#1
(Two Years Ago)
The sky above Celestial Nether Peak was bleeding.
Clouds were torn apart by colliding bursts of energy, creating horrifying patterns of purple and red light that looked like wounds across the heavens. On the barren mountaintop, in the center of a cratered field, two figures faced each other.
One stood gracefully, his white robe still as pure as snow despite the storm of energy around him. This was Sword Saint Ling Xiao, leader of the Seven Great Sect Alliance. His legendary sword, Frostmourn, pulsed with icy light.
The other—or rather, what remained of him—was kneeling. His black robe was tattered, long hair usually neat now covering his battered face. Blood, his own and others', stained the ground around him.
"Yun Zhentian," Sword Saint's voice echoed, cold and emotionless. "Heavenly Demon Sovereign… your end has come."
Yun Zhentian—the feared Demon King, master of the Celestial Nether Sect, a monster who had thrown the martial world into chaos for two decades—lifted his head. Through the curtain of messy hair, his sharp eyes flashed… not with anger, not with despair.
But satisfaction.
"Fifty-seven masters," he murmured, hoarse but audible over the roaring wind. "Fifty-seven of you. And I stand alone."
"You've killed more than that," one elder behind Ling Xiao interjected. "Thousands of lives lost to your ambition!"
Yun Zhentian smiled. A strange smile that made the surrounding masters uneasy. He should have been desperate. He should have been angry. Or at least, trying to fight with what strength remained.
But he did nothing.
He simply smiled.
"Ling Xiao," Yun Zhentian said, suddenly rising. His body swayed, but he stood. "Do you think this is victory?"
"This is justice," replied Sword Saint, raising Frostmourn. The sword gleamed, ready for the final strike.
"Heh." Yun Zhentian wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "Fine. You want the end of a legend? I'll give it to you."
He tilted his head to the sky, and for the first time that night, his aura erupted.
Not an aura of despair, but something far more terrifying—something that even made Ling Xiao take a step back.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" shouted one elder.
"You want the Demon King dead?" Yun Zhentian roared, his voice now echoing with a power that seemed to come from the earth itself. "THEN I WILL DIE!"
He gathered every last drop of his cultivation—every fragment of spiritual energy remaining—not to attack, but to…
Consume himself.
His body began to glow from within, cracks of purple light forming across his skin. The air trembled, the earth shook.
"He's going to detonate his cultivation core!" someone shouted.
"EVERYONE BACK!"
But Yun Zhentian did not care. He spread his arms, as if embracing the blood-soaked sky, and…
"CELESTIAL NETHER—FINAL ASCENSION!"
The explosion was unlike any ordinary blast.
No fire. No destructive shockwave.
Only… light. Bright purple light swept across the mountaintop, blinding everyone for a few seconds. And when it subsided…
Yun Zhentian was gone.
All that remained was a deeper crater, his tattered black robe, and—most importantly—his personal sword, Netherbane, broken in two.
Ling Xiao approached cautiously, Frostmourn ready. He inspected the ruins. No body. No spiritual trace. Nothing but… emptiness.
"He… detonated himself?" muttered an elder.
"Completely destroyed body and soul," another elder added with unintended respect. "Even the Demon King has pride."
Ling Xiao picked up the broken pieces of Netherbane. Cold. Lifeless. Dead.
"Finally," he whispered. "The Heavenly Demon Sovereign has fallen."
He turned to his followers, his face returning to perfect neutrality. "Announce to the martial world. Yun Zhentian, the last Demon King, has been slain by the Seven Great Sect Alliance. The war is over."
The masters cheered, but their voices were dampened by exhaustion and—though none admitted it—strange respect. They had defeated a monster, yet the monster had chosen his own way to go.
Unseen by them, a hundred li away, at the foot of a distant mountain, a man with streaks of gray in his hair and an ordinary face walked along a narrow path. He wore simple farmer's clothing and carried a worn cloth backpack.
Yun Zhentian—or rather, the former Yun Zhentian—paused, glancing back at the peak where he had just "died."
Purple light still faded across the night sky like a giant question mark.
He exhaled a long, genuine sigh of relief.
"Five years of planning," he murmured to the night wind. "Five years perfecting the 'Soul Mirage' technique, hiding my cultivation reserves, ensuring every detail was flawless."
He opened his palm. A small, dim purple crystal—his original cultivation core, compressed and hidden—pulsed softly before fading completely. Now he possessed only the cultivation level of a common farmer. Exactly as he wanted.
"And they bought it," he continued, a small smile tugging at his lips. "All the drama, all the commotion. For what? Throne? Power? Forced respect?"
He turned, walking down the mountain.
"I choose tea."
(Present Day)
The morning sun bathed Drizzle Creek in warm light, reflecting off straw rooftops and casting long shadows along dirt roads. The air smelled of wet earth, leaves, and wood smoke from cooking fires.
At the end of the village, in front of a modest wooden building with a sign reading Eightfold Bliss Mist Tea House, a middle-aged man swept the porch.
"Good morning, Yun-lao! Beautiful day, isn't it?"
Yun Tian—formerly Yun Zhentian, now just "Yun the Tea Seller" or "Old Yun" to the villagers—looked up and offered a genuine smile. Bu Chen, his nosy vegetable-selling neighbor, was arranging her stall across the street.
"It is, Bu Chen," he replied, continuing to sweep. Every movement was precise—no wasted motion, no extra effort. A martial artist might have marveled at the efficiency. The neighbors saw only a diligent old man.
"Did you hear about Bu Ling's chickens?" Bu Chen said excitedly. "Stolen again last night! Third time this month!"
"Really?" Yun Tian paused, leaning on his broom handle. "Stubborn thief."
"Captain Wang said he would increase patrols, but you know," Bu Chen sighed. "He and his men spend more time sleeping at the post than patrolling."
Yun Tian nodded, his eyes scanning the street. From the corner of his vision, he noticed small footprints in the mud near Bu Ling's fence, leading into the woods behind the village.
"Not a professional thief," he said calmly. "Tracks weren't hidden. Probably mischievous kids, or…"
Or something else. But that was no longer his concern. Not anymore.
"Ah, you're always optimistic, Yun-lao," Bu Chen shook her head. "Something will go missing again tonight. Just wait!"
Yun Tian resumed sweeping, though his mind worked. The tracks… the stride pattern was odd. Not like children. More like…
He shook the thought away. Not your business. You're retired. You're a tea seller.
A cheerful voice called from the road. A teenage girl with twin braids ran toward the tea house, carrying a basket of bread.
"Xiao Lan," Yun Tian greeted, smiling widely. She was his only assistant—and a devoted fan of martial arts stories, ironically unaware that she worked for the subject of so many of them. "What do we have today?"
"Steamed buns from Bu Li!" Xiao Lan opened the basket, releasing a sweet aroma. "He said this batch is special, with honey from a new hive."
"Good." Yun Tian nodded, opening the tea house door. "Set up the front table. I'll start boiling water."
Morning routines began. Yun Tian lit the wood stove, placed a large copper kettle on it, and pulled out a wooden box of tea leaves—some from his own garden, some purchased from traveling merchants. Every movement was meditative, deliberate.
The water needed to reach just the right temperature before boiling. He held his hand near the kettle, sensing it like anticipating an opponent's strike.
He shook his head. Stop. You're making tea, not planning a battle.
"Old Yun, have you ever heard the legend of the Heavenly Demon Sovereign?" Xiao Lan asked, arranging cups.
Yun Tian almost dropped the tea leaves he was measuring.
"Uh… why do you ask?"
"I heard a story from a traveling merchant last night!" Her eyes sparkled. "They say he could destroy mountains with a single strike! His gaze could drive people insane! And he had a bloodthirsty sword that—"
"Too many exaggerations in this world," Yun Tian interrupted, slightly louder than intended. "People love to embellish."
"But he was real, right? He died two years ago in a big battle!"
"Yes," Yun Tian said, watching the kettle steam gently. "He died."
"Do you think he was really that evil? I mean, in the stories I read—"
"Xiao Lan," Yun Tian interrupted again, softer this time. "Tea doesn't like loud chatter. Focus on your task."
The girl wrinkled her nose but obeyed. Yun Tian inhaled deeply, controlling the rapid heartbeat that had flared. Two years. And they still talk about him. When will they forget?
The kettle began to whistle softly. The right moment. Yun Tian poured water into the porcelain teapot, letting the leaves release their aroma—fragrant, earthy, slightly bitter. Like memories.
The door jingled as someone entered.
"Good morning, Old Yun."
Doctor Wen, the village physician, stepped inside calmly. A man in his sixties, with eyes too sharp for a village healer. Yun Tian had long learned not to ask about people's pasts.
"Doctor Wen! Please, sit." Yun Tian had already prepared the physician's favorite cup—plain clay, no decoration.
"The morning gossip says another chicken was stolen," Doctor Wen said, eyes studying Yun Tian in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable.
"Bu Chen said the same."
"The tracks lead to the western forest," Doctor Wen said, sipping his tea. "Odd stride. Like someone injured, or… drunk."
Yun Tian nodded, pouring tea for himself. "Maybe an animal."
"Maybe." But Doctor Wen's tone suggested disbelief. "You came from the west, right, Old Yun? Two years ago?"
"All roads lead somewhere, Doctor."
"True." Doctor Wen observed him a moment longer, then looked back toward the road. "This village is peaceful. I hope it stays that way."
Their conversation was interrupted by a group of children running past, shouting about their games. Then came a commotion at Bu Chen's stall.
"INTRUDERS! GET OUT OF MY VEGETABLES!"
Yun Tian and Doctor Wen turned. Three youths—not villagers—stood before Bu Chen's stall. The middle one, wearing a striking green robe, stomped on a bunch of mustard greens.
"Filthy villagers," the youth sneered. "Do you think we'd buy your rotten vegetables? We're looking for proper accommodations!"
Bu Chen, though frightened, tried to stand firm. "We don't have luxury inns here! Try the town!"
"Smooth talking—" The youth raised his hand, faint energy swirling around it. A low-level cultivator. Very low. But still enough to hurt an old woman.
Yun Tian sighed. Not your concern. Not your concern.
But he saw fear in Bu Chen's eyes. And he saw Xiao Lan at the door, pale-faced.
Damn.
He set down the teapot and walked slowly to the porch.
"Gentlemen," he called, calm but clear, "is there a problem?"
The green-robed youth turned, sneering. "And who are you?"
"Yun Tian. Owner of this tea house." He stepped down, approaching leisurely. "Seems to be a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?" the youth laughed. "These villagers don't know their place. We are from Green Willow Sect, understand? Not market thugs."
"Of course, of course." Yun Tian was only a few steps away now. Up close, he noted the small sect emblem on the robe, the ordinary fabric, the posture betraying overconfidence of a low-level cultivator. "But Bu Chen is an old woman. Perhaps we should talk man to man?"
The youth scoffed. "What, teach me manners?"
"No, no." Yun Tian raised both hands helplessly. "Just thinking… that's all."
He stepped back—but "accidentally" stepped on a small stone. It shot precisely behind the green-robed youth's knee.
"AAH!" The youth staggered, losing balance. His energy-laden hand flew up, hitting a post of the stall.
CRAAAASH!
The post broke, part of the straw roof collapsing… right above the three youths.
"Damn it!" one yelled, scrambling out of the debris.
Yun Tian quickly helped Bu Chen step back. "Ah, sorry! My old legs are unsteady! Are you all right?"
The three youths rose, covered in straw and embarrassed. Their leader glared at Yun Tian, then looked around. Villagers had started gathering, some with farming tools. Captain Wang arrived as well, slowly.
"We're leaving," the youth spat. "This dirty village isn't worth our time."
They fled, leaving Bu Chen's half-damaged stall and a murmuring crowd behind.
"Yun-lao! Are you okay?" Bu Chen asked, gripping his arm.
"Fine, fine." Yun Tian wiped mock sweat from his brow. "My poor old legs. Sorry for the extra trouble."
"No, no! You saved me!" Bu Chen said gratefully. "You're so lucky that stone hit just then!"
"Yes," Doctor Wen, who had approached quietly, added. His sharp eyes studied Yun Tian. "Very lucky. As if the stone knew exactly where to land."
Yun Tian met his gaze, then looked away. "Old man's luck."
"Indeed." Doctor Wen picked up the stone. Ordinary rock. "Luck."
For the rest of the day, Yun Tian felt Doctor Wen's eyes on him—while serving tea, cleaning, sitting on the porch at sunset, enjoying his last cup of tea.
He looked west, toward the forest where the strange tracks led. Toward distant mountains where the Celestial Nether Peak could not even be seen.
Peaceful, he thought, sipping his tea. I only want peace.
But in the western forest, among the trees, a woman in tattered black crawled toward a small stream. Blood stained the side of her body, and in her trembling hand, she clutched a silver pendant with a symbol—a crescent swallowing the sun, the emblem of the Celestial Nether Sect.
Her eyes, full of pain and confusion, gazed toward the village lights.
"Master…" she whispered before collapsing at the stream's edge, cold water soaking her face.
In the tea house, Yun Tian shivered suddenly, as if a chill unknown to anyone else passed through.
He lifted his face, staring at the darkening forest.
And for the first time in two years, he felt something—a faint presence almost familiar.
No, he thought, trying to calm himself. It's just your imagination. They won't find you. Not here.
But when he went inside and locked the door for the night, he did so with a little more caution than usual.
Beneath his pillow, hidden carefully, lay a small knife—the only weapon he had kept from his old life. Just in case.
Just in case.