Wei Lian's face hit the ground first.
Dirt filled his mouth. Stones dug into his ribs. The scent of ash and rot clung to the air like mold.
He groaned and rolled onto his side.
The portal was gone.
The sky above was no longer black and endless like in the Chaos Realm. Here, it was blue—faded, chipped, and imperfect. Clouds drifted lazily across it, slow and indifferent. A sun hung in the east, pale and without heat.
"The Mortal Realm…"
The words left his mouth dry and quiet.
He sat up slowly, every muscle in his body aching. The teleportation had burned away the last bit of strength he had. His bones throbbed. His stomach growled.
But he was alive.
He looked around.
He was in a valley—grassy hills, scattered trees, jagged stones. Smoke curled from the distance. A village?
There was nothing majestic here. No spiritual essence in the air. No sect banners flying over mountain peaks. Just wind, soil, and the distant sound of shouting.
"…Shouting?"
He turned.
At the edge of the forest below, barely visible through the mist, flames flickered.
Wei Lian's eyes narrowed.
He stood, unsteady at first. His legs were weak. But he moved—down the slope, past the trees, toward the smoke.
The smell of blood hit him first.
Then the fire.
Then the screams.
The village was small—wooden huts, crooked paths, worn fences. But now it was broken. Roofs burned. Doors splintered. Corpses littered the ground.
Bandits.
Their laughter echoed as they looted the last few homes.
A young girl cried out. Wei Lian saw her—no older than ten—dragged out by her hair.
Two men laughed. One raised a blade.
Wei Lian moved before he could think.
He picked up a rock—smooth, heavy—and hurled it.
It struck the man's temple.
He dropped instantly.
The other spun, snarling.
"Who the hell—?!"
Wei Lian didn't wait. He ran forward, tackling him to the ground, swinging wild fists.
There was no technique. No power. Just fury.
The bandit struggled, punched him across the jaw.
Wei Lian didn't stop.
He bit down on the man's hand and ripped flesh free.
The girl screamed. Somewhere behind him, another bandit yelled.
Wei Lian turned in time to see a blade coming toward his chest.
It didn't stop.
Pain.
It pierced deep—just below the ribs.
He gasped. Blood filled his mouth.
The bandit kicked him to the ground and laughed.
"Another corpse."
He raised his saber again.
But before he could bring it down—
A voice rang out.
"Enough."
It was calm. Cold. Absolute.
A figure stood at the edge of the street. Long robes. Sharp eyes. A jade token at his hip. A cultivator.
The bandits hesitated, cursed, then ran.
Wei Lian lay bleeding in the dirt.
The girl was gone. Saved, maybe. Maybe not.
He coughed.
His vision blurred.
The cultivator approached, kneeling beside him.
"Still breathing," the man said.
Wei Lian looked up at him.
"You're not from here," the man said. "But you fought."
"Why?"
Wei Lian's voice was weak.
"Because I could."
The cultivator stared.
Then nodded once.
"That's reason enough."
He pressed two fingers against Lian's chest. A faint warmth entered his body. It wasn't healing. Not really. Just enough to stop the bleeding.
"I won't ask your name," he said. "But if you want to live… get stronger."
"Or next time, die faster."
He stood and walked away.
Wei Lian didn't reply.
He lay there a while longer.
Breathing.
Bleeding.
Staring at the sky.
"Get stronger," he muttered.
His hand clenched into a fist.
"I will."