Chapter 3 – A Knock at the Dust Gate
Dawn broke slowly over Hearth's Edge, painting the sky in hues of ash and rust, as if even the heavens were reluctant to witness another day in the forgotten village. Nestled between cracked hills and parched barley fields, the settlement clung to life like a weed growing from stone. The air smelled of damp straw, woodsmoke, and old fatigue.
Stone-lined huts, worn smooth by time, hunched close to one another as though bracing against the cold indifference of the world beyond. Roofs of sun-bleached thatch swayed with the breeze, whispering secrets of a past no one bothered to write down. In this village, history lived only in wrinkles and scars.
Among the villagers, Lin Chen stood apart, though no one would admit it. He had arrived into this life as a newborn with eyes too still, too knowing. A poor laborer in his previous life, he bore the memory of every callus, every cracked nail, every unanswered hunger. Reincarnated with his past intact, he knew what true suffering was—not the romanticized suffering sung in taverns, but the kind that hollows the soul until only grit remains.
He had awoken in this new life to a mother who died in childbirth and a father who vanished into debt servitude. The village had raised him with reluctant pity, feeding him scraps and giving him work meant for oxen. Yet he never complained. Never fought. Never smiled. His silence wasn't arrogance—it was the stillness of someone who had already buried too many dreams.
This morning, like all others, found him in the northern field, breaking unyielding soil. The hoe he wielded had belonged to three men before him, its iron blade chipped and its wood scarred by decades. He worked in silence, breath controlled, muscles taut but economical. Every swing was deliberate, not a single motion wasted.
Unlike other children who practiced stick fighting behind huts or daydreamed of flying swords, Lin Chen trained through labor. He lifted stones, carried water uphill, and practiced breathing techniques known only to him. Each task was a cultivation of will. Each repetition, a sharpening of mind.
He had learned early that in this world, Qi flowed like wind through the body—but wind that needed to be caught, tamed, and woven into strength. The villagers spoke of nine great cultivation realms, each divided into nine layers, each more difficult than the last. But Lin Chen had no spirit root, or so the village elders claimed. No visible affinity for elements, no surge of Qi during his childhood tests.
They said he was a stone—incapable of progress.
They were wrong.
He had simply hidden it.
—
The first sign of disruption came not from the fields, but from the earth itself. Lin Chen paused mid-swing. The wind changed. The birds fell silent. Then—hoofbeats. Four, maybe five horses. Armored, by the sound of it. Unusual. Hearth's Edge was nowhere. Cultivators never came here.
Lin Chen straightened, calm, and climbed onto the roof of an abandoned granary. He used no ladder, only stacked crates and a quiet footfall. From his perch, he saw them cresting the eastern ridge—a procession of four riders in pale green robes, a palanquin carried by servants between them, and a banner bearing the mark of Verdant Cloud Hall.
A sect. Mid-tier. Known for gathering talent from border villages. Known for discarding the unworthy.
He climbed down, silent as wind through grass.
—
They entered the village with the arrogance of those who had never known hunger. Their horses stamped dust into the air, and their boots found no reason to apologize as they dismounted. The leader, a man with the trimmed beard and heavy gaze of someone used to obedience, stepped forward.
He wore robes embroidered with clouds and cranes, their threads fine enough to catch the sunlight.
"Village head!" he called. "By decree of Verdant Cloud Hall, you are to present all children aged seven to fifteen for testing. The heavens have opened opportunity today. Do not squander it."
The villagers gathered with a mix of awe and fear. Elder Fan, stooped and slow, emerged from his hut, bowing with the reverence of one who knew what power could do to the powerless.
"We are honored," the elder wheezed. "We shall present them, great one."
The children were rounded up quickly. Excitement buzzed in the air—fueled more by the parents than the youths. Only a handful had even seen a cultivator before.
Lin Chen joined the back of the line. At seventeen, he was officially too old, but no one stopped him. His presence was quiet, nonthreatening.
The cultivator, Sun Rong, walked down the line, examining each face like a merchant appraising fruit. When he reached Lin Chen, he paused.
"You. Name?"
"Lin Chen."
"Clan?"
"None."
"Spiritual root?"
"None recorded."
Sun Rong's eyes narrowed. He retrieved a jade slip etched with formation runes—a Qi resonance tester. He pressed it to Lin Chen's chest.
The jade trembled. It did not glow. It did not activate. But it trembled—like a drum touched by a silent echo.
Sun Rong frowned.
"Your body... it's too steady. Almost unnaturally so. No reaction, no instability. It's like your dantian is... too still."
He pulled the jade away and waved Lin Chen off. "Defective meridians. Or worse—false stability. Useless to us."
Lin Chen said nothing.
—
Two children were chosen. Jiao Feng, the butcher's stout son, and Mu Lan, quick-eyed and clever-tongued. Their families wept in joy