Yan Luofei's father set off before sunrise. The sky was still pale as he walked along the dirt road toward the small town at the foot of the mountain.
His back was straight, his movements firm—not out of conviction, but because he refused to stop. If he stopped, he would start thinking. And if he thought too long, he might turn back.
He carried a small cloth pouch. Inside were only a few coins, a piece of cheap jade inherited from his family, and a petition he had spent the night writing.
The letter contained no complaints. No accusations. No demands for justice.
Just one thing: a willingness to be useful.
The gate of the Xuan Tian branch sect stood at the end of the stone path, guarded by two young disciples. They regarded Yan Luofei's father with neutral expressions—not hostile, not friendly. Neutrality was the earliest form of rejection.
"Is there something you need?" asked one of the guards.
"I would like to see the person in charge of recruitment," he replied politely. "It's about my son."
The guard glanced at his colleague, then back at Yan Luofei's father. "Name?"
"Yan," said Yan Luofei's father.
The guard's expression changed slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But enough.
"Wait there," he said, pointing to a stone bench at the edge of the courtyard.
Yan Luofei's father waited.
An hour. Two hours.
The sun rose. Students passed by, carrying swords, scrolls, medicinal herbs. Not a single one glanced at him. He sat silently, his hands on his knees, enduring the shame that was slowly turning to numbness.
Finally, a middle-aged man in a gray robe arrived. His face was ordinary, his eyes sharp but tired—the face of someone who had seen too many applicants.
"I heard your name," the man said matter-of-factly. "Your son has been tested."
"I know," replied Yan Luofei's father. "And I know the results."
"Then why are you still here?"
Yan Luofei's father opened his cloth pouch. He took out the cheap jade and placed it on the stone table.
"I didn't ask for my son to be accepted right away," he said quietly. "I'm just asking for an opportunity. Menial labor. Service. Anything."
The man stared at the jade for a long moment, then pushed it back.
"It's not worth enough," he said flatly.
"I can work for years," Yan Luofei's father continued quickly, as if afraid to end the conversation. "I'm strong. I'm obedient. I won't demand anything—"
"That's not the problem," the man interrupted. "The problem is the risk."
Yan Luofei's father paused.
"Everyone we accept," the man continued, "is an investment. Your son isn't showing potential. Your family's bloodline is also… problematic. If we protect you, and something happens, who bears the consequences?"
"We," Yan Luofei's father replied without hesitation.
The man shook his head slowly. "You don't understand. Sects don't operate on moral promises. We operate on probabilities." He stood up. The conversation was clearly over.
But Yan Luofei's father hadn't given up. "Then," he said, his voice lowering, "tell me how we can avoid becoming a burden."
The man paused.
His gaze sharpened, as if assessing whether the person before him was worthy of being told the truth.
"Move," he said finally. "Get away from the energy path. Your village is at a point that's… unstable."
Yan Luofei's father frowned. "Unstable how?"
"None of your business," the man replied. "And you shouldn't ask."
He walked away without looking back.
Yan Luofei's father sat back on the stone bench. The words spun around in his head.
Unstable.
He wasn't stupid. He knew what a village in the path of wild energy meant: easy to exploit, difficult to defend. Sects don't protect such places—they wait.
He returned home in the late afternoon.
Yan Luofei saw her father from afar. His gait was different, slower, heavier.
Her mother came out to greet her. "How is it?"
Yan Luofei's father opened his mouth, then closed it. He sat on the wooden bench, staring at the ground.
"They didn't reject us," he said finally. "They just… don't want to get involved."
Yan Luofei studied her father's face. She saw something new: not hope, not anger—but a belated understanding.
That night, her father said, "We might have to move."
Her mother was shocked. "Where?"
"I don't know yet," she answered honestly.
Yan Luofei said nothing. She only remembered one sentence from the afternoon's conversation—one she hadn't heard directly, but one she felt the impact of.
Cults don't operate on morals, they operate on probabilities.
She stared at their home. The wooden walls, the thatched roof, the creaking floors.
If the probability of destruction was high enough, she thought calmly, then the world would allow it to happen.
In the distance, the wind rustled strangely again. It was as if something was waiting for the right moment.
Yan Luofei closed her eyes.
She didn't know when disaster would strike. But she knew one thing for certain: When it did, no one would come to help, and the world would consider it an acceptable outcome.
News always travels faster than the person carrying it.
Before Yan Luofei's father could say much to his family, the village already knew that she had returned from the sect empty-handed. No one asked directly. The way she walked, her shoulders lower than usual, was enough of a clue.
That morning, Yan Luofei went to the well as usual. Several children stopped playing when they saw her. A middle-aged woman washing clothes paused for a moment, then continued without looking back. It was as if her presence were a minor annoyance best ignored.
Yan Luofei filled her bucket slowly.
She heard whispers, not hidden, just not directed at her.
"They say her father is still pleading with the sect."
"It's embarrassing."
"Why don't they just move on?"
"Who would want to take in a family like that?"
Such words needed no explanation. Everyone knew what they meant.
An old man, the village granary keeper, approached. He was known as an honest man—or at least, one who liked to say bitter things in a neutral tone.
"Luofei," he said, "you should tell your father to stop."
Yan Luofei looked at him. "Stop what?"
"Hoping," the man replied quickly. "Unrealistic expectations make others uncomfortable."
Yan Luofei nodded slowly. "I understand."
The old man looked relieved. "Good. The world doesn't owe us anything."
Yan Luofei didn't argue.
In the village square, several branch sect disciples arrived that afternoon. Not on patrol—they were too relaxed for that. They came to buy groceries, inspect the storeroom, and unwittingly became the center of attention.
Their presence always changed the atmosphere of the village. People smiled wider. Their voices were kinder. Children were warned to keep their noise down.
Yan Luofei's father was also there, helping move the sacks of rice. He was working harder than usual, as if he wanted to prove something no one had asked.
A sect disciple noticed him.
"Weren't you the one who came to the gate yesterday?" he asked with a faint smile.
Yan Luofei's father paused for a moment, then nodded. "Yes."
"Still don't get it?" the disciple continued. "The sect isn't a shelter."
Some villagers chuckled. Not because it was funny—but because it was safe.
"I just want to know," the disciple said again, his voice relaxed, "why are you so stubborn?"
Yan Luofei's father opened his mouth, then closed it again. He lowered his head. "Because he's my son."
The laughter this time was clearer.
"That's precisely the problem," the disciple said. "If you can't read your own son's talent, how can you read the world?"
Yan Luofei stood not far away, carrying a bucket of water. She saw her father tense up, the veins in his neck bulging. She also saw her mother, who had stopped working, her face pale.
He didn't move.
He knew that if he stepped forward now, it wouldn't save anyone. It would only change the form of humiliation, not the outcome.
"From now on," the disciple continued, patting the rice sack, "it's best for your family to stay out of sect affairs. It's for the good of all."
It wasn't a threat. It was an administrative warning.
Yan Luofei's father nodded. "We understand."
The disciple left, laughing lightly with his companion.
The square was lively again, but the tone had changed. People were talking louder, as if trying to cover something up.
A few moments later, the village chief approached the Yan family. His face was full of forced smiles.
"I understand your situation," he said to Yan Luofei's father. "But you must understand our position as well."
"What do you mean?" Yan Luofei's father asked.
"The presence of the sect is important for the stability of the village," the village chief continued. "If any family… creates a negative impression, it could impact all of us."
Yan Luofei's mother finally spoke. "What are you asking?"
The village chief was silent for a moment. "Perhaps… you could consider moving. Not now. But soon."
No one objected. No one defended.
Yan Luofei looked at the faces around her. The people who had once received her father's help, the people who had once eaten at their home, the people who now chose to remain silent.
This wasn't betrayal, she thought. This was consensus.
That night, the Yan family ate in silence.
Her father stared at his plate for a long moment. "I'm sorry," he said. "Finally, I think I can negotiate."
Her mother took her hand. "You're not wrong."
Yan Luofei raised her head. "Father wasn't wrong," she said calmly. "I just mistakenly thought the world would listen."
Her father stared at her, shocked. "Luofei—"
"I'm not angry," Yan Luofei continued. "I just understand now."
She stood up, walked outside the house, and sat on the wooden steps. The night was quiet, too quiet. She realized something important: This humiliation wasn't a side effect, it was the way things worked.
The world needed to destroy the pride of families like theirs first—so that when something worse happened, no one would ask why.
Yan Luofei stared at the darkness outside the village.
If the world needed victims to remain stable, she thought, then the world had no right to determine who the monsters were.
The wind howled stronger that night. Closer, clearer. And far beyond anyone in the village's comprehension, the odds began to shift.
To be continued...