The Nian Village stirred beneath a muted gray sky. Autumn had painted the trees in fire and gold—maples ablaze in crimson and scarlet, poplars and birches shimmering in yellow and gold. The cool wind carried the earthy scent of decay, brushing through branches and sending showers of leaves drifting silently to the ground. Children ran through the streets, laughing, scattering piles of leaves with rustling echoes that rolled between narrow alleys.
The river that wound through the village lay calm, reflecting the fiery canopies of willows. Fallen leaves floated like tiny boats on its gentle current. Stone chimneys released lazy curls of smoke that promised warmth and the comfort of firelit evenings. For a moment, the village seemed wrapped in peace, a fragile calm before the harsh winter crept closer with each passing day.
Amid this autumn beauty, a boy in ragged clothing stood alone. He was motionless, eyes unblinking, reflecting the world around him. Slowly, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his gaze fell upon a gathering near the riverbank.
Five men emerged from the crowd. Villagers instinctively stepped aside, creating a path of reverence. At the front walked an elderly man in flowing white robes. His long beard swayed gently in the breeze, and though his face spoke of sixty or seventy years, vitality shone through. This was Bai Nian, the village head. Behind him followed four men—the leaders of the major factions.
Xiang Xi, head of the Xiang faction.
Zong Yi, head of the Zong faction.
Mo Mi, head of the Mo faction.
Tian Le, head of the Tian faction.
Each wore long grayish robes, embroidered with the symbols of their rank.
Cheers erupted as the five approached a raised wooden platform, five seats prepared. The four faction leaders seated themselves while Bai Nian remained standing. Raising a hand, he silenced the crowd.
"Haaaah… hufffff…" he exhaled, his voice calm but firm. "I, Bai Nian, known to you as the village head, have been chosen as the leader of our newly established clan. I may lack wisdom, knowledge, and strength, but I will serve with my very life."
A hush fell over the villagers. Bai Nian's eyes scanned the crowd, and he continued.
"And here is the good news, though many of you may already know: anyone with cultivation potential will be welcomed into the clan. Resources—clothing, food, necessities—will be provided, so that no one is left behind."
Respect and hope lit the faces of the villagers. For them, Bai Nian and the four faction leaders were a beacon, a chance for a better life.
"Let the celebration begin!" Bai Nian declared.
"Yeeeeeeah!"
"Hoooooray!"
"Hurraaaaah! Hahahaha!"
The crowd erupted, surging toward the market where tables overflowed with food and drink. Music rose, laughter echoed, and the festival came alive.
The five leaders lingered, observing the villagers with quiet smiles. They exchanged glances, shared brief words of congratulations, then departed, leaving the crowd to revel. Joy spread like wildfire. Some watched dancers twirl beneath lantern light, cheering with delight. Others traded stories, dreaming of future glory—of becoming cultivators, heroes, and legends in their own right.
But in a shadowed corner, away from the celebration, sat a boy. His clothes were worn, his figure small, and his eyes were sharp beneath his still, quiet expression. In his hand, he held a strip of jerky, chewing methodically as his gaze tracked a single man moving through the crowd—distributing food, smiling with practiced ease.
Fu Yang's lips curved in a faint, dark smile. He whispered, almost to himself, "Shin Tian… heh."
Even amid the celebration, his mind was alert, calculating, watching. The festival, the joy, the chaos—they were all just part of the scene. For Fu Yang, nothing escaped notice. Every movement, every word, every intention could be measured, exploited, or remembered.
He ate his jerky slowly, savoring the small morsel while his eyes never left Shin Tian. His childlike figure masked the darkness coiled within him—the years of suffering, the countless betrayals, the burning ambition. This boy was not merely surviving; he was planning, observing, calculating, waiting for the precise moment to turn the world to his advantage.