Li Wei stirred awake before dawn, his body heavy, his thoughts heavier. For a long time, he lay still, staring up at the low wooden beams above his bed. The air was cold, damp with the breath of morning. Somewhere outside, a lone cricket still chirped, stubborn against the fading night.

  Xiao Lan’s words from the night before echoed in his ears, replaying over and over—his friend’s vow, his tears, his unyielding faith.

  ‘I had sworn to myself that I’d make you whole again… then we’d go together, just like we said we would… across the continent, to the Celestial Palace, to the immortal peaks—we’d see it all.’

  A small, sad smile tugged at Li Wei’s lips. He turned on his side, staring toward the dim outline of the small table where the fire had long gone out. The shadows in the room shifted faintly with each flicker of dawn.

  The servant quarters were quiet, as they always were before the morning bell. Rows of small rooms lined the corridor outside, each home to another forgotten soul of the sect—boys and girls who scrubbed tiles, carried tea, swept leaves. The walls were thin; the floor cold. Everything smelled faintly of soap and old incense.

  This was a place for those who dreamed of immortality… and had long since woken up.

  Li Wei sat up slowly, his blanket falling away. The air was cool against his skin. His cultivation had stabilized through the night—his breakthrough to the Fourth Stage was solid—but there was no joy in the accomplishment. Only a faint, hollow calm.

  He rubbed his hands together, staring at the faint mist that rose from his breath.

  “Why am I still doing this?” he murmured.

  The words sounded strange in the quiet.

  For a long time, he didn’t move. He simply sat there, lost in thought, as the faintest rim of dawn crept over the horizon.

  He thought back to the years after Zhao Feng crippled him.

  At first, there had been silence—inside and out. A numbness so deep it almost felt like peace. He had accepted it with a serenity that had surprised even him. The elders whispered that he was strong, that his heart was calm like still water.

  He almost believed it himself.

  But that illusion had slowly, inexorably eroded. The peace had been nothing more than the stillness of a broken instrument, quiet only because it could no longer play. Gradually, the weight of the truth struck him: He would never cultivate again. He would never become an Immortal. He would never reach the great peak of cultivation. And slowly but surely, his peace and silence turned to despair.

  He had smiled through it, of course—smiled at the pitying looks, bowed politely to elders who had forgotten his name, joked with Xiao Lan as if nothing had changed. But beneath that mask, he had drowned slowly in depression and bitterness. He had wanted to scream. To ask the heavens why they had taken everything from him. Instead, he swept floors. He lived three years that way—smiling, working, despairing inside.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  He could have left the sect after becoming crippled. He could have returned to that quiet valley where him and Xiao Lan came from, married a kind village girl, lived the gentle, unremarkable life of a mortal. He could have found peace there, tending fields and watching the mountains fade into the horizon. He could have grown old, his days marked by the changing seasons rather than the shifting of qi. But he hadn’t. He had stayed. Even after his dreams had crumbled, even after his heart had broken—he had stayed.

  Li Wei closed his eyes, a faint sigh escaping him. “Why am I chasing immortality…?”

  When he finally regained the ability to cultivate, he told himself it was because of fate, or the will of the heavens, or some divine test. But now, sitting in the faint light of dawn, he understood it was simply guided by his own persistence to not give up on cultivating.

  “But why?” he whispered again. Why was he still chasing the immortal dao? Why had he risked his life for the Heavenly Dao Lotus? For power? For revenge? For glory? He thought of the scarlet-horned wolf’s mother, the way its breath had boiled the air, the way its fangs could have torn him apart in an instant. Even core disciples would hesitate before such a beast, and yet he had stamped out his fear for the sake of regaining his cultivation.

  Why?

  The question had no answer. Only silence.

  Thp. Thp. Thp.

  His eyes snapped open. Footsteps. Several of them. They were distant at first, but quickly grew clearer, echoing through the corridor outside. Li Wei’s hearing told him there were at least four—no, five people approaching. Their steps were disciplined, heavy with authority. He frowned. “Servants don’t move like that.” The footsteps stopped, right outside his door, then came the knock—

  BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

  So loud it made the air vibrate and the wooden walls tremble Dust fell from the ceiling beams. Li Wei’s heart gave a single sharp beat. “Who…?” He rose slowly. His first thought was Elder Zhou Qianshi, the head of servants—crude, ill-tempered, fond of making examples of the lazy. He sighed quietly, brushing his robes smooth. “Already? The morning bell hasn’t even rung.”

  He went to the door and opened it, and his breath caught in his chest.

  Standing before him was no servant elder. A tall, severe figure filled the doorway, clad in gray robes embroidered with silver cloud patterns, his face carved from stone, his eyes sharp as cold steel. The faint scent of sandalwood and iron drifted from his sleeves.

  Elder Yu Jianhong, Second Head of the Disciplinary and Punishment Hall. His very presence seemed to draw the warmth from the air. Behind him stood Elder Zhou Qianshi, pale and nervous, and two disciples in dark blue robes bearing the crimson insignia of the Punishment Hall—a chained sword over a burning eye.

  Li Wei’s spine straightened instinctively. He bowed. “This servant greets Elder Yu."

  Elder Yu’s Jianhong's gaze swept over him, expression unreadable. “You are Li Wei?”

  “Yes, Elder.”

  The elder’s voice carried the weight of thunder. “Then, Li Wei—by the order of the Disciplinary and Punishment Hall, you are to be taken into custody immediately.”

  The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

  Li Wei blinked once. “...Custody?”

  Elder Yu’s tone did not change. “You are under arrest.”

  Elder Zhou shifted uneasily beside him, eyes darting to the ground.

  “Under… arrest?” Li Wei echoed dumbly. Inside, his thoughts raced. Had the sect managed to connect the masked vigilante to him?

  The two disciples stepped forward in unison. One drew a length of binding silk, an artifact woven with sealing talismans, faintly glowing in the dim light.

  Li Wei’s mind reeled, but his face remained calm. “May I ask,” he said carefully, “on what charge?”

  Elder Yu’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying him. “This morning,” he said, each word cold and measured, “Patriarch Shigo’s disciple, Guo Liang, was found dead.”

  The corridor seemed to shrink around them.

  Li Wei felt the ground tilt beneath him. His pulse surged once, then steadied.

  Elder Yu’s voice was like the toll of a bell. “You, Li Wei, are under suspicion of his murder.”