Night had nearly passed when Zhu Long was finally forced to stop, not by enemies or fear, but by his own body. He hadn't eaten since breakfast earlier that day, he realized with a grimace. Tilting his head back, he caught sight of the moon. Yesterday morning, he corrected himself.
His stomach gnawed at his spine, a hollow pain that refused to be ignored. His throat and lips were cracked and dry, rough as old bark. Slipping off the main mountain path, he found a hidden hollow behind a great maple tree and sank down to rest. Sweat clung to his robes, soaking them through, and his body trembled with overuse. His hands, crusted with dried blood, ached with every movement, making even the simple task of rummaging through his satchel a trial.
He didn't bother to clean his hands before handling the precious scrolls gifted by Martial Uncle Lian. Instead, he pulled free a strip of jerky, a hunk of bread, and the single small canteen of water he carried. It wasn't much, but with strict rationing it could last a week. His hands trembled as he unwrapped the food, whether from exhaustion or emotion, he couldn't tell. Settling deeper into the shadows of the maple, he began to eat. Slowly, carefully at first. His lips cracked and bled when he bit down, but he ignored the sting. After the first few mouthfuls, hunger overwhelmed caution; soon the bread and jerky were gone, washed down with the last sip of water.
He knew he should return to the road, keep moving, and find help. If he had even a thread of qi, he would already be at the mountain's base, or climbing another peak to summon aid. But he didn't. He was just a mortal boy, stranded halfway down a mountain.
Zhu drew his knees to his chest, arms wrapped tight as though holding himself together. His breath came shallow, ragged, every inhale catching in his throat. He told himself to stay calm, to endure, to act like the disciples he'd spent years watching from the shadows, but his body betrayed him. The ache in his stomach, the raw fire in his throat, the sting of torn hands. Each reminder of weakness pried open something deeper.
Hot tears welled and broke free, cutting paths through the grime on his cheeks. At first, they slid down in silence. Then came the trembling, the shallow gasps, and before he realized it he was sobbing, loud, ugly sobs that tore out of his chest. He hated the sound, hated that he couldn't stop, but the more he tried to smother it, the harder it came.
Memories flickered with each shudder: Jien's grin in the kitchens, the head cook berating them for fightign with the vegetables, Martial Uncle Lian's quiet patience, the scrolls glowing in the candlelight of the library, the warm baths he used to scrub clean, his small bed next to the library. All gone in fire and blood. The sect, the only home he'd ever known, swallowed by demonic qi. Everyone dead.
Zhu stirred as early dawn wrapped itself around the trees. Mist hung low in the air like a blanket, not yet fallen into dew. Birds called from the branches, insects buzzed in the grass, and their voices pulled him back to waking. His body ached in every joint, and his thoughts were no lighter than the night before. He forced down a few bites of salted meat, washed them with a sip of water, and stepped back onto the path.
He did not run at first, nor did he meander. His pace was brisk, more a determined march than a wander. For the first hour he used the walk to stretch his stiff muscles, just as he had every morning in the sect. When his body loosened, he leaned forward into a run, his feet kicking up soil as he descended the mountain trail.
As he ran, Zhu thought about the journey ahead. Ten thousand steps still lay between him and the valley below, each one bringing him closer to the mortal world. What waited for him at the bottom he did not know. Perhaps a village where he could ask for directions, or if luck favored him, a road leading to another sect.
From his studies he remembered two nearby: the Sleeping Lily Sect and the White Lotus Sect, both counted as siblings of the Boundless Dao. But "nearby" meant something very different to cultivators than it did to mortals. For them, a hundred miles was little more than an afternoon's travel. For him, even a few miles would be punishing. All he could hope for was a village, a signpost, or some passing traveler. Anything more, like stumbling onto a natural treasure, was nothing more than a dream.
He stayed on the path, keeping a steady pace. Fear still lingered, but it was tempered by a fierce resolve. He would find help—and, if he could, natural treasures along the way. A thousand-year lotus or a yin blood orange would suffice, he hoped. He wasn't entirely sure what they meant when they said he was "empty", that no meridians, no dantian, no natal qi had ever graced his body. He was mortal through and through. They had claimed that even a natural treasure would have to be extraordinarily potent to affect him.
He pressed on until the sun had climbed over the tree line, nearing its zenith. His legs wobbled like jelly, his lungs stinging as if pierced by countless needles. It was time for a breather. The mountain had softened, the jagged rocks giving way to rich soil, towering trees with deep roots, and the earthy scent of vegetation. Birds and insects filled the air, a stark contrast to the lingering memory of smoke and death that now felt far behind him.
After a quick stop for jerky and bread, he sipped water, trying to peer over the mountain. The thick vegetation blocked any meaningful view, and he sighed at the futility. He considered opening the scrolls he had been given. Reaching into his satchel, he saw them, gifts, the first and last he would ever receive from his martial uncle. Another thought struck him: he hadn't seen or heard his uncle during the flight from the sect. Had he left before the attack? That would explain why the sect was so vulnerable. Or… had he been the first to fall?
He shook his head, forcing the thought away. There was no point dwelling on it when his own survival was still uncertain. A few minutes of rest had been enough. Closing his satchel, he began moving through the trees again—and then he felt it.
A prickling sensation crawled across his skin. Qi energy. He knew the feeling, he had sensed it countless times on the martialing yards. But this was different. It wasn't the refined pulse of a cultivator's qi, nor the foul, twisting energy of demonic cultivators. This felt natural, steady, like a warm stream flowing beneath his skin, gentle yet insistent. His eyes widened in awe. He had read about this sensation almost every day but never truly experienced it.
"A natural treasure," he whispered, his voice raspy from disuse. But the emotion behind it, awed hope mingled with indecision, was unmistakable. Ecstasy and hesitation warred within him. This could be his one chance at a treasure, and yet any delay could cost lives. He paused only a moment before deciding to follow the qi deeper, off the trail and into the wilderness. His reasoning was simple: ten years old and strong for his age, but fragile compared to cultivators. At some point on this journey, his body would falter before his resolve did. It wasn't strong enough to maintain this relentless pace. Unless he received outside help, or somehow enhanced his body toward an Earthly-realm form.
For the first time in his life, Zhu Long left the beaten path, both literally and figuratively. As he pressed deeper into the steep mountainside forest, the qi grew denser, thickening the air around him. It was like walking through morning fog clinging to the peaks, chilling and alive, raising the hairs on his arms.
After a few more minutes of walking, Zhu Long ran into a problem. No matter whether he veered left or right from his starting point, the energy weakened. That was troubling, if the treasure wasn't visible, he might miss it entirely. His ability to sense qi was crude at best. so he walked three hundred steps to the left; the flow diminished slightly. Returning to his original position, he walked four hundred steps to the right, and it weakened there as well. This gave him at least a rough estimate of the "center," and he adjusted his path toward it.
After a few more minutes moving toward the dense qi, Zhu Long knew he had reached the right area. The air pressed against his lungs, heavy and suffocating, as if something were sitting on his chest. It stung his eyes while he scanned the surroundings for anything resembling a natural treasure. And then, he saw it.
It lay just to the right of his path, and he knew instantly that this was what he had been looking for. The air smelled rich and earthy, and the space around the massive flower shimmered, warped, as if viewed through a wavering heat haze.
The flower was enormous, nearly the size of his head. Deep crimson petals radiated outward in layered whorls, forming a cup-like bloom at its center. Many petals flared gracefully before drooping toward the ground, curling slightly at the edges like delicate ribbons caught in a gentle breeze during the summer festival. Its vibrant color seemed to hum with vitality, impossible to ignore.
He stared at the bloom for several long moments, then realized no guardian tended it at this moment. Alarm bells rang in his mind. Not wasting another second, he dropped low behind a nearby fern, the smallness of his body finally an advantage rather than a hindrance. He waited, heart thundering like a gong in his chest. He was so close. Scanning the area and finding nothing unusual, he nodded to himself. Without further hesitation, Zhu rose, approached the flower, and tore it from its stem.
He half-expected some animal from the woods to attack him, but nothing ever came. For several tense moments, he stood there, breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through his veins. When no threat appeared, he forced his heartbeat to slow and examined his prize. It carried a surprising weight for a flower, like holding half a bucket of water from the bottom. He strained to lift it to eye level. In the light it shimmered, its petals and tendrils twisting and flowing like liquid fire as he slowly and with great effort, turned it in his hands.
Zhu searched his memory for the proper way to use a natural treasure. He had never encountered this flower in any scrolls he had studied over the past three years. Most texts recommended brewing it into tea but he had no time to wait. He had already squandered too many precious moments.Steeling himself, he did the only thing he could think of: he bit down.
The first bite hit like molten fire, as if he had gnawed straight into the sun. His tongue blistered, melted, and healed in an endless, punishing loop. Each chew tore him anew. He swallowed and screamed, his insides igniting, burning, and rebuilding themselves in cycles that defied reason. Pain consumed him utterly, yet he barely noticed when darkness swept over him, the flower still gripped in a deathlike clutch as his body crumpled to the forest floor.
He awoke screaming, yet he bit into it again, taking half the flower in one agonizing bite. He chewed relentlessly, each bite less excruciating than the last. At some point, his lips had melted away, leaving only teeth glinting through blood, with wisps of smoke and steam curling from his mouth. As he neared the heart of the flower, something began to shift. His hands glowed red, and though the flower still seared his insides, the pain had become more bearable than before.
Three-quarters through, his skin began to liquefy, sliding into slick pools of slime and black ichor across the forest floor. He bit again, body convulsing violently as he tore into the flower's heart. His mind had retreated deep into the recesses of his soul. This torment should have shattered him, after all he had endured. But he persisted: bite, chew, swallow, scream, collapse. Each time he stared at the flower, he hungered for release while simultaneously relishing the transformation already spreading through him. And as the final bite sank into his stomach, darkness swallowed him entirely.