With his eyes wide open, dark pupils fixed on the window, Zhung watched the sun quietly ascend over the horizon. His gaze rested on the serene, unmoving green mountains that had witnessed countless sunrises before this one and would witness countless more after he was gone.
He grimaced at the familiar sight of his still-broken left arm, the bones visible beneath skin that had never properly healed. Propping himself up with his good arm, he noticed immediately that his mother was missing—the hut felt emptier, colder without her presence.
Then he caught sight of a letter resting on the wooden drawer beside his pallet.
He reached for it with careful fingers, unfolded the rough paper, and read:
*Apologies, Zhung, but Mom needs to head to the capital of Gue early this morning. I'll be gathering some new seeds for the garden—the merchant said he has varieties that grow well in autumn soil. I expect to return in about four days, maybe five if the roads are muddy. Make sure to behave while I'm gone! There's dried meat in the storage and eggs from the chickens. Don't forget to feed them.*
*Love, Mother*
As he read the letter, his cold, icy eyes softened with genuine warmth—the only warmth he allowed himself to feel anymore. The concern in her words, the small domestic details, the love implicit in every instruction... it touched something in him he'd thought long dead.
Rising to his feet with practiced efficiency, he changed into fresh clothes—simple brown hemp shirt and dark trousers, the uniform of peasant life. Stepping outside into the crisp morning air, his expression immediately chilled once more, the warmth draining away like water through a sieve.
His gaze swept the small property with methodical assessment. Then he noticed one of their chickens settling into a nest beside the hut, and moments later, the hen stood with obvious satisfaction.
Zhung moved quickly, retrieving the still-warm egg before other predators could claim it. He went back inside, cooked it over the small fire with practiced efficiency, and ate standing up, his mind already moving ahead to the day's tasks.
Once finished, he turned his gaze toward the forest road that led to Black Water Village. His movements became stiffer, more controlled. His eyes remained cold and lifeless, yet beneath the frozen surface, a flicker of determination sparked—small but persistent, like embers that refused to die completely.
Undeterred by the eight years of failure, by the broken arm that would never fully heal, by the constant setbacks and disappointed hopes, he pressed forward with unwavering steps.
The path was familiar now. He'd walked it hundreds of times.
---
As he arrived in Black Water Village, the morning market was already bustling with activity. Zhung moved through the crowds with fluid grace, neither hurrying nor dawdling, drawing no attention to himself—the art of being invisible in plain sight.
But he couldn't help overhearing the conversations around him:
"...another two missing since last week..."
"...ever since that tavern opened, people just vanish..."
"...cultivators don't care about us common folk..."
"...heard the Hang family is involved, but who's going to accuse them?"
The locals murmured constantly about residents who had gone missing—a steady trickle of disappearances that had begun shortly after the cultivators established their presence in the village. Bodies were never found. Families were left without answers.
As Zhung continued walking, a small, cold smirk crept across his face. The cultivators' reputation in the village was deteriorating rapidly, and he'd done nothing to stop it. In fact, he'd actively contributed to their infamy with his careful selection of victims to feed the Snow Moon Fox.
*Let them take the blame,* he thought with dark satisfaction. *Let the villagers' resentment grow. Anger is a useful tool, and misdirection is an art.*
He changed course, heading away from the village center toward the forest and the cave where he kept his secret. But as he navigated through the trees, following paths only he knew, Zhung overheard voices raised in heated argument somewhere ahead.
He froze, listening.
The voice was immediately recognizable—the arrogant man in white robes, the minor Hang family cultivator who'd thrown a corpse from the tavern window. Zhung frowned, every instinct telling him to turn away, to avoid unnecessary complications.
But curiosity—and the opportunity to gather intelligence—made him redirect his steps toward the source of the voices.
Moving silently through the underbrush, Zhung soon reached a small clearing where he could observe without being seen. There stood the familiar white-robed man, his handsome face twisted with rage, shouting at a young woman whose expression remained one of complete indifference to his fury.
"You impertinent fool!" the man screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "Is it truly so difficult for you to respect my wishes? All you need to do is eliminate my older brother—poison him, arrange an accident, I don't care how—and I will rightfully claim my position as the true heir of the Hang family! Do you understand? This is not a request!"
The woman's expression didn't change. She stood perfectly still, arms at her sides, looking at him as one might observe an insect—with mild interest but no real concern.
"Your brother is protected by family guards," she said quietly, her voice carrying clearly despite its softness. "Bronze rank cultivators, at minimum. You ask me to commit suicide for your ambition."
"Then find a way!" The man's face had gone red with impotent rage. "That's what I'm paying you for! Or should I inform the sect that their 'promising disciple' is actually a hired assassin?"
Zhung listened in silence from his hiding place, his own revulsion growing with every word. The Hang family—always the same, in every life, in every world. Selfish. Consumed by greed. Willing to sacrifice anything and anyone for power and position.
He ground his teeth, feeling old hatred resurface like a body rising from deep water.
*The Hang bloodline has been tainted from the very beginning,* he thought with cold clarity. *But thankfully, I severed that connection long ago. I am no longer one of them, if I ever truly was.*
The argument continued for several more minutes before the man in white robes finally stormed off, still cursing, his expensive robes swirling dramatically as he crashed through the underbrush without care for stealth.
The young woman remained behind, standing alone in the clearing, her expression unchanged.
Zhung studied her carefully from his concealment. She was strikingly beautiful—the kind of beauty that seemed almost unnatural, too perfect to be entirely human. Ethereal grace in every line of her posture. Features that could have been carved by a master sculptor. And something else, something that made his instincts scream warnings he couldn't quite articulate.
He felt his right hand clench involuntarily, nails biting sharply into his palm hard enough to draw blood. In an instant, his expression hardened completely, eyes going flat and dark as a winter lake.
He began to retreat, moving with the silence he'd perfected over years of sneaking through forests.
But as he slipped away between the trees, the young woman's head turned slightly—not looking directly at his hiding spot, but toward the general area. Her eyes, he noticed with a chill, were an unusual color. Not quite red, but close. Crimson-tinged.
Her expression hardened almost imperceptibly.
Then she turned and walked away in the opposite direction, and Zhung released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
---
He continued toward the cave, but his mind was no longer focused on the Snow Moon Fox. Instead, memories stirred—unwanted, painful memories he'd tried to bury.
Haunting red eyes. A familiar presence that made his chest tighten with emotions he'd thought long dead.
*Xain Xe.*
The name surfaced in his consciousness like a drowned corpse, bringing with it the full weight of that betrayal. A woman he had loved with genuine devotion in his cultivation life, convinced their bond was real. Only to discover he'd been nothing but a substitute, a tool to be used and discarded, a key to unlock her true husband's resurrection.
He frowned, jaw clenching.
*The woman in the clearing... her eyes... no. Impossible. It's just coincidence. Red eyes aren't that uncommon among cultivators who practice certain techniques.*
But doubt had planted itself, and doubt was a seed that grew quickly in the fertile soil of paranoia and past trauma.
As he approached the familiar cave entrance, his gaze remained steely. He stepped into the shadowy depths without hesitation, the temperature dropping noticeably as sunlight faded behind him. After his eyes adjusted, he lit the torch he kept hidden near the entrance and turned his attention to the deep pit at the cave's center.
Suddenly, a wave of unease quaked through him—a premonition, an instinct honed by multiple lives of danger.
Something was wrong.
He approached the edge carefully, peering down into the darkness below where the Snow Moon Fox should be sleeping off its latest meal.
The ground beneath his feet crumbled without warning.
Time stretched into haunting stillness as Zhung felt himself falling, torch tumbling from his grip, the stone edge giving way like it had been deliberately weakened.
Like an autumn leaf drifting downward on an inexorable journey, he too descended toward what might be his ending.
His mind raced through possibilities even as his body fell: *Trap? Natural collapse? The fox's doing?*
He hit the bottom hard, the impact driving air from his lungs, pain exploding through his already-injured left arm. Darkness swallowed him.
---
When consciousness returned—seconds or hours later, he couldn't tell—the first thing Zhung registered was rain. The soothing patter of water on stone, the cold dampness in the air, the smell of wet earth.
How was it raining inside the cave? Unless...
His dark eyes fluttered open briefly, vision blurred and unfocused. Through the haze, he caught a glimpse of a figure—a woman leaning over him. Red hair falling like a curtain around her pale face. White eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the darkness, unnatural and ethereal.
The image burned itself into his memory in the instant before she leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead—cold lips, impossibly soft, carrying the chill of something not quite human.
Then his eyes closed again involuntarily, consciousness slipping away like water through cupped hands. Soon, only the sound of rain remained, and even that faded into silence.
---
*The memory-dream came unbidden, as they always did.*
*It was a bright autumn day, leaves drifting gracefully to the ground in lazy spirals. An arena—massive, capable of holding thousands—buzzed with anticipation. Cultivators and mortals alike had gathered for the spectacle.*
*The host, a portly man with a voice enhanced by spiritual techniques, energetically announced the names of two contenders:*
*"Before us stand two remarkable prodigies! One is a personal pupil of the legendary Grandmaster Shin Luo—Zhung of the Heavenly Sect! His opponent's master remains a mystery, but her skill speaks for itself—Xain Xe, the Crimson Phantom!"*
*The host's voice rose to a fevered pitch: "These two brilliant young cultivators will compete to determine who truly deserves to possess the legendary Azure Dragon Pearl!"*
*Zhung saw himself standing in the arena—younger, whole, both arms functional, his hair jet black instead of brown. Most strikingly, his eyes were a brilliant blue, full of life and determination rather than the dead darkness they would later become.*
*Beside him stood a girl with enchanting red eyes and flowing brown hair, her smile carrying mysterious depths.*
*But then something shifted.*
*The memory warped, reality bleeding through like ink through wet paper.*
*Zhung's expression darkened in the vision. His blue eyes shifted to a cold, indifferent black. His black hair transformed to brown. The arena began to distort around the edges.*
*His gaze locked onto Master Shin Luo in the stands—but the old man was coughing up blood, dying, everything happening out of sequence, memories from different times bleeding together.*
*Then Zhung turned to the woman, and she was changing too.*
*Her hair shimmered, turning from brown to white in the span of a heartbeat. Her red eyes deepened to crimson, glowing with otherworldly power. Her form shifted, becoming something more and less than human simultaneously—the Heavenly Demon, wearing Xain Xe's face like a mask.*
*"Xain Xe..." Zhung's voice in the memory was hollow, disgusted.*
---
His eyes flew open suddenly, the dream-memory shattering.
He was staring at a stone ceiling—rough, uneven, definitely not the familiar wood of his hut. A wave of agony surged through his left arm, making his dark eyes quiver with unshed tears he refused to let fall.
He tasted copper—he'd bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood during the dream.
Steadying himself with effort, Zhung surveyed his surroundings carefully. He was still at the bottom of the pit in the cave, lying on cold stone. And there, just a few feet away, the Snow Moon Fox watched him with golden eyes that seemed far more intelligent than any animal's should be.
Their eyes met.
The fox's lips pulled back from its teeth—not quite a snarl, not quite a smile.
Then, with startling speed, it lunged.
Zhung had no time to react before the beast pinned him to the unforgiving stone floor, its considerable weight pressing down on his chest, making breathing difficult. He waited for teeth to close around his throat, for claws to tear into his flesh—the violent end he probably deserved for feeding it human corpses.
But death didn't come.
Instead, the fox lowered its head and—gently, almost tenderly—began licking his broken left arm where fresh blood had seeped through the bandages.
Zhung lay perfectly still, forcing his fear down with iron will, refusing to show weakness even in what might be his final moments.
The beast's rough tongue cleaned the wound with surprising care. Then it raised its head, golden eyes meeting Zhung's dark ones, and released a long, mournful howl that echoed in the enclosed space.
Finally, it stepped back, retreating to a distance where it settled onto its haunches, simply watching him.
Zhung released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Slowly, carefully, he sat up, taking stock of his injuries and situation.
As he observed the now-docile creature, his gaze wandered around the pit. Scattered bones littered the floor—unmistakably human, the remains of the twelve victims he'd fed it over the past year. Skulls grinned at him from the shadows, accusatory even in death.
He frowned, then turned his attention back to the fox.
And froze.
A third tail was emerging—slowly unfurling from the fox's body like a flower blooming in accelerated time. The fur rippled and shifted as the new appendage grew, and Zhung's eyes widened despite his usually perfect control.
*At last,* he thought with a surge of cold excitement. *The Snow Moon Fox has reached its third stage. Its demonic blood has finally achieved sufficient concentration.*
But even as hope sparked, reality crashed down immediately after.
*How could I possibly kill it now? It has power—real cultivator-level power. And I'm just a mortal with no weapons, no tools, no aperture. Completely powerless.*
The beast, clearly aware of Zhung's unwavering stare, let out a massive yawn. The movement revealed razor-sharp teeth—each one easily capable of tearing through flesh and bone—and suddenly Zhung abandoned any immediate thought of harvesting its demonic blood.
*I'd need to be Steel rank minimum to face a three-tailed Snow Moon Fox,* he calculated grimly. *And I'm not even Tin. I'm nothing.*
Time passed in tense silence. Zhung remained alert, watching the fox, but exhaustion was catching up with him. His broken arm throbbed. His body ached from the fall. His eyelids grew heavy despite his determination to stay conscious.
Then, cutting through the silence, he heard a voice—gentle, feminine, completely unexpected:
"Hey."
Zhung's head snapped around, searching for the source. But there was no one else in the pit. Just him and the beast.
The fox was staring at him, its golden eyes fixed with unsettling intensity.
After a long moment of confused silence, Zhung tentatively responded: "Ahh... hey?"
The beast's mouth didn't move, but suddenly Zhung heard words forming clearly in his mind—not sound, but meaning transmitted directly into his consciousness.
*Greetings, mortal. Can you hear my voice?*
Telepathy. The fox had developed the ability to communicate telepathically, one of the hallmarks of beasts who'd reached sufficient cultivation to gain sapience.
Zhung's icy gaze fixed on the creature for a long moment before he spoke aloud, his voice carrying its usual cold detachment: "Perhaps not. Or perhaps I've finally lost my mind from multiple lifetimes of trauma. Either seems equally plausible."
A pause, then he asked the question that had been burning in his mind: "Why didn't you kill me? You could have ended this a dozen times over."
The fox's response echoed in his thoughts, tinged with something that might have been amusement:
*Why would I terminate the very thing that enabled my success? You fed me, mortal. Twelve meals, each one carefully selected and delivered. You helped me reach this stage. I am not so ungrateful as to devour my benefactor.*
Their eyes locked in mutual assessment—predator and prey, or perhaps something more complex.
Finally, Zhung decided to take a risk. "I'm Zhung. It's... a pleasure to meet you." The words felt strange, introducing himself to a demonic beast that could kill him with a casual swipe of its claws.
The fox's response came clearly: *My name is Chibang Po. The pleasure is mine, Mr. Zhung. You are far more interesting than most mortals.*
They exchanged brief nods—a strange formality between human and beast—then Chibang Po padded away to the far side of the pit, settling down as if to sleep.
Zhung felt exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. His vision began to blur, the edges of reality softening. His body was shutting down, demanding rest after the trauma of the fall and the stress of the encounter.
Just before his eyes closed completely, he caught sight of that same blurred figure from before—red hair framing a pale face, white eyes that seemed to pierce through the darkness with unnatural clarity.
The figure leaned over him again, and he felt warmth brush against his lips—another kiss, gentle and cold and impossible.
"It will heal fully after you achieve your Aperture, but this time I will heal it; it's a temporary fix. After 2 months, it will be back once again as a broken arm."
Then consciousness fled entirely, plunging him back into darkness and the chaotic tumble of memories that lived there.
*Am I dying?* he wondered distantly. *Is this fate playing with me again, making me its jester one more time? Heaven's eternal entertainment—watch the boy with three lives struggle and fail and struggle again...*
---
When his dark eyes finally fluttered open again, everything had changed.
He was no longer in the cave pit. Instead, he lay on soft moss in the forest, surrounded by towering trees. The rain had ceased completely. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden shafts, painting everything in warm tones that seemed almost dreamlike.
His body ached everywhere, muscles stiff from lying on the ground. Slowly, testing each movement, he rose to his feet.
Then he noticed his left arm.
He flexed it experimentally. No pain. Full range of motion. He touched it carefully, probing for the familiar sensation of misaligned bones beneath the skin.
Nothing. The arm was completely healed—bones properly set, tissues repaired, moving with the same flexibility and strength as his right arm.
*What...?*
He stared at the healed limb in complete bewilderment. Eight years of permanent injury, gone. Bones that had been shattered beyond repair, somehow mended. How?
His mind raced through possibilities: *The fox? No, beasts don't heal humans. The mysterious woman with red hair? But who is she? What is she? And why would she help me?*
He turned back toward where the cave should be, searching the forest for familiar landmarks. There—the distinctive rock formation, the twisted oak tree. He made his way back quickly.
The cave entrance yawned before him, dark and uninviting. He peered carefully into the pit where he'd fallen.
Empty. No sign of Chibang Po. The three-tailed Snow Moon Fox had simply vanished.
Zhung frowned deeply, frustration and confusion warring in his chest. Another failed attempt to obtain cultivation. Another setback. Another mysterious occurrence he couldn't explain.
*Nothing ever goes according to plan,* he thought bitterly. *Not in this life, not in any life.*
The sun was already beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. He'd lost most of the day unconscious. His mother wouldn't be back for three more days at minimum, so there was no immediate concern there.
He turned and walked back toward Black Water Village, thoughts churning uselessly. Every answer led to three new questions. Every step forward seemed to result in two steps back.
---
By the time he reached the village, twilight was settling over the world like a heavy blanket. His stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since the single egg that morning, so despite his dark mood, Zhung headed to the cultivators' tavern.
The interior was moderately busy with the dinner crowd—merchants, travelers, a few cultivators scattered among the common folk. Zhung found a seat in the corner where he could observe the room and ordered a simple meal from a serving girl who barely glanced at him.
He'd barely started eating when another altercation erupted.
The white-robed Hang family cultivator was back, this time confronting a burly merchant who'd apparently said something offensive. The merchant was built like a bear—solid muscle, easily twice the cultivator's weight.
"You dare question the Hang family's business practices?" the white-robed man shouted, face red with indignation.
The burly merchant didn't back down. "I question thieves and liars, regardless of their family name."
The cultivator raised his hand, spiritual energy gathering visibly, and struck. The merchant stumbled backward from the blow but didn't fall—his skin was visibly hardening, taking on a dull metallic sheen.
*Iron Body technique,* Zhung observed with clinical interest. *He's at least Copper rank then. Interesting.*
The white-robed cultivator's expression shifted from anger to panic as he realized he'd picked a fight with someone stronger than anticipated. "Guards! Someone help me!"
Before the merchant could press his advantage—before his iron-enhanced fist could connect with the cultivator's face—a figure appeared between them with impossible speed.
The merchant collapsed instantly, hitting the wooden floor with a heavy *thud*. Blood pooled beneath his head from a wound Zhung hadn't even seen inflicted.
Standing over the body was a woman.
She was breathtakingly beautiful—the kind of beauty that seemed to suck all the air from a room. Her black hair danced in the wind from the still-open door, each strand moving with unnatural grace. Her crimson eyes were cold and indifferent, her expression completely unfazed by the violence she'd just committed.
Her presence infused the entire tavern with an aura of elegant lethality.
Zhung's face remained perfectly neutral, but inside, his mind was screaming. His chest tightened with a complex knot of emotions he refused to name—disgust, recognition, fear, and something else he absolutely would not acknowledge.
*Why do I keep thinking about Xain Xe?* he thought with forced calm. *It's impossible. Even if souls can be reborn across worlds, what are the odds? Astronomical. This is just coincidence. Just a woman with red eyes and dark hair. Nothing more.*
But the doubt was there, gnawing at him.
*Then again,* another part of his mind whispered, *I was reborn in this world. Why should I be the only extraordinary occurrence?*
"You foolish servant," the white-robed cultivator spat at the woman, his earlier panic now replaced with arrogant satisfaction. "What took you so long?"
Then, with deliberate cruelty, he brought his foot down on the fallen merchant's head.
The skull cracked like a watermelon dropped from a great height. Blood and brain matter splattered outward in a grotesque spray, painting the nearby tables and patrons.
Several people gasped or cried out, but no one moved to intervene. The man was Hang family—son of a military general, connected to power that could crush any complaint.
Zhung's face betrayed nothing as he continued eating his meal mechanically, as if brutal murder was simply background noise. He'd seen worse. He'd *done* worse, in previous lives.
"Clean this mess up," the cultivator ordered the woman dismissively, then swept out of the tavern in a swirl of expensive white robes.
The atmosphere shifted immediately—the tension breaking as people began filing out quickly, not wanting to be associated with the scene or questioned by authorities who wouldn't care anyway.
Soon the tavern was nearly empty. Just Zhung finishing his meal, the terrified staff, and the woman who'd killed with such casual efficiency.
As Zhung prepared to leave, dropping coins on the table, he felt an invisible force suddenly grip his entire body. Not painful, but completely immobilizing—like being frozen in amber.
The woman was walking toward him, her crimson eyes fixed on his face with unsettling intensity.
She settled gracefully into the seat beside him, far too close, invading his personal space deliberately. Her gaze never wavered from his face.
"Tell me," she said quietly, her voice carrying a musical quality that seemed at odds with the violence she'd just committed. "Do we know each other? You look remarkably like someone I once knew. The resemblance is... striking."
Zhung felt his pulse quicken despite his iron control. His body tensed involuntarily, a wave of irrational fear washing over him—not fear of death, but fear of *recognition*, of being *known*.
Their eyes locked in an intense, searching gaze. Her crimson irises studied every detail of his face, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Meanwhile, Zhung's eyes—which had once been vibrant blue in another life, in another body—were now hollow and lifeless, black as a winter night. Endless depths that reflected nothing back.
A frown creased his brow as he struggled against the invisible binding, failed, and finally spoke: "I'm just a peasant boy from outside the village. We've never met."
Her head tilted slightly, like a bird examining an interesting insect. "Perhaps. But there's something about your eyes..." She paused. "They're dead. Completely dead. I've only seen eyes like that once before, on someone who'd died multiple times and stopped caring about living."
Zhung's blood ran cold.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She smiled—a small, enigmatic expression that revealed nothing and everything simultaneously.
"My name," she said softly, "is Xiang Yue. And I think, peasant boy with dead eyes, that you and I are going to become very well acquainted."
The invisible force released him suddenly, and Zhung gasped for air he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
By the time he recovered enough to look up, she was gone—vanished as silently as she'd appeared, leaving only the lingering scent of cherry blossoms and the corpse cooling on the floor.
Zhung sat frozen for a long moment, mind racing through implications and possibilities, trying to make sense of connections that didn't quite fit but felt significant nonetheless.
*Xiang Yue,* he repeated mentally. *Not Xain Xe. A different name. Different face, technically. But those eyes... and the way she looked at me, like she was seeing through this body to something underneath...*
*This is either the cruelest coincidence in existence, or fate is playing with me again.*
*Either way, this complicates everything.*
He finally stood on shaking legs and walked out into the night, leaving the tavern and its corpse behind.
The moon had risen—pale and watchful as always, casting its indifferent light over a world that continued turning regardless of human suffering or confusion.
Somewhere in the darkness, a fox with three tails dreamed of power. A woman with crimson eyes contemplated a mystery. And a boy with too many lives and too many deaths walked home alone, wondering if he'd ever truly escape the patterns that seemed to chase him across worlds.
Fate, it seemed, was not yet finished with him.
**End of Chapter 8**