The morning sun rose sluggishly over the horizon, casting a dim, amber glow across the rugged plains of the lower world, or so it seemed to him. The air was thick with dust and the scent of damp earth, mingled with the faint aroma of wildflowers struggling to bloom in the cracked soil.
Mu Yan—the name that now belonged to him—lay beneath a twisted old pine, his limbs aching with unfamiliar pain. The coarse fabric of his worn tunic bit into his skin, and the rough brush of grass pressed against his cheek. His breath came in ragged gasps, the taste of iron lingering in his mouth from the small wounds that still throbbed faintly within.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the unfamiliar strength and raw vitality coursing through this new body. Not his own, yet undeniably alive. The strange black coin—cold and unyielding—rested in his palm, a silent talisman tethering his soul to this peculiar existence.
"Where am I?" he muttered, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar even to himself.
Rising shakily, Mu Yan took in his surroundings. This lower world was simple yet unforgiving: rolling hills, forests thick with ancient trees, and distant mountains that scraped the sky like the ribs of some colossal beast. The sky above was vast and endless, an ocean of pale blue that seemed to stretch into eternity.
He would have to seek knowledge beyond what his body knew, but that was to come later.
Mu Yan's life here had been one of humble hardship. He would hunt or forage for small animals, precious plants, or fruits on the outskirts of the sprawling forest that bordered the endless plains. Whatever he could find during the day, he would return to the nearby Village of Stonehaven to sell.
Stonehaven was a small, close-knit community of about seventy households, nestled by a winding river. Its people were simple farmers and hunters, their lives dictated by the rhythm of the seasons. At its heart stood the Ancestral Hall, a weathered wooden structure where village elders oversaw communal prayers and settled disputes, their wisdom passed down through generations. Beside it lay a modest training ground, a packed earth clearing where the village youth practiced basic martial forms with wooden staves, their movements clumsy but earnest.
Among them lived Grandma Shi, an old widow whose husband had passed many years ago. Without any children of her own, she had found a young Mu Yan crying alone in the forest one day. It was a strange sight; not a single animal or bird dared approach the weeping child. Moved by his cries and her loneliness, Grandma Shi had raised him as her own. Now, frail and decrepit, barely able to walk, she depended entirely on Mu Yan for survival. Her time, he knew, was short.