Yan Sen jumped down from the tree branch, landing effortlessly beside his students. He broke into a smile and clapped his hands together.
"Both of you did very well," he said, pride clear in his voice.
Aleksander and Luda exchanged a look, their exhaustion briefly replaced by a sense of accomplishment. The praise from their master filled them with quiet pride.
Yan Sen offered a few pointers on their technique—subtle corrections, a reminder about focus—but his attention was soon drawn elsewhere. He felt an old, familiar presence approaching.
He turned to his students. "You two go on ahead. I'll catch up shortly."
Aleksander and Luda nodded, heading off toward the village through the still-shadowed woods.
Yan Sen remained, his gaze fixed on the spot where the Witch had perished. "So, you're here to collect her spirit?"
A figure emerged from the gloom—a woman radiating an aura at once serene and chilling. Death herself smiled at Yan Sen. "Yes. I sensed her time had come."
From the darkness, the witch's spectral form drifted free, her features softened in death. Death watched her with a kind of gentle sadness. "Poor girl," she murmured. "She deserved a better life."
Yan Sen nodded, silent agreement passing between them as the forest grew quiet once more.
The spectral form of the Witch hovered uncertainly, her eyes darting around in confusion. Death stepped closer, her presence comforting yet resolute, and gently explained what had happened.
As the truth settled in—the choices she had made, and the pain she had caused—the Witch's spirit wept, silent tears rolling down phantom cheeks. She trembled, overcome with regret.
Death extended a hand, her voice soft. "Now, it's your time to go to the afterlife."
The witch nodded, acceptance replacing fear. She reached for Death's hand. In a sudden flash of light, the two figures vanished, leaving the woods quiet and still.
A few moments later, Death reappeared beside Yan Sen, regarding him with a knowing smile. "You have been busy."
Yan Sen returned the faintest of smiles. "Yes, slightly."
Death's tone lightened. "You know, you should really open up more. Smile, laugh, maybe even crack a joke now and then. There's more to life than being so gloomy and serious."
Yan Sen almost chuckled. "Okay, my lady."
He had spent centuries—millennia—cultivating seclusion, his world narrowing to silent practice and discipline. But now, bit by bit, he was learning to reconnect.
"I'll see you back at the House of Mystery," Yan Sen said as he turned.
Death nodded, then faded away as silently as she'd arrived.
Yan Sen stood alone in the forest for a moment longer. Then, with a lighter step, he set off after his students.
Ivan waited at the edge of the village, his nerves taut. The air was thick with anticipation—behind him, villagers peered anxiously from doorways and windows, desperate to spot any sign of the Exorcists' return.
Faint noises echoed from the forest, and the ominous glow of black lightning still lingered in the sky. Ivan's heart pounded as the silhouettes of Yan Sen, Aleksander, and Luda emerged from the trees.
A surge of relief swept through him. With the Exorcists' safe return and the news of the Witch's defeat, joy and grief mingled throughout the village. Some villagers cried openly; others cheered, voices ringing with gratitude and disbelief. The oppressive fear that had gripped them for so long finally began to lift.
As the villagers gathered, a few approached Ivan, eager to congratulate him and claim they always believed in his plan to bring the Exorcists. Ivan, however, kept his distance. He remembered too well how many of those same people had once turned on his family—how they'd tried to sacrifice his daughter for their own safety.
Ivan stayed silent, watching the crowds celebrate. This victory was bitter and sweet, and he knew exactly who he could trust.
That evening, Ivan hosted a celebratory feast for Yan Sen, Aleksander, and Luda. The once-fearful villagers gathered together, grateful and relieved, sharing food, laughter, and stories beneath lantern-lit eaves. The Exorcists' table was the center of attention, filled with simple dishes and warm congratulations.
Later, as the village settled into exhausted sleep, Yan Sen sat alone outside, meditating under a sky now cleared of storms. The air was cool, carrying the scents of earth and smoke. A soft rustle signaled another presence.
Yan Sen opened his eyes and smiled as Death approached, her mood lighter than before.
She greeted him with a broad grin. "So, are you heading out on another mission soon?"
Yan Sen shook his head. "No missions. Not for a while, at least."
He looked thoughtful for a moment. "But I do feel it's time I took on another student."
Death nodded thoughtfully. "That's a good idea. Aleksander and Luda have learned so much from you—they're nearly strong enough to face a medium-level demon alone."
Yan Sen allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "They have done well."
Closing his eyes, he cast a silent divination, letting the unseen threads of fate guide him. When he opened them again, his gaze was clear and resolved. "My next student is in Egypt."
Death arched an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. "Egypt, hmm? That should be interesting."
Death chuckled softly, a knowing glint in her eyes. "I have to say, aside from Osiris, Isis, Anubis, and Ra, the rest aren't very welcoming."
Yan Sen nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "I'll keep that in mind."
Yan Sen had walked the span of millennia. Time—endless, grinding, merciless—had consumed his emotions until they were little more than faded echoes.
For mortals, strength was born in passion: rage, love, ambition, fear. But for one who pursued the endless climb of cultivation, those things were obstacles. Advancement to the higher realms demanded silence, seclusion, and unyielding focus. Each breakthrough was not a gift, but the result of centuries spent in stillness, unraveling truths that decayed the bonds of ordinary life.
Ordinary people imagined great masters ascending in bursts of glory. The truth was far colder—cultivators like Yan Sen traded century after century in solitude, advancing an inch at a time. Bonds grew thin. Friendships evaporated. Love became a memory, distant and irrelevant.
Even though he bore the template of Yogiri Takatou, Yan Sen's own path to the Creation God realm was a brutal, patient odyssey across thousands of years. By the time he achieved it, most of what was human in him had hollowed away.
Yet now—against the weight of eternity—there was a faint shift.
With his students, there was something different. Small cracks forming in the armor of endless detachment. And with Death itself—personified around him like a companion—he began, slowly, to stir emotions he thought he had buried forever.
A flicker of patience beyond cold efficiency. A faint protectiveness. A shadow of what mortals might call warmth.
For a man who had outlived empires, this was not weakness.
It was the first fragile step back toward being human.