Morning mist curled around the rooftops of Qingshan Village, softening the echoes of last night's festival. Ashes still smouldered in the great bonfire pit, and scraps of red paper fluttered across the dirt streets. The laughter and music were gone, replaced by the crow of roosters and the steady clatter of farmers beginning their work.
Liang Shen carried a basket of water gourds toward the well, his steps unhurried. His mind lingered on the strange sensation from last night—the way his chest had burned when the lanterns rose, the way the heavens themselves seemed to shift above him.
"Liang Shen!"
He turned to see Uncle Wen, the old hunter, hurrying down the path. The man's bow was slung across his back, and his face was grave.
"Trouble?" Shen asked, setting the basket down.
Uncle Wen's eyes darted around before he spoke in a low voice. "On my way back from the northern ridge, I saw lights—clashing lights, like blades of fire and lightning tearing at the sky."
Shen's chest tightened. "Cultivators?"
The hunter nodded grimly. "A battle. Not far from here. I've seen such things once before, when I was young. It can only mean that the great sects are moving again."
Before Shen could respond, a group of villagers gathered, drawn by Wen's words. Whispers spread quickly fearful, uncertain.
"Will they come here?"
"We have nothing worth fighting over."
"Unless the mountain paths lead them straight through our lands…"
Old Man Zhang arrived, leaning heavily on his cane. His expression was calm, but his voice carried weight.
"Enough," he said. "The affairs of cultivators are like storms in the heavens—vast and beyond us. We are but ants beneath their clouds. Do not invite fear into your hearts."
The villagers bowed their heads, silenced, but unease lingered in their eyes.
As they dispersed, Zhang's gaze lingered on Shen. For a heartbeat, Shen thought the old chief's sharp eyes had pierced straight through his chest to the mark hidden beneath his robes. But Zhang only sighed and turned away.
Later, as Shen walked alone toward the fields, he felt it again—that faint, gnawing burn from his chest. His steps slowed.
He lifted his eyes toward the distant mountains. The mist was thicker today, yet beneath it he thought he saw something stir—like shadows moving against the sky.
The heavens are restless, he thought. And soon, even this forgotten place will not be spared.