There was no sky above Mount Wuji—only a shroud of eternal mist, pale and ghostlike, that writhed like a living thing. The air tasted of copper and silence, as if even the gods had long abandoned this place.
Yi Wu stood barefoot at the edge of the sacrificial platform, wrists bound with hemp rope, his breath shallow from cold and fear. Below him yawned the Abyss of Stillness, a fissure in the mountain that locals claimed led not to death, but to judgment. The villagers called it a place where Dao itself whispered to the condemned.
He was fifteen.
And he was about to die.
The robed elders of Wuji Village formed a circle around him. Their chants rose like smoke, old syllables slurring together in an ancient dialect even they barely understood. Each held a jade talisman that glowed faintly—symbols of protection, or perhaps, guilt.
Yi Wu did not struggle. His eyes, like dull obsidian, simply watched the swirling mists. He had no family left. His mother had died of a lung fever when he was seven, and his father had been conscripted by a wandering sect and never returned. Since then, he had served the village temple—sweeping steps, burning incense, feeding the ghost dogs at night.
He wasn't a threat. He wasn't special. He was just... convenient.
"Let the mountain take him," intoned the Head Elder, a man whose beard was white but eyes still black as ink. "Let the offering be made. May the Dao balance again."
Balance. Yi Wu wanted to laugh. As if killing a servant boy could pacify the world's imbalance. As if sacrifice was justice, and not cowardice painted with ritual.
But he didn't laugh.
He stared into the mist, and it stared back.
Then, the Elder lifted his staff.
The platform tilted forward.
Yi Wu fell.
Silence swallowed him instantly.
There was no wind in the abyss. Only pressure. It pressed against his skin like invisible hands, tugging at his breath, pulling at his memories. His mind should have been screaming, but it was curiously calm—as if some part of him had already let go.
Then, he hit something.
Not the ground. Not death.
Something soft. Something... alive.
It was a tapestry.
No, not quite. A surface—woven of black threads that shimmered with starlight, suspended in an endless dark. Yi Wu landed on it gently, as if the void itself had caught him.
He lay there for a long time.
Then, something spoke.
Not with words. With knowing.
You are not ready to die.
Yi Wu sat up. His body wasn't broken. His rope was gone. His breath came easy, as if the air here obeyed different rules.
"Who's there?" he asked, his voice barely louder than a thought.
You ask with voice. You should ask with silence.
Yi Wu swallowed. "Am I dead?"
Not yet. But you could be, if you wished.
"I don't."
Why?
Because I never lived, Yi Wu thought, but didn't say.
Then came the shape.
From the mist rose a figure—tall, cloaked in shadows that didn't behave like shadows. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but its eyes—no, not eyes—its presence felt ancient. Heavy. Like standing in front of a mountain that knew your true name.
"I don't know who you are," Yi Wu said.
Names are for the shallow. I am what remains. I am what waits.
"...Are you a god?"
I am Cang Zhi. I am a question. And you are an answer yet unformed.
Yi Wu didn't understand. Not fully. But he listened.
Eight Ger Gates seal the breath of Dao. One has opened. Seven remain.
"What does that mean?"
You were chosen. Not by fate. Not by blood. But by the absence of both.
Yi Wu blinked. "That's... not very comforting."
The shadow-thing chuckled, and it sounded like dry leaves scraping over stone.
Good. You shouldn't be comforted. You should be curious. And afraid.
"What do you want me to do?"
Find the first gate. Pass through it. Leave behind what you were. Take nothing. Learn nothing. Become less.
"That sounds... impossible."
That's why it must be done.
Yi Wu frowned. "And if I don't?"
Then the mountain keeps you. And the world forgets you.
Something cold coiled in Yi Wu's stomach.
He had been forgotten before. He had lived most of his life as a ghost in the eyes of others—unseen, unnoticed, unimportant. But this… this was something deeper. A second death.
"No," he said. "I'll walk the path."
The void trembled. The tapestry pulsed beneath him. Somewhere, far above, the real world flickered like a dying lantern.
Then walk. But know this—
Each gate demands a sacrifice.
And the Dao does not beg.
Yi Wu stood.
The shadow dissolved.
And a single thread of light appeared ahead of him—thin, flickering, stretching into the endless black.
He stepped onto it.
And the world changed.
---
He woke in the woods.
Not in the village. Not at the altar.
The sun filtered through gnarled branches, birds cried in the distance. His clothes were the same, but the rope was gone. His skin bore no bruises. Only a faint mark on his palm—a circle, drawn in soot. A sign.
Was it a dream?
He stood, legs trembling.
Then he saw the stone.
It sat in a ring of mushrooms, half-buried in soil. Etched into its surface were the words:
"The First Gate is Fear."
Yi Wu stared.
And then, from the trees, came a scream.
It wasn't human.
He ran.
---
The woods twisted.
Paths shifted.
Time bled sideways.
Yi Wu stumbled through thorns and moss and things with too many eyes. He saw memories etched into leaves—his mother coughing blood, the old priest beating him for breaking a plate, the laughter of children who never learned his name.
The forest wanted him to stop. To sink.
To believe the worst thing about himself.
But he didn't.
He kept walking.
Even when his feet bled.
Even when the night wouldn't end.
Until finally—
The trees parted.
And he saw himself.
Standing across a black river, was another Yi Wu.
Older. Sharper. Eyes hard as obsidian blades.
"You think walking makes you worthy?" the doppelganger spat. "You were thrown away like trash. You belong there."
Yi Wu stepped forward.
"I know."
The other sneered. "Then die."
It charged.
Yi Wu didn't move.
He let the copy strike him.
And when their bodies collided—
The fake shattered like smoke.
The river dried.
And the world folded back into itself.
---
Yi Wu awoke by a campfire.
Mo Ran sat across from him—young man in ragged robes, sharp eyes under shaggy black hair. He smirked.
"Took you long enough."
Yi Wu blinked. "Where... am I?"
Mo Ran tossed him a dried peach. "Wuji outskirts. I found you passed out near a shrine with a bloody footprint on your face. Care to explain?"
Yi Wu stared at the fruit. Then at the mark still faint on his palm.
"No," he said. "I don't think I can."
Mo Ran raised an eyebrow. "You're weird. I like weird. What's your name?"
"Yi Wu."
Mo Ran grinned. "Well, Yi Wu. Welcome back to the world."
And somewhere, far above, the mists over Mount Wuji began to stir.
The first gate had opened.
The path of Dao had begun.