They did not leave the mountain immediately.
By the time they reached the lower paths, dusk had begun to creep across the world, painting the jagged peaks in muted shades of violet and ash. The air grew colder with every step downward, thin spiritual mist curling around broken stairs and half-collapsed stone bridges that had not seen maintenance in decades.
He leaned heavily on a crude wooden staff the girl had taken from a fallen marker along the path. Every movement sent a dull ache through his body, not sharp enough to make him cry out, but persistent—like a reminder that this body had already been written off by fate.
Still, he walked.
Not because he was strong, but because stopping meant surrender.
"You should rest," she said for the third time, glancing back at him. "Your breathing is uneven."
"If I sit down," he replied, voice steady despite the strain, "I won't get back up."
She frowned but did not argue. That, too, told him something about her. She did not waste words when she understood the truth of a situation.
The sect loomed above them now, its towering halls and floating lanterns half-hidden by mist. From this angle, it looked distant. Smaller. As if it were already part of the past.
They reached a narrow ledge carved into the mountainside, sheltered by an overhanging slab of rock. A thin stream trickled down the stone wall nearby, clear and cold. She stopped here, finally, and set down the small cloth bundle she'd been carrying.
"This is far enough for tonight," she said. "They won't patrol this low."
He nodded and lowered himself carefully to the ground, back against the rock. The moment he stopped moving, exhaustion surged up like a wave, threatening to drag him under. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing—slow, measured, deliberate.
She handed him a waterskin. He drank sparingly, the cold water grounding him.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The world felt enormous in the quiet. Somewhere far below, beasts cried out in the valleys. Above them, the Heavenly Veil was hidden from sight, but he could still feel it—like pressure on the back of his mind, subtle yet impossible to ignore.
"You don't seem afraid," she said suddenly.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. She sat cross-legged a short distance away, watching him with an expression he could not quite read.
"I am," he said after a moment. "I just don't let it decide for me anymore."
She tilted her head. "Anymore?"
He hesitated.
In this world, revealing ignorance was dangerous. Revealing knowledge that didn't belong could be worse. But she had already chosen to walk away from the sect for him—or at least alongside him. Trust, he sensed, would matter.
"I've lived once before," he said carefully. "Not here."
Her eyes widened, but she did not interrupt.
"In that life," he continued, "I waited for things to change. For someone else to fix what was broken. I thought endurance alone meant something."
He let out a quiet breath. "It didn't."
The wind whispered through the ledge, carrying the faint scent of pine and cold stone.
"So this time," he finished, "I move."
She studied him in silence for several breaths, then nodded once, slowly. "That explains some things."
"Like what?"
"Like why you didn't scream when you woke up," she said. "Or beg. Or curse the heavens."
A faint smile touched his lips. "I've done all of that already."
She surprised him by laughing—a soft, almost disbelieving sound. It eased something tight in his chest.
"My name is Lin Yue," she said after a moment. "You never asked."
He met her gaze. "I know."
Another memory surfaced. Her name had been spoken rarely, overlooked as easily as she was. Remembering it felt like reclaiming something the world had tried to erase.
"And mine?" he asked.
She hesitated. "You… don't remember?"
"I do," he said. "I just want to hear it."
She watched him closely, then said it.
Hearing it spoken aloud felt strange. Familiar, yet distant. He accepted it without comment, letting it settle naturally into his sense of self.
Night deepened.
After Lin Yue fell asleep, wrapped in her thin outer robe, he remained awake. The pain in his body dulled to a constant throb, manageable as long as he did not move. His thoughts, however, refused to rest.
He focused inward.
In his previous life, meditation had been a concept, not a practice. Here, it was instinct. He followed the faint memories left behind in this body, tracing where spiritual energy should flow.
It was like staring at a dried riverbed.
Meridians that should have been smooth and resilient were fractured, narrow, some nearly collapsed. Qi attempted to gather, only to leak away almost immediately, dispersing into nothing.
A normal cultivator would stop here.
He didn't.
Instead of forcing energy through the broken paths, he did something different. He observed. Not with frustration, but with patience.
Why had it broken?
Images surfaced—forced training, overuse of inferior pills, desperation. The original owner of this body had tried to compensate for lack of talent with sheer will. The result had been damage layered upon damage.
In his old world, he had learned this lesson too late.
Burnout was not growth.
Slowly, he let go of the idea of circulating Qi at all. Instead, he focused on stillness. On awareness. On the faint sensation of the world pressing in around him.
The mountain breathed.
The wind shifted.
Somewhere deep inside, something responded—not power, not energy, but clarity.
It was subtle. Fragile. But it was real.
For the first time since awakening, he felt a sense of alignment. As if his thoughts, body, and presence were no longer pulling in opposite directions.
No breakthrough came.
No miracle.
But when he opened his eyes hours later, the dull ache in his chest felt… quieter.
He smiled faintly.
At dawn, they resumed their descent.
The path grew rougher, less defined. Cultivation ruins gave way to untamed stone and tangled roots. Once, a shadow moved between the trees, watching them with cautious hunger. Lin Yue's hand went to the hilt of her short blade, but the creature retreated, sensing weakness but also something unfamiliar.
By midday, they reached the outer fringe of the mountain range.
A small settlement lay ahead—little more than clustered wooden structures surrounded by worn defensive talismans. Mortals lived here. Some cultivators too weak or unwilling to join sects.
A place forgotten by the heavens.
"From here on," Lin Yue said quietly, "we're on our own."
He looked at the settlement, then back toward the towering peaks behind them. Toward the unseen Heavenly Veil beyond.
"Good," he said.
They stepped forward together.
And beneath the vast, uncaring sky, his journey truly began—not with power, but with resolve.