"Kill the princess! If she escapes, our reward will be death!"
The man leading the pursuit roared. His voice, rough like stones grinding together, echoed through the ancient trees of the Forest of Sighs.
Hui Cao, First Princess of the Gu Yan Empire, ran with her silk robes shredded by branches. Around her neck, the imperial jade necklace slammed against her chest with every desperate stride. The inscription—"First Princess – Lineage of the Golden Dragon"—glimmered faintly, as if mourning her fate.
One hundred assassins in dark garments advanced with inhuman speed, swords that devoured light in their hands. Their leader, Wang Mao, looked like a walking mountain. Each of his steps made the ground tremble, and his killing intent compressed the air until it became suffocating.
How did it come to this? Hui Cao thought as a branch lashed across her cheek. Just hours ago, she had been playing weiqi with her mother in the gardens of the Jade Concubine…
The memory cut like a blade.
A thousand soldiers surrounding the pavilion. Her mother's scream. The concubine's hands weaving a portal with her own vital qi—ripping apart her dantian, sacrificing centuries of cultivation for a single second of torn space.
The shove.
The portal closing.
Wang Mao's sword piercing her mother's chest as if it were paper.
One hundred assassins leaping after Hui Cao before the dimensional rift sealed.
"Damn it! Even half a corpse will do! Use your martial techniques!" Wang Mao barked.
The sky darkened.
Not with clouds—but with ten thousand swords materializing in midair, each infused with a different element. Fire that warped space itself. Ice that froze time. Lightning that split reality apart.
This was the combined technique of the Hundred Shadows, an attack that had erased entire armies.
Hui Cao closed her eyes.
This is the end.
But her legs kept moving. Pure survival instinct. Animal and desperate. She dodged, rolled, leapt through the first wave of projectiles—
Until an almost invisible blade of cutting wind struck her back.
It didn't slice her in two.
It launched her.
She flew like a leaf, crashing twenty meters ahead into a tree as wide as a house.
"—Agh!"
The air burst from her lungs. Blood—her imperial blood, thick and golden—stained her lips.
As she staggered to her feet, she noticed something wrong.
The trees… were changing.
The towering spiritual pines of the Forest of Sighs grew smaller, sparser. The soil beneath her feet was no longer rich black earth, but dry, reddish ground—like old brick dust.
And then she saw it.
A barrier.
Invisible. Not a spiritual shield—she could feel no qi at all—but something more fundamental, as if space itself had been stitched shut to form a boundary.
And beyond it…
Fields.
Perfect rows of plowed land stretching to the horizon.
And in the distance—a figure.
A man.
He wore a wide-brimmed leather hat, a poncho made of thick, unfamiliar material, and resting on his shoulder was a hoe engraved with runes Hui Cao could not read.
He was bent over, working the soil, completely indifferent to the catastrophe unfolding less than a hundred meters away.
"Behind the barrier! Now!" Wang Mao shouted, realizing his prey had a destination.
Hui Cao ran.
Her feet, trained in light-step techniques since the age of three, gave her one final burst of speed. Swords fell around her, blasting craters into the red earth.
The barrier loomed before her.
She reached out—and passed through it like mist.
A heartbeat later, a flaming sword aimed at the back of her neck struck the barrier and rebounded with a sound like a massive bell tolling, making the assassins clutch their bleeding ears.
Silence.
Hui Cao collapsed to her knees, gasping.
The hundred assassins gathered at the edge of the invisible barrier, striking it with swords, fists, elemental techniques.
Nothing worked. Their attacks vanished or bounced away harmlessly.
Wang Mao stepped forward, his face twisted with rage.
"You! Farmer!" he roared, pointing his sword—an exquisite weapon forged from stellar iron—at the man still plowing.
"Hand over the princess, or I will make you suffer a thousand deaths! I am Wang Mao, leader of the Imperial Assassins, servant of the First Prince Gu Yan! No mere rogue cultivator can—!"
The man straightened.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm, then put it back on.
Then he looked at Wang Mao.
His eyes—Hui Cao could see them clearly now—were the color of dry earth. No spiritual glow. No qi. Just exhaustion.
An exhaustion so deep it felt geological.
"You're standing on my field," he said.
His voice was flat. Monotone. As if he'd forgotten how emotion worked.
Wang Mao blinked.
Then he laughed, thick with contempt.
"Idiot! This is an imperial matter! Hand over the—!"
The man sighed.
A sigh so deep it seemed to rise from the core of the land itself.
Then he moved his hand.
No grand gesture.
No gathering of qi.
Just a simple motion.
The hoe vanished.
In its place appeared a weapon.
Hui Cao had never seen anything like it.
Metal. A long barrel. A dark wooden grip. A rotating mechanism.
Later, she would learn its name.
A Remington revolver.
He fired.
BANG.
It wasn't the thunderous roar of a spiritual technique.
It was sharper. Drier. More… physical.
The bullet crossed the field, passed through the barrier as if it didn't exist, and punched straight through Wang Mao's forehead.
The leader of the Imperial Assassins—a cultivator at the Soul Fusion Stage, capable of leveling mountains with a thought—stared forward in absolute disbelief.
A small, perfect hole appeared between his eyes.
Then the back of his skull exploded into red mist.
BANG—BANG—BANG—BANG—BANG—BANG!
The man fired a hundred more times.
Every bullet found a heart. A forehead. A throat.
The nearest assassins collapsed like rag dolls. The rest screamed, retreating, raising spiritual shields, activating evasion techniques.
The bullets passed through all of it.
Ten seconds later, one hundred of the Gu Yan Empire's finest assassins lay dead on the red earth—techniques useless, centuries of cultivation rendered meaningless.
The man lowered the weapon.
The revolver began to smoke, then crack, then disintegrated into charred pieces of metal and wood that fell to the ground.
"Lasted longer than I expected," he said calmly.
"But yeah… basic weapon."
Then he turned and walked back to his field, as if he'd just chased off a flock of crows.
Hui Cao couldn't breathe.
It wasn't fear—though that was there too.
It was incomprehension.
What power ignored qi entirely?
What system treated famed cultivators like pests?
Then a voice spoke.
Not from the man.
From everywhere.
Dry. Flat. Genderless. Emotionless.
Like stones falling into a deep well.
"Experience granted: +600 XP.
Available resources for collection: 102 corpses.
External collection not permitted at this point.
Spirit Level 7000 required."
The man, already kneeling by a small hole in the soil, didn't even look up.
Hui Cao forced herself to stand.
Her imperial training took over. She straightened the rags that had once been royal garments, wiped the blood from her lips, and walked toward the man with the dignified posture drilled into her since infancy.
"I am Princess Hui Cao," she said, executing a flawless bow, hands clasped before her chest.
"Daughter of Emperor Gu Yan Wu. Heir to the Jade Throne. I owe you my life, great sir. Please accept the gratitude of this humble princess and of the Gu Yan Empire. How should I address my savior?"
The man didn't look at her.
He pulled a seed from his pocket—a dull gray thing, ugly, devoid of spiritual energy—and held it over the hole in the ground.
"Cultivate," he said.
And dropped the seed.
Then it happened.
The small hole at his feet… multiplied.
It wasn't an illusion.
Space itself bent, stretched, replicated. One hole became ten. Ten became a hundred. A hundred became a thousand. Then ten thousand—each perfectly spaced,spreading across the field in an impossible geometric pattern as far as Hui Cao could see.
And in every hole, an identical gray seed appeared, floating a finger's breadth above the soil.
Hui Cao stumbled back, eyes wide.
What kind of dimensional authority is this?
Even the Emperor himself, wielding the Imperial Treasure, couldn't achieve something like this without rituals that consumed mountains of resources.
The man surveyed the infinite field of holes, nodded to himself, then walked toward Hui Cao. He stopped in front of her, adjusted his hat, and looked her in the eyes for the first time.
"Kid," he said, his voice as flat as the plain around them.
"Looks like someone's after you. So as payment for my protection—you'll work the farm."
Hui Cao blinked.
Work… the farm?
Sheir to the Jade Throne. Raised on classics, poetry, and statecraft—her only "labor" ever being cultivation and study.
"What?" she managed.
"My apologies, great sir. You must be a cultivator from a very ancient era." She tried courtesy. "I can offer high-grade spirit stones in exchange for lodging. The Empire will reward you generously—"
She twisted the spatial ring on her finger—a masterpiece of silver and jade containing the emergency wealth her mother had given her.
Light flashed.
Three Celestial-Grade Spirit Stones fell onto the ground.
Each was the size of a fist, glowing with a deep blue core that looked like it contained oceans, wrapped in veins of pure golden solar qi. In the Empire, one alone could buy a city.
The man didn't even glance at them.
But the air around him… vibrated.
"NEW RECIPES ADDED TO REPOSITORY!"
"Unlocked recipes: 'Basic Storage Ring (Wood)', 'Reinforced Storage Ring (Iron)', 'Advanced Storage Ring (Tungsten)'."
"Consult repository for fabrication requirements."
The three spirit stones flickered violently.
Their glow intensified to blinding brightness—then went dark.
In less than a second, they crumbled into piles of dull gray crystalline dust, which the wasteland wind immediately carried away.
"My stones!" Hui Cao screamed, horror overriding protocol.
"They were my mother's legacy! What demon trick did you use?!"
The man rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable.
"Ugh. Seriously? You eat that stuff?" he muttered, looking up at the sky as if scolding a misbehaving child.
Then he looked at Hui Cao.
In his eyes, she saw something she hadn't expected.
Embarrassment.
"It's… complicated," he admitted.
"Let's just say the 'system' has… cravings. And terrible taste. First time it's pulled something like that with materials I didn't grow myself."
Hui Cao stared at the empty ground.
It wasn't just the value.
It was the last thing her mother had left her.
"What… what happened to my crystals?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"They got eaten," he said simply.
"Like leftover corn after harvest. Sucks—but hey, new recipes."
He paused, seeing her devastated expression.
"So… I'll give you a few weeks off farm work. For the trouble."
A few weeks off?
The compensation was so absurd Hui Cao couldn't even respond.
The man lifted the brim of his hat, scanning the horizon where the red wasteland met a sky the color of oxidized copper.
A sound cut through the distance.
A clear, sharp neigh—clean as a freshly honed blade.
From the distant haze emerged a galloping silhouette.
It wasn't an ethereal spirit beast.
Nor an imperial warhorse.
It was a horse.
A massive stallion with a coat blacker than night itself, mane and tail flowing like banners of shadow. When it drew closer, its eyes shone with a cold, ancient intelligence.
It stopped beside the man and snorted, exhaling breath that smelled of stardust and sun-scorched grass.
"He'll take care of you for now," the man said, patting the horse's neck.
"A shelter. Sword freaks like the ones chasing you—your… father's people?—won't reach it."
With impossible ease, he lifted Hui Cao by the waist—she weighed nothing to him—and set her gently into the saddle.
The saddle wasn't decorated with dragons or phoenixes, but made of reinforced wood and thick fabric, etched with strange markings that resembled scorched circuits.
"He's Blackie," the man said.
"He knows the way. Don't get off until he stops."
Blackie didn't wait.
He pivoted on his hind legs—an elegant, lethal motion—and took off at a trot, then a gallop.
Hui Cao clung to the pommel, looking back as the man, the infinite field of holes, and the remnants of her former life shrank into the distance.
The desolate landscape blurred into streaks of brown and red.
She closed her eyes.
Exhaustion. Trauma. Loss. The sheer insanity of the past hour crashed over her like a tide.
She buried her face in Blackie's neck.
And then she felt it.
Energy.
Not qi.
Not spiritual power.
Something denser.
As if the horse weren't a living creature at all, but a moving deposit of primordial force—so compact its mere existence warped reality.
It was vast.
Infinite, not because it was endless, but because it had no beginning or end.
It simply was.
Blackie snorted, sensing her attention, and increased speed.
In seconds—less than ten, she counted—the scenery changed.
The arid canyons gave way to a valley nestled between jagged rock formations like stone teeth.
And at its center…
It wasn't a simple hut.
It was an outpost.
A large log cabin stood at the heart of it, but around it were structures that made Hui Cao question her sanity:
• A forge whose grates glowed orange-hot with no visible fuel.
• A charcoal kitchen of sharp, efficient design, fitted with metal pipes and knobs.
• Worktables for smithing and carpentry stacked with tools she couldn't identify.
• A gunsmith's bench covered in intricate blueprints—crossbows… and those strange "revolvers."
• A bizarre machine housing a crystal sphere where purple-blue lightning crackled—celestial tribulation lightning—grinding something inside.
It looked like the fever dream of a mad artisan who had stolen parts from heaven, hell, and an imperial forge.
"Ah…" Hui Cao murmured weakly.
"This must be what one sees before entering the Celestial Court. I've died, haven't I?"
Blackie snorted coldly against her neck.
Too real.
The man dismounted.
In his hand, something appeared from nowhere.
A carrot.
But not an ordinary one.
It glowed softly from within, veins pulsing with pure earth energy. The air filled with the scent of freshly turned soil and living sap.
It was a Pure Earth Spiritual Root—a treasure that would start wars between sects at imperial auctions.
And he fed it to the horse.
"Huh. Didn't expect this to actually be a cultivation world," the man said casually.
"Well, if you don't like meat, you'll have to wait until tomorrow's harvest."
Blackie took the carrot delicately and began chewing.
Each crunch released a pulse of earthen power that the beast absorbed with visible pleasure.
Hui Cao stared.
Then she looked at the fields.
The infinite holes.
The system that devoured celestial stones.
The horse eating spiritual roots like snacks.
Something inside her—her last shred of imperial pride—snapped.
"A SPIRITUAL ROOT?!" she screamed, pointing with a shaking finger.
"You fed a spiritual root to a horse?! Do you think those grow in the dirt?!"
She stopped.
Looked at the field.
The holes.
The system.
"Oh," she whispered.
"Oh merciful heavens… what kind of place have I fallen into?"
The man stroked Blackie's neck and glanced at her.
For the first time, a shadow of something like a tired, crooked, but genuine smile appeared on his lips.
The man stepped inside the cabin and returned with two roughly carved wooden plates. Each held a generous portion of roasted meat, still steaming, accompanied by golden potatoes drenched in what looked like melted butter.
But presentation wasn't what mattered.
It was the aura.
A dense, nourishing energy radiated from the food. Not pure qi, but condensed life essence mixed with solar energy and a trace of bestial strength. A meal like this would equal months of meditation for a Foundation Establishment disciple.
Hui Cao took the plate, holding it in her hands.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze toward the twilight sky, as if expecting a divine explanation—some reason why a farmer's dinner radiated more power than a banquet from the richest sect.
"Meat processor won't be ready for a few days," the man said casually, biting into his own portion.
"Can't remember the taste of a proper sausage."
As he spoke, Hui Cao's eyes drifted to the strange machine nearby.
ZAS—ZAS—ZAS.
Small sparks of tribulation lightning leapt within it, racing through copper cables that fed into other machines assembling themselves piece by piece.
Her mind—already overloaded—gave up.
Her expression went blank.
Her eyes glazed over.
She sat there holding divine food like a wooden puppet, completely disconnected from reality.
The man watched her chew mechanically. For an instant, something flickered in his eyes—recognition.
He set his plate down and glanced outside the cabin.
He reached out and touched a rectangular device made of wood and metal, with a dial and a small grille.
"Ah. Good thing I bought the radio during the winter sale," he muttered.
"Let's put on some music."
He turned the dial.
Static.
A sharp whistle.
Then—
"—Once they asked me, ladies and gentlemen, how a man as handsome and full of vigor as yours truly stays young and fresh enough to charm the ladies!"
A voice poured out—deep, oily, dripping with theatrical bravado. The voice of a miracle tonic salesman. A carnival barker.
"Well then! The secret, dear listeners, isn't expensive lotions—no sir! It's the most important thing of all! Doctor Hamilton's Miracle Tonic! One spoon a day keeps the doctor away… and draws the sweetest smiles! And speaking of smiles, remember—one that breaks the gray spirits of everyday life is worth more than any treasure! Just like the joy in our next song… 'Country Trash,' by the great Johnny Cash!"
A click.
Then music.
A raw acoustic guitar.
A gravelly voice weighted with experience.
A song about hard work, humble pride, and the beauty of what others throw away.
The man leaned against a post, closed his eyes, and let the music wash over him.
Blackie flicked an ear in rhythm.
Even the meat processor seemed to spark in time.
Hui Cao—still in shock—felt something strange.
The music didn't demand reverence.
Didn't ask understanding.
Didn't care if she grasped it.
It simply was.
Slowly—mechanically—she brought a piece of potato to her mouth.
The flavor exploded.
Warmth spread through her damaged meridians.
Quiet strength soothed her battered spirit.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, heavy, cleansing the dust of the road.
It wasn't sorrow.
It was surrender.
When the song ended, the man opened his eyes.
"Good taste, system," he murmured.
"Always bringing out the classics."
He turned to Hui Cao, who was still eating slowly.
"Alright, kid. You take the bed tonight. I'll manage in the rocking chair. Don't sleep much anyway."
Beside the cabin, the generator—a mass of metal with a pulsing blue crystal at its core—hummed louder for a moment, glowing faintly, as if agreeing.
Before Hui Cao could respond, a voice echoed:
"Fabrication complete: Firearm-type weapon 'Winchester Repeating Rifle (Wasteland Model)', modified for tungsten ammunition. Experience gained: +7000 XP."
A hiss of compressed air burst from the gunsmith's bench.
A metal plate lit up, displaying a green schematic of a long, elegant rifle—simple, deadly.
"Damn it," the man cursed, slapping his forehead.
"Forgot I had that rifle queued."
He scratched his head and walked toward the bench, like someone who'd left bread in the oven too long.
The radio crackled again.
The carnival voice faded, replaced by a newsreader—grave, theatrical.
"And as we always say, dear listeners, love brings us together even in our darkest hours! That's the truth, I swear it—I love you all! And now, tonight's news!"
Hui Cao stared at the radio.
"The old raiders of Black Mountain continue their attacks on travelers through Silent Canyon. Alternative routes are advised… or a steady aim, if you're very, very brave."
"Also, the 'Mike and Charles' coal mine is calling for volunteers to search for diamonds in its lower veins. Extreme caution advised—not just for methane gas… but for a treacherous friend at your side. Until next time, and remember—trust is a luxury, and the bullet is reality!"
The transmission cut.
Black Mountain.
Silent Canyon.
Mike and Charles Mine.
Names that weren't from the Empire—yet sounded disturbingly real.
The man returned holding the Winchester.
He inspected it, running a finger along the dark wooden stock. He chambered a long, dull-gray bullet.
He gestured toward the bed inside the cabin.
"Bed's yours. System says restorative sleep gives more experience tomorrow."
He shrugged. "Never really tested it."
He took the Winchester, sat down in the rocking chair on the porch, the rifle resting across his legs, staring into the darkness.
Hui Cao entered the cabin.
It was austere, but orderly.
Tools.
Labeled jars—"Herbal Salt – Little Granny, Best of the West", "Tungsten Powder – Brill, Hardest in the West."
And the bed.
She lay down.
The sounds of the wasteland wrapped around her—the generator's hum, the wind, the slow creak of the rocking chair…
Outside, the man raised the rifle and spoke calmly.
"Practice range."
The air in front of the cabin rippled.
With the sound of grinding gears, a full shooting range materialized. Steel targets shaped like rabbits and ducks. At the top, a corroded plaque:
"Mc & Wilhelm Bullets & Guns – Official Suppliers of Precision and Trust since 1887."
BANG!
Ding.
BANG!
Ding.
Hui Cao—no longer certain what was real—sank into deep sleep, lulled by practice shots and the steady hum of the generator.
The radio turned on by itself one final time.
"…And well, friends, that's all for tonight's program. See you next time. And remember—a well-loaded, well-maintained gun beats scrap that breaks at the first moment. Music belongs in the heart… and spurs on the heels. Good night, and good hunting."
A final chord.
Silence.