The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the winding mountain path as Li Wuchen made his way back from Clearwater Village. Head Servant Liu had sent him on an errand to purchase specific herbs that weren't available in the pavilion's gardens—a task typically reserved for the more trusted servants, but everyone else had been busy with more important duties.
Wuchen didn't mind the three-hour round trip. The journey provided a rare opportunity to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the pavilion and enjoy the natural beauty of the mountains. The path wound through dense forests of pine and bamboo, with occasional clearings that offered breathtaking views of the valley below.
As he rounded a bend in the trail, carrying a basket of carefully wrapped medicinal herbs, Wuchen spotted something unusual ahead. A figure lay motionless beside the path, partially hidden by the tall grass that grew along the roadside.
Wuchen's first instinct was caution. The martial world was dangerous, and bandits weren't uncommon in these remote mountain passes. However, as he drew closer, he realized the figure was an elderly man, clearly in distress rather than posing a threat.
The old man appeared to be in his seventies, with white hair that flowed past his shoulders and a face lined with deep wrinkles. His clothes were simple gray robes, worn and travel-stained, but there was something about his bearing—even unconscious—that suggested nobility or perhaps great learning. Most telling were his hands: pale and soft, unmarked by manual labor, yet bearing calluses in specific patterns that spoke of decades wielding weapons or practicing martial arts.
"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" Wuchen called out, setting down his basket and kneeling beside the fallen man.
The elder's breathing was shallow but steady. A thin line of dried blood traced from the corner of his mouth, and his complexion was pale with an unhealthy gray undertone. Wuchen gently checked for injuries, finding no obvious wounds but noting that the man's clothes were damp with perspiration despite the cool mountain air.
Looking around, Wuchen saw no signs of other travelers or any indication of what might have caused the man's collapse. The path stretched empty in both directions, and the only sounds were the whisper of wind through leaves and the distant call of mountain birds.
"This isn't good," Wuchen muttered to himself. The nearest town was Clearwater Village, still an hour's walk away, and the sun would set in a few hours. If the old man had suffered some kind of cultivation deviation or internal injury, leaving him here overnight could prove fatal.
Without hesitation, Wuchen made his decision. He carefully lifted the unconscious elder, surprised by how light the man felt despite his tall frame. The old man's body seemed almost weightless, as if his bones were hollow like a bird's—a characteristic Wuchen had heard attributed to high-level cultivators who had refined their physical forms.
The journey back to Clearwater Village was arduous. The old man wasn't heavy, but carrying another person for an hour along a mountain path tested Wuchen's endurance to its limits. His legs burned and his back ached, but he pressed on, driven by a simple belief that human life had value regardless of circumstances.
Several times during the journey, the elder stirred slightly, muttering incomprehensible words in what sounded like an archaic dialect. Once, his eyes fluttered open briefly, revealing depths that seemed to hold the wisdom of ages, but he quickly lapsed back into unconsciousness.
By the time Wuchen reached Dr. Chen's clinic in Clearwater Village, sweat poured down his face and his servant robes were soaked through. Dr. Chen, a kindly middle-aged man who served as the village's physician and low-level alchemist, took one look at the situation and immediately cleared his treatment table.
"What happened to him?" Dr. Chen asked as they carefully placed the elder on the table.
"I found him collapsed on the mountain path," Wuchen explained. "No signs of external injury, but he seems to have suffered some kind of internal trauma."
Dr. Chen examined the patient with practiced efficiency, checking pulse points and energy meridians that Wuchen couldn't even sense. After several minutes, the doctor's expression grew puzzled.
"This is most unusual," Dr. Chen murmured. "His meridians show signs of incredible cultivation—far beyond anything I've ever encountered—yet there's a strange disruption in his energy flow. It's as if he's deliberately suppressed his own power to dangerous levels."
"Can you help him?" Wuchen asked anxiously.
"I'll do what I can, but my skills are limited. This man needs treatment far beyond what a village doctor can provide." Dr. Chen began preparing various medicines and healing pills. "The best I can do is stabilize his condition and hope his own natural recovery ability takes over."
For the next two hours, Dr. Chen worked tirelessly while Wuchen assisted by fetching supplies and maintaining the small spiritual energy formation that powered the clinic's healing tools—one of the few tasks he could perform despite his lack of cultivation.
As the sun began to set, painting the clinic in warm orange light, the elder's breathing grew stronger and more regular. Dr. Chen wiped sweat from his brow and nodded with cautious satisfaction.
"He should survive," the doctor announced. "Though I suspect his recovery has more to do with his own incredible constitution than my humble treatments."
At that moment, the old man's eyes opened fully for the first time. They were remarkably clear and alert, showing no signs of the confusion typically associated with serious trauma. His gaze immediately found Wuchen, studying the young man with an intensity that was both disconcerting and somehow familiar.
"You," the elder said, his voice surprisingly strong despite his recent ordeal. "You're the one who carried me here."
Wuchen bowed respectfully. "Yes, sir. I found you collapsed on the mountain path and brought you to Dr. Chen for treatment."
The old man struggled to sit up, waving away Dr. Chen's concerned protests. "Why did you help me, young man? You don't know me. I could be anyone—a criminal, a demon cultivator, someone who might bring you nothing but trouble."
The question caught Wuchen off guard. "I... because you needed help, sir. A person was in danger, and I couldn't just leave you there."
"Even though helping me cost you time and effort? Even though you gained nothing from the act?" The elder's eyes seemed to pierce straight through to Wuchen's soul.
"Gaining something wasn't the point," Wuchen replied honestly. "It was simply the right thing to do."
For a long moment, the old man continued to stare at him with those penetrating eyes. Then, slowly, his stern expression softened into something that might have been approval—or perhaps amazement.
"The right thing to do," the elder repeated softly. "How long has it been since I've heard someone say those words with such conviction?" He swung his legs off the treatment table, moving with fluid grace that contradicted his apparent age and recent infirmity. "What is your name, young benefactor?"
"Li Wuchen, sir. I'm a servant at Azure Sky Pavilion."
"A servant." The old man's eyebrows rose slightly. "And yet you possess more genuine nobility than most masters I've encountered." He reached into the folds of his robe, withdrawing a object wrapped in dark cloth. "Tell me, Wuchen—do you believe in destiny?"
The question was so unexpected that Wuchen struggled to respond. "I... I'm not sure I understand, sir."
"Destiny. Fate. The idea that some meetings are arranged by the heavens themselves." The elder smiled mysteriously. "I believe this encounter was no accident, young man. And I believe you deserve a reward for your kindness—though you may find it quite different from what you expect."