Age 20 — After Elder Wu
The grass whispered beneath his feet.
Gu Chen walked. That was all he could do. The encounter with Elder Wu had drained something from him—not power, but certainty. The core had saved him, yes. But it had also revealed itself. Glowed. Announced itself to the world.
He'll be back, the Soldier said.
I know.
Next time, he'll bring friends.
Gu Chen kept walking.
Three days later
A village appeared.
Small. Ordinary. The kind of place that existed because people needed to exist somewhere. Gu Chen walked through it without stopping, but his eyes caught details. A blacksmith. A food stall. A temple at the far end, old and weathered.
The temple drew him.
Not consciously. He simply found himself standing before it, staring at its wooden doors, wondering why he'd come.
The Monk's voice was faint. Go inside.
Why?
Because you're lost. And temples are where the lost go.
Gu Chen pushed open the door.
Inside, it was dark.
Incense smoke curled toward a ceiling lost in shadow. A single figure knelt before an altar—old, robed, motionless. A monk.
He didn't turn.
"You're young to carry so much death."
Gu Chen stopped.
"I can feel it, you know. The lives you're carrying. They weigh on you like stones." The monk's voice was quiet, gentle. "Sit, if you want. Or leave, if you want. I don't mind either way."
Gu Chen sat.
Hours passed
They didn't speak.
The monk knelt. Gu Chen sat. The incense burned down to nothing. Shadows shifted across the walls.
Finally, the monk rose and turned.
He was old. Ancient. But his eyes were clear—not hungry like Old Mu, not calculating like Elder Wu. Just... present.
"You're still here," the monk observed.
"I don't know where else to go."
The monk smiled. It was a sad smile. "That's the first honest thing you've said."
He walked to a small table, poured two cups of tea, and gestured for Gu Chen to join him.
"Tell me your story. Or don't. I'm not here to judge."
Gu Chen looked at the tea. Then at the monk.
Don't trust him, the Beggar warned.
He's different, the Orphan whispered.
Everyone is different until they're not.
Gu Chen took the tea.
The story came out slowly.
Not all of it. Not the voices, not the core, not the abandonments. But fragments. The orphanage. The Wangs. Lin Yue. Old Mu. The sect.
The monk listened without interrupting.
When Gu Chen finished, the old man was silent for a long moment.
"You've been running your whole life," he said finally.
"Yes."
"Running from what?"
Gu Chen opened his mouth to answer—and stopped.
From what?
The Orphan: From being left.
The Beggar: From hoping.
The Soldier: From weakness.
The King: From those who would rule you.
The Monk: From yourself.
"I don't know," Gu Chen admitted.
The monk nodded. "Good. That's the first step."
That night, Gu Chen stayed.
The temple had a small room for travelers. A mat on the floor. A thin blanket. It was more than he'd had in weeks.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The Monk's voice spoke. Not the voice in his head—the real monk, somewhere in the temple. No. Wait. Both.
The voice in his head said: He's like me.
The real question: Which monk?
Gu Chen closed his eyes.
Dawn
The monk was kneeling in the same position when Gu Chen woke.
"You're still here," the old man said without turning.
"Yes."
"Good. There's work to do. Rice to harvest. Walls to mend. An old man who needs help standing up in the morning." He glanced back, eyes crinkling. "You can stay as long as you need. In exchange for work."
Gu Chen looked at him.
"Why?"
The monk considered the question. "Because everyone deserves a place to rest. Even the ones who don't believe it."
One week
Gu Chen worked.
Simple tasks. Physical labor. Things that required no thought, no cultivation, no power. His hands blistered. His muscles ached. His core pulsed quietly, waiting.
The monk asked nothing. Expected nothing.
At night, they sat in silence.
Sometimes the monk spoke—small things, observations about the weather, the village, the way the light fell across the mountains. Never questions. Never demands.
This is strange, the Beggar said.
This is peace, the Monk countered.
There's no such thing.
But Gu Chen wasn't sure anymore.
Two weeks
He dreamed of the monk.
Not the real monk—the one in his head. The one from the past life.
A temple, high in mountains. A young disciple kneeling.
"Master, I don't understand."
"You will."
"When?"
"When you stop trying to understand and start trying to be."
The dream shifted.
The same disciple, older now, standing over the master's body.
"Why?"
No answer. The master's eyes were closed. Peaceful.
"Why did you let them kill you?"
The master's lips moved. One word: "Choice."
Gu Chen woke gasping.
The Monk's voice in his head was clearer than ever.
He chose to die. So you could live.
Who?
Me. I chose. So you could choose.
The next morning
Gu Chen found the real monk in the garden, pulling weeds.
"Can I ask you something?"
The old man looked up, surprised. In two weeks, Gu Chen had never started a conversation.
"Of course."
"What does it mean... to choose?"
The monk sat back on his heels. Considered the question.
"It means accepting that some paths close when you walk others. It means knowing you'll never know if the other path was better." He smiled. "It means being okay with that."
Gu Chen was silent.
"Why do you ask?"
"No reason."
The monk studied him. Then nodded and went back to weeding.
That night
Gu Chen sat alone in his room.
The voices were quiet. Even the Beggar. Even the Soldier. Even the King.
Only the Monk remained.
You're close to something, the voice said.
What?
Understanding. Not the kind that comes from answers. The kind that comes from questions.
Gu Chen stared at the wall.
The Fifth Abandonment is coming, the Monk continued. The sect. But it's not the sect that matters. It's what you learn from it.
What will I learn?
That worth isn't given. It's taken. Or made. Or refused.
The voice faded.
Gu Chen lay back and stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere, in the darkness, a woman in white stood beneath a dying tree.
She looked toward the horizon—toward a temple she could not enter, a peace she could not share.
"Five down," Su Wan whispered.
"Four to go."
Her hand pressed against the bark. It cracked.
She did not move for a long time.