The dirt road leading out of Willow Village stretched endlessly beneath the afternoon sun.
Its surface was cracked, pale, and uneven — the color of dry bones. Wind swept across it in slow breaths, carrying the faint scent of earth and ash. Each time the wind passed, it lifted dust into the air, turning the world hazy and gold.
A boy sat at the edge of that road. His clothes were patched at the elbows and knees, his shoes thin enough to show his skin. His name was Shen Yelan.
He had been sitting there since morning, chin resting on his knees, eyes tracing the slow drift of clouds. His gaze held no joy, yet no despair either — only a kind of quiet wondering, like someone trying to see past the sky itself.
From afar, the laughter of the village reached him — the rhythm of hoes striking fields, the bark of dogs, a mother calling her child in for food. Ordinary sounds, warm to others, hollow to him.
A pebble rolled from under his foot and tumbled down the path. He watched it bounce away until it disappeared into the horizon.
That road led to Qinghe Town, where, once every few years, cultivators from the Radiant Sword Sect came to choose disciples.
Yelan let out a breath that almost became a laugh — thin, bitter, and tired.
"Choose disciples…" he murmured to himself. "They never come for people like me."
He lifted a hand and looked at his fingers — rough, calloused, the nails lined with soil. A farmer's hands. A mortal's hands.
In this world, where even the weak dreamed of flight and power, he had nothing. No spiritual roots, no cultivation, no destiny.
The sunlight caught his dark hair, and for an instant, the dust around him glimmered like scattered stars. Then the wind shifted, and the illusion broke.
A faint voice called out from behind the small rise of the hill.
"Yelan! Come home!"
It was a man's voice — rough, hoarse, strained by years of frustration. His father.
Yelan stayed where he was for a moment longer, staring at the endless line of the road. Then, quietly, he stood up, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned toward home.
His shadow stretched long across the dirt, like something reaching for a future it could never touch.
The wind followed him down the hill, carrying the sound of rustling grass and creaking wood. Shen Yelan's home stood at the far edge of Willow Village — a slanted wooden hut half-swallowed by weeds, its roof patched with old tiles that rattled whenever the wind grew strong.
Smoke rose faintly from the crooked chimney. Not the thick, rich smoke of good food — this was thin, gray, almost shy.
Yelan pushed open the door. It gave a low groan, as if it too was tired of living.
Inside, the air smelled of damp wood, ash, and herbs long past their strength. A small fire burned in the clay stove, where a man sat cross-legged on a straw mat, holding a cracked pipe between two trembling fingers.
His face was sharp, worn down by time — a shadow of pride still clung to his posture even though his body no longer obeyed him. This was Shen Liang, once a cultivator, now a crippled man whose meridians had long since turned to stone.
"You're late," Shen Liang said without turning his head. His voice was low, dry — not angry, just tired of repeating itself.
"I was watching the clouds," Yelan answered softly. He set down a bundle of firewood beside the wall and moved to feed the stove.
Shen Liang gave a small grunt. "Clouds don't fill the stomach."
"No," Yelan said, after a moment. "But they make the hunger quieter."
The older man's pipe clicked against his teeth. For a while, neither spoke. The fire popped, throwing soft light across the cracked walls, illuminating the marks of an old sword hung above the stove — a relic from Shen Liang's past life.
"Village Elder Wu came earlier," Shen Liang said suddenly. "Said the Radiant Sword Sect is recruiting again in Qinghe Town."
Yelan's hand paused over the fire. The faint light reflected in his eyes — half wonder, half disbelief.
"…Recruiting?"
Shen Liang gave a rough laugh, short and bitter. "Don't even think about it. You were born rootless. They won't even let you kneel at the gate."
The words landed heavy, familiar, like stones sinking into deep water.
"I know," Yelan said. His voice didn't shake, but something in his eyes dimmed. He took the old bowl from the side and poured out the soup from the pot — barley water, thin and gray. He placed one bowl in front of his father, then sat with his own.
The two ate in silence. The soup was barely warm.
After a long while, Shen Liang spoke again — quieter this time.
"When I was young, I thought strength could change everything. I bled for it, begged for it… and lost everything to it. Remember that, Yelan. The heavens have their own will. You can't fight it."
Yelan didn't answer. He swallowed the last of the soup, set the bowl down carefully, and stared into the fire.
The flames danced in his eyes, reflecting both warmth and emptiness.
Outside, the evening sun sank behind the hills, dyeing the sky in colors of fading gold.
The last light of the sun clung to the rooftops when Shen Yelan stepped outside again.
The air was cool, damp with the smell of turned soil and cooking smoke. Chickens clucked somewhere in the distance, and the faint laughter of children echoed down the narrow path between the huts.
He carried two empty buckets on a bamboo pole across his shoulders. The wood rubbed against his neck as he walked — a small pain, but steady, like the kind he was used to.
At the village well, a small group had already gathered — women washing vegetables, men drawing water, and a few youths wearing rough outer sect robes, their swords tied loosely at their hips.
As Yelan approached, the laughter quieted just a little.
"Ah… look who's here," one of the youths said, smirking. He was a tall boy with clean hands — hands that had never seen the weight of a plow. "The rootless one. Careful, don't let his bad luck touch the well."
A few of the villagers chuckled uneasily. No one said anything in his defense. They never did.
Yelan set his buckets down beside the stone lip of the well. His expression didn't change.
He lowered the rope, listening to the creak of the pulley and the hollow splash below.
The youth stepped closer, leaning on his sword. "Heard your father used to be a cultivator. Pity he ended up crippled. Guess heaven didn't like his kind either."
The laughter this time was louder.
Yelan kept drawing the water. His hands didn't tremble, his eyes didn't rise. The rope turned, wet and rough between his fingers.
When he lifted the full bucket onto the edge, his sleeve brushed against the boy's robes. A faint flick of disgust crossed the boy's face.
"Watch where you're touching," he said sharply. "You think filth can mix with purity?"
Yelan's gaze lifted at last. Not in anger — just calm, silent, steady. His eyes were dark, clear, unreadable.
The boy faltered for half a heartbeat before sneering again. "What, you gonna stare me to death?"
Yelan didn't answer. He picked up the buckets and turned away.
As he walked, he heard someone whisper behind him — not cruelly this time, but softly, almost pitying.
"Born without roots… even if he wanted to, he can't cultivate."
He didn't look back. He just walked. The buckets swayed, the water sloshing against the sides, spilling over his hands — cold, clear, almost cleansing.
By the time he reached the path leading home, the stars had begun to appear — faint dots of silver in a darkening sky.
He stopped, just once, and looked up.
For a moment, the bitterness faded from his face.
The stars looked distant. But they were there.
The moon rose slowly that night.
Its pale light spilled over Willow Village, softening the cracked walls and crooked rooftops, turning everything silver and still. The fields stretched endlessly beyond, whispering under the wind.
Shen Yelan sat outside the house, his back against the old wooden fence. The buckets from earlier rested beside him, half-filled, the water inside catching faint ripples of moonlight.
Inside, his father was already asleep — or pretending to be. The coughs had grown worse these past months, and the herbs they could afford did little more than dull the pain.
Yelan stared at the sky in silence.
He'd grown up hearing stories — about cultivators who could soar across the heavens, split mountains, and live for centuries. As a child, he used to imagine what that might feel like — to rise above clouds, to never fear hunger or death again.
But dreams have a way of withering when repeated too many times without hope.
He reached into his sleeve and took out a small piece of copper — dull, bent, the only thing he owned that once belonged to his mother. He rubbed it between his fingers, feeling the edge where it had worn smooth over the years.
In the distance, the faint glow of Qinghe Town flickered — tiny lights trembling in the dark. Tomorrow, the Radiant Sword Sect's banners would be raised there.
He closed his eyes.
"Rootless," he whispered, the word bitter on his tongue. "If
The wind stirred. The grass around him swayed as if listening.
He opened his eyes again, gaze deep and unwavering. The stars above shimmered faintly — cold, distant, unreachable. Yet something in his chest answered them — a quiet pulse, small but stubborn, like the beginning of fire.
He sat there until the night deepened and the crickets fell silent.
When he finally stood, his shadow stretched long beneath the moonlight, brushing across the dirt path that led out of the village.
He looked back at his home once — at the dim flicker of light inside, at the weary outline of everything he'd known.
Then he turned toward the road.
Tomorrow, he would walk to Qinghe Town. Not because he believed they'd accept him — but because he refused to be told where he didn't belong.
When the first hint of dawn brushed the horizon, Shen Yelan was already awake.
The air was cold enough to bite, mist curling low across the fields. The village slept behind him — faint smoke rising from a few chimneys, roosters calling somewhere far off.
He packed what little he had: a change of clothes, a worn book with half its pages missing, and a cloth pouch of dried grain. He tied it together with care, as if afraid that rushing would somehow undo his resolve.
Before leaving, he stood by the doorway of his home for a long time.
Inside, his father was still sleeping — chest rising and falling unevenly. The old man's face looked softer in the pale light, the lines of exhaustion blurred by shadow.
Yelan wanted to say something.
But what could he say? That he would return with fortune and medicine? That he would defy heaven and carve his own path?
Even to his own ears, it sounded childish.
He bowed deeply toward the doorway — the way his father had once taught him to honor his elders — and whispered, barely audible, "I'll come back."
Then he turned and started walking.
The dirt road stretched ahead, damp from the night dew. Each step left a faint print behind, soon fading as the wind brushed over. He didn't look back again.
As he reached the edge of the fields, the sun finally broke the horizon — a sliver of gold cutting through the mist. The light hit his face, and for a moment, everything felt both small and endless.
He walked faster.
A cart passed by — an old man driving it toward Qinghe Town. Seeing Shen Yelan, the man slowed and called out, "Heading to the city, boy? Hop on. It's a long road to walk alone."
Yelan hesitated, then nodded and climbed aboard. The cart creaked as it rolled forward, wheels crunching over stones.
The old man gave him a sidelong look. "You look young. Off to chase dreams, eh?"
Yelan smiled faintly. "Something like that."
The man chuckled, shaking his head. "Everyone who leaves the village says that."
Yelan looked ahead, toward where the road disappeared into the mist. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the cart.
"I'm not planning to come back until I find what I'm looking for."
The old man didn't reply. He only hummed a quiet tune as the cart rolled on, the sound of wooden wheels mixing with birdsong and the slow warmth of the rising sun.
By the time they reached the fork where the road split toward Qinghe Town, the mist had lifted. The city's outline shimmered faintly in the distance, banners of white and gold fluttering above the gates — the Radiant Sword Sect's emblem, gleaming like fire in the morning light.
Yelan jumped down, bowed to the old man in thanks, and began walking toward the gates.
His heart was steady. His steps, silent.
Somewhere in that distant city waited the beginning of everything — the first thread of a fate that would devour all others.
And so, under the rising sun, Shen Yelan took his first step toward immortality.