The forest floor was a tapestry of damp earth and tangled roots. Damian moved through the deep shadows, his back pressed against the rough bark of a tree, each step a carefully measured placement of his foot.
The memory of a sword at his throat was a phantom chill on his skin, a stark reminder that the well-trodden path was a death trap. This time, he would be a ghost.
Silence was his shield, the dense woods were his sanctuary. He tried to control his breathing, making it as shallow and quiet as possible. But with every rustle of leaves, every snap of a distant twig, his heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum.
He knew, logically, that he could likely rewind time if he died again. The knowledge was a sliver of comfort, but it was buried under an avalanche of terrifying questions.
How many times could he do it? Was there a limit? A cost? What if he died, and the darkness simply… stayed? The thought was a cold knot in his stomach.
And even if his rebirths were infinite, who in their right mind would develop a fetish for dying? He'd already experienced it far more than any sane person should, and the terror of life slipping away was not something one ever got used to.
He was circling a dense thicket when he heard it—the low murmur of voices. His blood ran cold. 'Them'. He froze behind a massive oak, peering through the leaves.
He couldn't see them, but he could hear their casual, confident tones. They were waiting for him on the main path, just as he'd predicted. He began a wide, circular detour, his movements now even more cautious.
"Who goes there?" A voice cut through the forest's silence like a blade. It was masculine, carrying an effortless charisma and an undercurrent of authority that made the air itself seem to still.
For a fleeting second, Damian felt an inexplicable pull, a strange sense of admiration. He shook his head violently, clearing the bizarre notion. A stranger in these woods was a threat. He spun around and bolted.
He didn't get more than three strides before a silver streak whistled past his ear. With a solid thump, a longsword embedded itself in a tree directly in his path, the blade humming with a strange power. The path was blocked.
'At least I didn't die,' Damian thought with a surge of relief. 'Isn't that an achievement?' He slowly raised his hands and turned back. The memories were clear: anyone who could command a flying sword was, at minimum, a Qi Refining cultivator. He was an ant before such a giant. If this person had wanted him dead, he would have been a corpse before he even heard the sword's approach.
A figure emerged from the trees, moving with a grace that seemed to defy the rugged terrain. He was a young man, no older than twenty, with a charming face and an air of nobility. He wore pristine white and purple robes that marked him as someone of high status, someone far removed from the simple garb of an outer disciple like Damian.
The young man flicked his wrist, and the sword dislodged itself from the tree, flying back to his hand in a silent, elegant arc. "Why are you running?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement. "Am I a ghost, or something?"
"No, no, sir! I just... I didn't want to disturb you," Damian stammered, his mind racing. His life was balanced on the whim of the powerful man before him.
The young man's brow furrowed slightly. "What is a 'sir'?" he asked, his head tilting with genuine curiosity. He had never heard the term before.
Damian's heart sank. 'Wow, Damian, you're a genius,' he berated himself. The sheer terror of the last few hours had muddled his brain, causing him to mix up terms from Earth. He needed an excuse, and he needed it now.
"Big Brother," he corrected himself quickly, offering a respectful bow. "It is a term to show respect in my hometown."
"Oh…" the young man mused, his eyes scrutinizing Damian with a thoughtful expression. He seemed to be pondering the explanation, and then... his eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed.
Damian panicked, he rushed forward. "Big Brother! Wake up! Don't scare me like this!" He knelt, shaking the young man's shoulder, but there was no response. He was completely unconscious.
Panic warred with self-preservation. 'Should I just leave him here?' The cold, logical part of his brain screamed at him to run. He still had assassins to evade and the lecture hall to reach. Trying to save this stranger was a risk he couldn't afford. It would slow him down, make him a target. He could die.
'How can you even think that, Damian?' another voice, a warmer and more stubborn one, countered. This man hadn't harmed him. He could have killed him instantly but had chosen not to. Leaving him here, unconscious and vulnerable, felt deeply wrong. With a groan of resignation, Damian made his choice. He struggled for a moment before hoisting the surprisingly heavy young man onto his back and staggering in the direction of the lecture hall.
The path to a nearby lake was shorter, but it would force him to cross the main trail—the ambush site. He wasn't ready to test his luck there again. The weight on his back was immense, yet Damian was surprised to find he wasn't tiring. His legs, though trembling with effort, felt strong. This was the power of a cultivator, even one at the very first stage of Body Refining. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
'One two one, one two one,' he chanted internally, his steps falling into a steady rhythm. He finally emerged from the treeline, reaching the stone footsteps that led up to the bustling sect market.
"Young Master Roan!" a sharp voice called out.
Instantly, the crushing weight on his back vanished. Damian stumbled forward, catching his balance. He spun around, but there was no one there.
"Thank you for helping our Young Master," a different voice, ancient and resonant, sounded directly in his ear. He flinched, looking around wildly, but he was completely alone.
'I think my task of both surviving those fiends and saving this Young Master Roan succeeded,' Damian thought, his mind reeling from the mysterious encounter. He took a deep breath and walked towards the sect market, the lecture hall now just a short distance away.
The market was a vibrant explosion of activity. Stalls were laden with glowing pills, pulsating beast cores, and the shimmering hides of powerful magical creatures. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and the din of disciples haggling. Damian could only look on in envy; he didn't have a single coin to his name. He didn't linger.
He was halfway through the market when a group of disciples blocked his path, their expressions hostile.
"You're the one who injured Young Miss Naia!" a young man at the center of the group shouted, his voice dripping with arrogance. His finer robes marked him as an inner disciple, while his followers wore the same plain outer disciple clothes as Damian.
"No, Big Brother, I think you have the wrong person," Damian replied calmly, already scanning for an escape route.
"Can't you idiots even find one man correctly?" the leader snapped, smacking one of his lackeys hard on the back of the head.
"Boss, he's the one! He's the one that bumped into Princess Naia!" the lackey whined, rubbing his now-swollen head.
That was the only opening Damian needed. As the boss turned to glare at his underling, Damian melted into the bustling crowd, weaving between stalls and shoppers.
"Search for him!" the boss roared, realizing his prey had vanished. "I want him found, and I want him under my feet!"
But Damian was already gone. He slipped out of the market's far side, his heart still pounding but a small, triumphant smile on his face. He was finally heading towards the lecture hall. He had survived. For now.