield against the dark, but for now, it was enough.