The world turned golden as Little Water stepped through the swirling light of the teleportation portal. He stumbled slightly, steadying himself on a patch of earth soft with growth. A warm breeze brushed against his face, scented with ripening grain and the aroma of distant forests. As his eyes adjusted, he realized he had arrived in the middle of a vast field of crops—rows upon rows of golden wheat dancing under the breath of the dying day. The horizon was a canvas of warm oranges, deep reds, and faint violet streaks as the sun prepared to vanish behind the distant hills.
His disguise still held firm—a simple-looking man in his early twenties with weathered skin and plain brown eyes. Yet beneath the illusion lay his true self—an existence too beautiful to walk unnoticed in the mortal world. He could rival higher-realm beauties, even with no ornamentation, yet now he wore dust-covered robes, and his hair was bound loosely like a common traveler.
He adjusted the book strapped to his side, the worn leather-bound tome titled "Mortal Path: A Journey Through Simplicity"—the treasure he'd taken from that cursed shop back in the White Market. Each step forward now carried no spiritual power, no resistance-breaking force. He was truly mortal.
The city he spotted from the portal's information scroll was too far for his weakened form to reach by nightfall. But he walked anyway. His body was fragile, his legs heavy, yet his heart pulsed with an unfamiliar serenity. He took his time through the fields, stepping carefully between stalks of wheat as fireflies began to blink into existence around him.
He raised his eyes to the glowing sky.
"What is life... now that I am not a cultivator?"
He whispered the question as though speaking to the wind. Without spiritual energy, divine arts, or an indestructible physique, he felt truly vulnerable. He could die from a single knife wound. Yet, in this fragile state, the world also felt more real.
He reached down, picked up a handful of dirt, and let it fall slowly.
"What is consciousness, if not the awareness of suffering and peace intertwined? Without power... am I more awake, or more lost?"
The sunset deepened, casting long shadows across the field. It was beautiful, but also melancholic. A different kind of loneliness soaked the horizon. Here, mortals plowed their land, wept their sorrows, loved in silence, and died without shaking the heavens.
His thoughts were interrupted by shouting.
Just beyond a gentle rise, where the field opened into a dirt road, Little Water saw flickers of movement. Curiosity pulled him forward until the voices grew clearer—angry, cruel, and impatient.
A group of bandits—five in total—surrounded a broken carriage. Three corpses lay near it, their armor stained red and their weapons shattered. The attackers wore mismatched armor and tattered scarves over their mouths. They were laughing, digging through the broken crates, kicking furniture, and dragging one frightened figure from the wreckage: a young girl with torn sleeves and fear in her wide eyes.
Little Water's footsteps slowed.
He looked at the scene for a few moments longer and then… turned to walk away. He was mortal now. He couldn't save others. He could barely save himself.
But fate is rarely so easily ignored.
"Oi! You there!" one of the bandits shouted, stepping toward him with a sneer. "Didn't your mother teach you not to stare? Hand over your money if you want to keep breathing."
Little Water halted, sighing quietly.
"I'm just a traveler," he said calmly. "I have nothing on me."
The bandit didn't believe him. Another joined in, chuckling.
"Search him. Anyone wandering here must have something."
Before he could object, rough hands shoved him to the ground. His back hit the dirt hard. Dust filled his mouth. One of the bandits roughly searched him and pulled out the worn book.
"Hah! A book? What kind of poor beggar are you?"
He received a punch to the gut that knocked the air out of him.
"Get lost, worm."
They laughed and turned back to their robbery. But just then—a voice rang out.
"Please! Traveler! Help me !"
It was the younger girl. She had tears in her eyes, but her voice rang clear.
"I'll pay you! Gold! Anything! Please!"
Little Water wiped the dust from his face.
He looked back at the carriage, then at the corpses. He stood slowly and said:
"Who is She? Why are you chasing her?"
The bandit scoffed. "None of your business. You think you can play hero? Get lost before we gut you."
Something stirred inside Little Water. He stepped forward and knelt beside one of the guards. His trembling hand reached out and picked up the fallen sword—still warm with blood.
He held it awkwardly.
"This is… my first time holding a sword," he whispered.
Then, with surprising fluidity, he rose—and in a single motion, slashed the nearest bandit across the chest. Blood sprayed. The man gurgled and collapsed.
The other four shouted in disbelief. "Kill him!"
And so it began.
The fight carried on as the sun fell beyond the horizon. The moon rose—pale and silent—as steel clashed with rusted blades. Little Water's movements were awkward but guided by instinct. His mortal body ached with every swing, but he didn't stop. He dodged, ducked, and rolled, fighting with pure desperation.
By the time the last bandit fell, Little Water was soaked in blood—not all of it his. His arms trembled. His breath came in short gasps. He dropped the sword and sat heavily on one of the dead bodies, chest heaving.
He was so tired. The moonlight blurred around him. His muscles screamed.
Then he fell asleep.
—
A pair of cautious eyes peeked out from the broken carriage.
The girl, no older than eighteen, stared at the scene. Her face turned pale. She gagged. Her legs gave out, and she vomited onto the grass.
Minutes passed.
Finally, she crawled out from the carriage, holding a robe, a pouch, and a single gold ingot.
She kept her distance, staring at the blood-drenched man sleeping on a corpse. Her voice shook.
"I… I put one gold ingot here. Your payment... for saving me. Here's a robe too. To change."
She placed them carefully near him and turned to leave.
But paused.
She looked back at him once more.
"You… don't look like someone from here," she whispered to herself. "But thank you, strange traveler."
And then she disappeared into the shadows, heading toward the distant city.
—
Dawn broke.
Little Water stirred. His muscles ached. He opened his eyes to see the blood-stained sword beside him, and the small pile near his side—a robe, a pouch, and a neatly placed gold ingot.
He blinked.
"She didn't go back on her word," he murmured.
He picked up the robe and slowly changed out of the torn, bloodied outfit. The new one was made of thick linen, dyed a muted blue. Nothing fancy, but better than blood-soaked rags.
He checked the pouch: dried fruits, water, and a few copper coins.
"Kind, even in fear."
He wrapped the sword in cloth, tied it to his back, and took a deep breath. The road ahead wasn't short.
But the city gates waited.
And so, with nothing but a sword, a book, and a gold ingot, Little Water continued his walk—toward a new life in a world that neither knew him nor cared.
Yet somehow, that felt like freedom.
----To be Continued---