"What the hell is an 'Eat-A-Date Pill'? And who even has a panacea for all poisons? This guy's clearly a scammer."
Aria Northcrest's voice was sharp, suspicious. Her eyes narrowed in defiance, lips pressed tight. She was about to speak again when her older brother, Prince Adrian, raised a hand to silence her.
"We don't have time to waste bickering, Aria," he said calmly, handing over a silver coin. "We're here to seek immortals, not argue. You've lived here a while, haven't you? You seem familiar with the area. Would you be willing to guide us up the mountain? There's more reward where that came from."
Caelan Thorne rose slowly and stretched, his demeanor lazy and dismissive. "Guide you? No thanks. What's the point of seeking immortals when eating well, sleeping long, and living without a care is already close enough to divinity?"
Aria flushed with anger. "Hey! What kind of attitude is that?"
But Caelan had already disappeared into his little house.
She jumped off her horse in frustration, only for Adrian to grab her arm.
"Don't," he said firmly.
"Why are you being so polite to a fraud? There's no such thing as a universal antidote!"
Adrian rode off at a leisurely pace. "Li Liu's reports mention several poisoned travelers recently healed by a local boy named Caelan. It's likely he knows how to counter the toxic mists here. His medicine might be more effective than anything we brought. And tell me—didn't you feel there was something... different about him?"
"More like he's putting on a show with the villagers helping to sell the con."
Adrian chuckled.
Aria spurred her horse to catch up. "If you really think he's useful, why didn't you push harder to recruit him?"
He smiled slightly. "A guide shows you the way. But can he lead us to immortals?"
Aria blinked. Obviously not.
They weren't here to watch the sunrise. They were here to chase legend. The mountain wasn't large, and the stories of immortals had circulated for generations—every inch had been combed over. There was no destination, no right path. All they could do was try their luck.
Aria's posture sagged slightly. "So even you... you don't really believe in this quest either."
Adrian turned back to glance toward Caelan's cabin. "That last thing he said... it was oddly profound."
"Please. Just a smug country bumpkin playing wise. I ought to jab a hole in him with my spear and see how carefree he really is."
"Ha."
Their laughter faded into the distance. Inside his small home, Caelan lay on his back, arms folded behind his head. His iron mace leaned against the wall beside him. He could still make out the faint bickering between the royal siblings. At Aria's last line, he chuckled softly.
Then, a voice echoed directly inside his mind.
"What are you laughing at? Those two have strong martial cultivation. They really might put a hole in you."
The voice wasn't male or female, didn't come from outside or inside. It simply was. A direct line to his soul.
Caelan didn't flinch. He was used to it. "I'm laughing because I've seen plenty of girls pretending to be boys. Not sure why they think no one can tell."
"And how exactly do you know she's a girl? Adam's apples aren't always obvious in youths. High-pitched voices are common."
"Because you don't have a nose. You can't smell her scent."
"..."
"Also, what teenage boy looks that pretty? Those soft cheeks, painted eyes, cherry-red lips—she's practically glowing with collagen. She's got this ethereal beauty that even your average face filter couldn't match."
"What's collagen? And what the hell is a face filter?"
"Forget it."
The voice sighed. "Boy or girl, does it matter? Didn't you see how devout they are? So many people yearn for the path of cultivation. Give them a whiff of immortality, and they'd kneel for three days straight in gratitude. And here you are—why won't you cultivate?"
"I am cultivating. I was up all night working again, wasn't I?"
"That's not cultivation. Don't try to con me with the same crap you use on them."
Caelan's tone cooled. "Then don't try to scam me either."
He kicked his iron mace straight into the washbasin.
The voice grew shrill. "I didn't complain when you used me as a pestle or a hammer—but a foot bath? This is blasphemy!"
With a splash, the mace launched itself out of the basin and smacked into the wall, bouncing off with a dull thud before settling on the floor.
A thick aura of resentment practically radiated off it.
"Hey, Macey—"
"For the last time, my name is Lumière."
"You're a sentient mace. What kind of name is Lumière? Were you owned by a teenage girl with a flair for drama?"
Lumière refused to answer.
Caelan tilted his head. "So, what do you think? Can those two handle the problems on the mountain?"
Things had gotten strange since Caelan's arrival in this world. First came the mists that made people sick, then that freakish tiger with wings. The mists weren't poison per se—just the residual negative energy Lumière had dragged with him. But the tiger? That was a byproduct of a lingering 'demonification miasma' someone else had left behind.
Both issues were, unfortunately, Caelan-adjacent.
Lumière muttered, "If you'd just train with me, you could take care of that half-formed demon beast in your sleep."
"It's not trying to kill me. You might."
Caelan had long since pieced things together. When he arrived in this world, Lumière had tried to possess his soul—only to get overwhelmed by his bizarre, foreign thoughts. The soul clash had backfired spectacularly. Lumière got wrecked, Caelan took control, and now the so-called ancient artifact was stuck in his mace form, weak as a kitten.
Now Lumière was begging to teach him cultivation in exchange for one day rebuilding his body.
Caelan didn't buy it.
If Lumière could eat one soul, it could eat another. What if the 'training' was just a backdoor for future possession? Better to stay cautious than become a cautionary tale.
Still, the world was fascinating. He'd almost thrown the mace away—but curiosity kept him from parting with it. Besides, Lumière was kinda helpless now.
Total paper tiger.
Lumière sniffed. "For what it's worth, the mist will dissipate soon. But that tiger's a real threat. Your little demon-trapping formation can only hold it for so long. And you, my dear boy, haven't cultivated a d*mn thing. Eventually, it will get out. People will die. You must train."
Caelan was quiet for a moment, then said, "I'll figure something out."
Lumière scoffed. "By what, luring more 'immortal-seekers' up the mountain and hoping they do the dirty work?"
"Better than leaving the villagers to deal with it. Those Northcrests seem capable."
Lumière's tone turned sly. "If you really wanted to play that game, I've got a better plan. Foolproof."
"Oh?"
"Let the tiger kill them. They're rich. Important. Someone will come to avenge them. That beast would be skinned alive within days. But no—you had to warn them, make sure they wouldn't die."
"Pfft."
Caelan got up and dunked the mace back in the water.
Lumière shrieked. "Sentimental moron! If they survive and get hurt, they'll blame you!"
Caelan ignored him. In the corner, a small furnace kept a gentle flame beneath a ceramic pot, the scent of herbs curling lazily through the air.
Alchemy and formation crafting—these were Caelan's compromises. A way to scratch his curiosity about magic without giving Lumière too much control. The two of them had a tacit agreement: he studied, Lumière taught—no strings, no cultivation.
He stared into the fire, thoughtful. Then, on impulse, grabbed a jug of wine and sipped it slowly at the window.
Night had fully settled. Stars blanketed the sky. The wind carried soft chirps and hums, a gentle pulse of life.
For Caelan, this was enough. No politics. No war. Just silence, peace, and moonlight. That was divinity.
In his last life, he'd died from a fall. This world was a second chance. And maybe—just maybe—he didn't need more than that.
He recited his odd, satirical 'Immortal's Song' not to mock but to remind himself what truly mattered.
"Beautiful night..." he murmured, almost dreaming.
Lumière scoffed from the basin.
But deep down, this was why Lumière still believed in him. That quiet detachment, the way Caelan found serenity in simplicity—it was the mark of a true cultivator. Not ambition. Not desperation. But a quiet soul.
Too bad he refused the path.
In another world, they called that trait something else entirely: being a hermit-level homebody.