The boughs of the ancient Muling tree stretched out, casting a wide shadow over the Bloodmoon Sect's training ground. A boy of eight, Li Xiuwen, reclined on its highest branch, his hands clasped behind his head. His eyes were fixed on the scene below, yet his gaze was distant, disconnected from the youthful clamor.
Below, children his age engaged in boisterous martial drills. Some swung wooden swords with wild abandon, others clumsily practiced fundamental fist forms. Li Xiuwen felt no desire to join them. A familiar weariness settled in his bones whenever he saw such displays. He knew, with a certainty that belied his age, that no matter who won or lost, they would all eventually grow up, master more complex techniques, and live out their lives within the confines of society's unyielding structure, until death claimed them all.
"Are we truly born only to live, and then to die?" he muttered softly to himself. "If the end is always the same, what meaning is there in all this effort?"
As the children's joyful shouts filled the air, two adult voices drifted up from a nearby path.
"Did you hear? Village Head Fei is close to his end," one man said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Alas… even a great warrior cannot escape death."
"Is that so…" the other replied, a tremor in his tone. "Death truly is a terrifying thing. If even a man as mighty as the Village Head is powerless against it, what hope is there for common folk like us?"
Their words went unnoticed by the other children, but for Li Xiuwen, they struck like a hammer to the center of his skull. He froze, the vivid image of the strong, respected Village Head flashing in his mind. In a matter of days, that man would become nothing more than a lifeless husk.
Death… The word sent a visceral chill through his entire body. The thought that everyone must die, that every effort, every moment of joy, and every triumph would ultimately be swallowed by the finality of death, filled him with a profound terror he had never felt before. He refused to accept such a fate.
Then, a distant memory from his childhood resurfaced. It was his grandfather's bedtime stories—tales of immortal cultivators who, through relentless training, transcended the mortal coil, living for eternity and fearing no end.
Li Xiuwen bit his lip and clenched his fists. His terror transformed into an unyielding resolve in the blink of an eye. He knew there was only one path to escape this fear: to defy the limits of life itself. He made a silent vow that he would find a way to become an immortal, no matter the cost.
From that day forward, he spent most of his time in the sect's dusty library, immersing himself in ancient cultivation scrolls. He devoured information tirelessly, from basic doctrines to advanced techniques that most disciples ignored. But he soon faced a grim reality: the vast majority of these scrolls were written for those with exceptional innate talent, a path he knew was not his to walk.
He attempted a foundational sword technique, as described in one of the scrolls, but found he lacked the inherent speed and precision to wield it effectively. He tried a martial arts form, but his ordinary body was unable to withstand the intense force. A creeping sense of hopelessness began to set in. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, the paths everyone else walked were all closed to him.
"Why must it be so difficult?" he thought, letting out a sigh. "Does my effort truly mean nothing?"
But then, a passage from a forgotten scroll echoed in his mind: "Effort does not guarantee success, but what else can a man do but try?" The phrase reignited his spirit. He refused to give up on finding his own path. He believed that somewhere in this world, there was a way meant for him, and with his cunning mind and unique perspective, he would find it.