The war against demons is over. The sects stand united at last. Yet the one hailed as the bravest of all — the hero of the cultivation world, the youth Yun Zhao — is nowhere to be found. And nonetheless, there is peace.
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A small, timeworn hut still stands steadily atop Mount Shattered Sun — surrounded by lush greens and whispering trees, distant from the world below. The soft chime of a bell breaks the mountain's silence, its sound delicate yet unsettling, as if threatening to wake something long asleep.
The bell is tied to a bamboo stick, held by a man whose eyes no longer see the sun. He walks with quiet grace, his posture upright, a faint air of aloofness and gentleness about him — like a passing cloud adrift in a sea of wind.
His dark, worn robes seem to dim his presence, yet the blindfold across his eyes gleams — white as a pearl of the purest kind. He is no stranger to this mountain; no, it remembers him well.
Yun Zhao has returned to where his story began.
After crossing a short wooden bridge suspended over a bottomless cliff, hidden beneath a sea of clouds, Yun Zhao paused mid-step. Though blindfolded, he seemed to gaze into the horizon as if he could see every wisp of mist, every ray of distant light.
The scent of wet earth and pine washed over him — a fragrance he had not known he'd missed until now. He could almost hear the echo of a young voice calling cheerfully for his master, the rhythmic clashing of wooden swords, and laughter carried by the wind. It had been years, yet every sound and detail returned as vividly as if no time had passed at all.
His feet found their old path with effortless familiarity, leading him toward a small wooden table and chairs beside an overgrown herb field on the left side of the hut. He brushed his hand along the table's corner, tracing its weathered surface — both foreign and familiar beneath his fingertips. He tilted his head toward the sky."Master," he murmured. "I'm home."
The mountain wind stirred in reply, leaves rustling in a chorus of welcome — as though the mountain itself was rejoicing at his return.
He turned toward the hut but stumbled when a branch caught his foot. A small, quiet laugh escaped him as he steadied himself. The place must have been left unattended for years.
With a raised hand, his fingers pressed together in a short mudra. A faint spiritual light flickered over his blindfold — granting him a second sight. Faint outlines emerged in his mind's eye: fallen branches, cracked stones, and the contours of the world he once knew.
Moving with calm precision, he cleared the debris piece by piece. The soil was damp from recent rain, and soon mud streaked the hem of his robes. He didn't mind. When he reached the herb field, he found it nearly ruined — but he smiled faintly, the expression soft as sunlight through mist. It could be restored — cultivated again, like so much else.
He recalled a well on the right side of the hut and made his way toward it. The water had always risen high enough to touch with one's hands. He knelt and dipped his fingers in.
Coolness spread across his skin — and then, a shiver. It was faint, yet unmistakable: the feeling of being watched.
He withdrew his hand, focused, and tried to pierce the depth with his spiritual sight. Yet the water remained opaque — a void. It felt as though something waited within, patient, silent, and endless.
But there was no killing intent, no hint of malice. Whatever lurked there was quiet — waiting, perhaps. Deciding it was not worth concern, he let the matter rest and continued to the nearby pond to wash the mud from his hands.
By dusk, the world was awash in gold and violet light. Yun Zhao gathered his things and entered the hut.
Inside, the hut surprised him.Contrary to the decayed exterior, it was spotless. No dust, no cobwebs. The floor felt freshly swept. Someone — or something — had tended to it.
Curiosity flickered, but only for a moment. He assumed perhaps the villagers at the mountain's base had come to pay respect to his late master. A kind act, nothing more.
He removed his outer robe, lit a single stick of incense before the altar, and bowed. The faint scent of sandalwood filled the room. His master's spirit, if still lingering, would understand without words.
There was only one bed here — his. His master had always taken the mat. A strange arrangement, but one that had never changed. Yun Zhao lay down, eyes closed beneath the blindfold. His breathing evened, though he never truly slept.
Not yet.He was waiting.
Tonight, he was expecting a visitor.
Outside, the night deepened. From the distance came the soft ripple of water — gentle, hesitant, as if afraid to disturb the quiet.
Something was moving.
It slithered closer, the sound of wet scales brushing against the wooden floor. When it reached the edge of the bed, it hesitated — then a shadowed hand reached forward, trembling slightly, about to touch the man's blindfold.
A single chime rang out.
The bell's soft note cut through the darkness like light through mist. In that instant, the intruder froze. Yun Zhao moved. From beneath his blanket, he drew the bamboo staff with the bell tied at its end — swift, fluid, and precise. In a blink, the creature was subdued, immobilized by a ripple of spiritual force.
That bell was no ordinary trinket. It could sense, reveal, and banish the hidden — a weapon forged to guard against evil.
But Yun Zhao held back. There was no killing intent in what he sensed. Slowly, he loosened his grip. In his grasp, a small limb — smooth and cool like polished jade, no longer than his forearm. His brow lifted slightly.
"A serpent demon?"
The creature lay still, unconscious. Yun Zhao checked its pulse, then sighed.
"I may have been a touch too harsh."
Shaking his head, he fetched a porcelain bowl and filled it with fresh water. Mixing in a few drops of beast-recovery medicine from his pouch. Setting the bowl by the window, he watched as the moonlight caught its scales.
Under the moonlight, he noticed the serpent's scales — patterned like a koi's, yet unlike any he'd seen before. Black, deep as ink, scattered with pale white spots that shimmered like moonlight on still water. Beautiful, and faintly ominous.
Yun Zhao finally allowed himself to sleep.
Outside, the wind whispered through the leaves, and from the well came the faintest ripple — like a sigh of relief.