The wind tasted different this morning.
Chen Yun stood at the cliff's edge, boots pressing against time-worn stone, his cloak frayed like old banners after battle. The air was thin up here — untouched by war, noise, or ambition.
Below, the forest moved with memory.
He had touched the name carved into the stone.
Luo Yao.
A name from long ago. A girl once bold enough to stand beside him when the rain had washed everything else away.
He didn't know if it was truly her, or simply the world playing a trick — as it so often did with those who outlived their purpose.
But he did not linger.
The mountain had been his prison, his teacher, his tomb.
And now it was behind him.
He inhaled once, deeply.
Qi flowed through his meridians like quiet thunder — fragmented, scarred, but obedient. It no longer surged wild and erratic; it moved with purpose, channeled through discipline, not ease. The damage was still there, etched deep like cracks in jade, but he had learned to guide the flow around them. The Void stirred like a cloak of cold mist — no longer a storm that sought to consume him, but a blade sheathed at his command.
He stepped forward.
Then again.
And then he descended the mountain.
Not as a ghost.
Not as the Heavenly Demon.
But as a man of the murim — reborn in silence, walking back into a world that had long forgotten him.
The cart was rickety, the road uneven.
An old ox pulled it, tail swatting flies like a monk brushing away sin. The driver was older still — long white beard, wide straw hat, bones creaking louder than the wheels. Beside him, a boy not yet ten, clutching a cloth bundle, eyes darting like a sparrow's.
Chen Yun sat quietly in the back, hood low, presence light as smoke. His blade was wrapped, leaning beside him — its silence more unsettling than its steel.
The old man glanced back. "You carry yourself like someone who's walked more than just roads, traveler."
Chen Yun didn't reply.
The boy leaned forward, eyes bright. "Grandpa, is he a murim master?"
The old man chuckled, voice dry as twigs. "Could be. These days, even debt collectors wear swords."
"But real cultivators can slice boulders and leap rooftops, right?"
"Ahhh, you want the rankings again, do you?" the old man sighed with a half-smile.
He looked back once more at Chen Yun. "Mind if I teach my grandson a bit, honored traveler?"
Chen Yun said nothing.
But he gave a small nod.
The cart creaked on.
The old man held up a crooked finger.
"In the murim, strength is everything. But strength has steps. You don't run on rooftops before you crawl through mud."
He tapped his cane.
"Third-Rate Martial Artists — they're the bottom of the ladder. No real control over qi. Just fists, swords, and stubbornness. Street fighters, low-tier sect disciples, mountain bandits."
The boy frowned. "Bandits?"
"Those five you saw hanging at the village gate yesterday? All third-rate."
Chen Yun's eyes remained closed.
The old man continued.
"Then come the Second-Rate. They've trained their breath, shaped their qi into basic form. They can move fast, strike with qi-enhanced blows, dodge arrows if they're lucky. Think outer court disciples, small-town protectors."
"Like Uncle Bao?"
"Aye. Though he's at the bottom of it."
Two fingers rose.
"First-Rate Martial Artists stand above the common rabble. Their qi flows well, their techniques polished. They can kill a man with a palm strike, leap over walls, walk on narrow branches. City guards fear them. Lesser sect elders lead them."
The old man's tone dipped, reverent.
"Then you have the Peak Martial Artists. The edge of human potential. A single man like that can hold a bridge, fight off a dozen. Qi wrapped around flesh like armor, strength that can split trees or crush stone."
The boy gasped. "And above that?"
The old man's face turned distant, voice lower.
"Then comes the Transcendent Realm — when a martial artist ceases to be merely human. They don't just use qi; they command it. They alter their surroundings, tilt fights with intent alone. Even spirit beasts hesitate before them."
The air seemed to still for a breath.
Chen Yun opened one eye.
The cart rolled on.
The boy whispered, "And then…?"
The old man smiled faintly.
"Ethereal Flame Realm. The stories say they burn from within — their qi no longer flows, it radiates. They can conjure heat from the air, bend steel with their presence, silence entire battlefields with a gaze."
"And then?" the boy asked again, softer now.
The old man didn't answer at first.
Then he turned, ever so slightly, toward Chen Yun.
"Some say… there is one final step."
He looked up at the sky, eyes half-lidded.
"The Supreme Peak. A realm where form, will, and spirit become one. Where one's presence alone shifts fate. They say swords refuse to dull in their hands. That even death hesitates."
The boy's mouth hung open.
"And you?" he asked, wide-eyed. "Have you ever met someone like that, Grandpa?"
The old man chuckled.
"If I had, would I still be alive to tell you?"
Chen Yun looked away from the road.
Out toward the horizon.
Where the first shapes of a walled city began to rise behind morning fog.
His fingers rested on the hilt beside him.
And though his face showed nothing…
For the first time in years—
The road ahead didn't feel heavy.
It felt like a beginning.