Shen Ziyan remained crouched behind the boulder long after the cultivators had vanished into the stormy night. His breath was slow and shallow, his fingers gripping the damp earth beneath him.
His mind replayed the scene over and over.
Those men had come seeking the Hand. He had no doubt about it. Their robes, their aura, their presence—none of them belonged to the world of ordinary mortals. They were hunters, not of beasts, but of power.
And if they had sensed something from the Hand, if they had even the slightest suspicion that someone else had been here, they would return.
He couldn't stay.
The thought sent a chill down his spine. Yunhe Village was all he had ever known. The quiet life of chopping wood, of mending roofs, of listening to the old storytellers by the fire—that world felt impossibly distant now.
He looked down at his palm.
The golden mark still pulsed faintly, as if it had become part of him. Perhaps it had. He had no idea what it was, only that it had saved him. But power never came without cost.
And he had no idea what that cost would be.
Fate's Push
The storm had begun to subside, though the winds still howled through the peaks. Ziyan forced himself to stand, his muscles aching with exhaustion. He needed to leave before more cultivators came.
He turned to take one last look at the severed Hand, still embedded in the ruined earth. Despite its stillness, it radiated something profound—something beyond time itself.
It had changed him.
But even more than that… he felt as though it were watching him.
He shivered and turned away.
There was only one path forward now.
He had to leave the village.
The Burden of Goodbye
Yunhe Village was nestled in the valley below, surrounded by mist-covered hills and ancient pines. It was a place where time moved slowly, where the concerns of emperors and cultivators rarely reached.
Ziyan had grown up here. He had carried firewood through its muddy streets, had helped mend broken roofs in the summer storms. The people here knew him as the son of the woodcutter, an ordinary boy with an ordinary life.
Now, he was anything but ordinary.
As he stepped back into the village under the cloak of night, he felt the weight of an unspoken farewell pressing on his chest. He did not know if he would ever see this place again.
He made his way through the winding paths, his heart heavy. He could not leave without seeing his mother one last time.
The small cottage he called home sat near the river, its thatched roof barely holding against the elements. Light flickered from inside—a single candle, struggling against the night.
Ziyan hesitated at the door.
Then he stepped inside.
A Mother's Love
His mother sat near the hearth, her frail body wrapped in a patchwork shawl. Even in the dim light, he could see the lines of exhaustion on her face. She had been sick for years, her strength waning with each passing season.
"Ziyan?" Her voice was soft, laced with surprise. "You're back so late."
He swallowed, forcing a smile. "I… I was caught in the storm."
She sighed, motioning for him to sit beside her. "You'll catch a fever, running around in this weather."
Ziyan sat, the warmth of the fire barely reaching the cold that had settled inside him. He wanted to tell her everything—that the life he had known was over, that fate had thrust him onto a path he did not understand.
But he couldn't.
She was already so frail.
Instead, he reached out, taking her hand in his. "Mother…" He hesitated, his throat tightening. "If something were to happen… would you be alright?"
She gave him a tired smile. "You are my son, Ziyan. No matter what happens, you are a part of me. That will never change."
The words struck deeper than she could have known.
Ziyan gritted his teeth, fighting back the storm of emotions inside him. He could not stay, not now. Not when he had no idea what was happening to him. But he would return. He had to.
For her.
He stood, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. "I need to go somewhere, Mother. I don't know when I'll be back, but I promise I will."
She looked at him for a long moment, as if seeing something she had never seen before. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Then go, my son."
The lump in his throat made it hard to breathe. He turned away before she could see the pain in his eyes.
And with that, he left his home behind.
The Road Ahead
The road leading out of Yunhe Village was little more than a dirt path, winding through dense forests and rocky hills. Ziyan walked with quiet determination, his heart heavy yet resolute.
His first destination was clear—Qinglong City, the nearest major settlement. If anyone could help him understand what had happened to him, it would be found there.
But the world outside the village was not kind to ordinary people.
And though he did not yet know it, he was no longer ordinary.
As he passed the last marker of the village's borders, the golden mark on his palm pulsed once.
The journey had begun.
And nothing would ever be the same again.