They left the mountain platform at dawn.
Mist clung to the stone paths like a living thing, curling around their ankles as they descended the broken stairway carved into the cliffside. The sect loomed far above them now, its white towers piercing the clouds, distant and indifferent—like a memory that had already decided to forget them.
He leaned heavily on a rough wooden staff the girl had fashioned from a fallen branch. Every step sent dull pain through his legs, his chest, his very bones. This body had been pushed beyond its limits long before he arrived in it.
Yet he did not complain.
Not once.
She noticed.
"You're quieter than usual," she said, glancing back at him. "Did the fall finally knock sense into you?"
He managed a faint smile. "I'm thinking."
"That's new."
Her tone was light, but there was tension beneath it. She kept her senses extended, eyes sharp, hand never straying far from the short blade at her waist. Leaving a sect without permission was not just frowned upon—it was dangerous. Outer disciples who vanished were often assumed dead. Sometimes they were made so.
They descended for hours.
The higher paths gave way to rough trails, then to nothing at all. They followed instinct, memory, and the faint pull of spiritual veins beneath the earth—something she could still sense, something he could not.
Eventually, they reached a narrow valley hidden between two sloping ridges. Ancient trees crowded the space, their roots thick and twisted, drinking deeply from the land's lingering spiritual energy. A stream cut through the center, its waters clear and cold.
She stopped.
"This is far enough for now."
He nodded and lowered himself carefully onto a flat stone near the stream. His hands shook from exhaustion, but there was relief too. The sect's oppressive presence—its rules, its judgment, its invisible hierarchy—felt thinner here. Like air after leaving a sealed room.
She crouched and began unpacking a small cloth bundle. Inside were dried fruits, two pieces of coarse bread, and a tiny ceramic bottle.
"Eat slowly," she said. "Your body won't handle too much."
He obeyed. The bread was hard and bland, but it filled the ache in his stomach. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until now.
As they ate, silence settled naturally between them.
It wasn't awkward.
It was thoughtful.
When he finished, he rinsed his hands in the stream, then stared into the moving water. His reflection wavered—black hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, pale skin, sharp but tired eyes. A stranger's face, yet one that already felt… familiar.
"Why did you come after me?" he asked suddenly.
She stiffened.
"You'd have died."
"That's not an answer."
She sighed and sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. "Because everyone else already decided you were worthless," she said quietly. "And I hate decisions made that easily."
He turned to her. "That's dangerous."
"I know."
For a moment, neither spoke. Leaves rustled above them, stirred by a wind that carried the faint scent of rain.
"My foundation is broken," he said at last. "You felt it."
"Yes."
"Even if I survive, I won't be able to cultivate normally."
"I know."
He looked at her, searching for doubt, regret, second thoughts.
There were none.
"Then why stay?" he asked.
She met his gaze steadily. "Because cultivation isn't everything."
The words struck deeper than she probably intended.
In the memories he had inherited, that statement bordered on heresy. Cultivation defined worth. Power decided survival. Everything else was decoration at best, weakness at worst.
And yet—
In his previous life, he had chased success the same way others chased the Dao. Worked harder. Endured more. Told himself fulfillment would come later.
It never did.
"Still," he said, "I won't drag you down with me."
She smiled faintly. "Too late."
Before he could respond, her expression sharpened. She stood slowly, eyes scanning the trees.
"Something's wrong."
The air felt heavier all at once.
Not hostile—hungry.
From between the roots of an ancient tree, something moved.
A shadow detached itself from the bark, resolving into the shape of a beast—low to the ground, lean, its body half-formed of mist and fur. Pale eyes gleamed with dull intelligence. A Spirit Wolf, weakened but still dangerous.
Her hand flew to her blade.
He stood as well, heart pounding—not with fear, but frustration. His instincts screamed to circulate qi, to strengthen his limbs, to prepare—
Nothing answered.
The wolf lunged.
She moved first.
Her blade flashed, catching the creature across the flank. It yelped, skidding back, mist-like blood evaporating where it struck the ground. But it did not flee.
Instead, it circled.
"Stay behind me," she said sharply.
"I can help."
"With what?"
He had no answer.
The wolf attacked again, faster this time. She met it head-on, slashing and dodging, her movements precise but strained. She was only at the early stages of cultivation herself. One mistake would be enough.
He scanned the surroundings desperately.
The stream.
The stones.
The roots—
"Drive it left!" he shouted. "Toward the stream!"
She hesitated only a heartbeat, then obeyed.
As the wolf leapt, she sidestepped, guiding it exactly where he pointed. Its paws hit wet stone. It slipped.
That was all it took.
She plunged her blade into its throat.
The beast shuddered once, then dissolved into drifting mist, leaving behind a faintly glowing shard—its core.
She exhaled shakily and leaned on her sword.
Then she laughed.
A short, breathless sound. "You really are trouble."
He walked over slowly. "You okay?"
"Barely."
She looked at the shard, then at him. After a pause, she pressed it into his hand.
"What?" he said. "You need this more than I do."
"You can't absorb it," she replied. "Not yet. But hold onto it."
"For what?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. But something tells me you'll need it more than I will."
He closed his fingers around the warm shard. For just a moment—just a flicker—he felt something stir deep within him. Not qi. Something quieter. Something… listening.
The feeling vanished as quickly as it came.
They made camp that night beneath the trees.
Rain fell softly, pattering against leaves and stone. They sat close to the small fire, sharing warmth. He stared into the flames, thoughts heavy.
"My old world," he said suddenly. "It didn't have cultivation."
She looked up. "Then how did people grow stronger?"
"They worked. They learned. They failed a lot."
She tilted her head. "That sounds exhausting."
"It was."
"And yet you miss it."
He considered. "I miss parts of it."
She nodded, as if that made sense.
Later, as the fire burned low, she fell asleep against a tree, exhaustion finally claiming her. He remained awake, listening to the rain, the forest, the quiet pulse of a world that did not care whether he lived or died.
He took out the shard again.
In the dim firelight, it glowed softly.
He closed his eyes.
This time, when he reached inward, something answered.
Not power.
Not yet.
But a presence—vast, distant, layered behind layers of resistance.
Like a veil.
High above them, unseen through clouds and rain, the Heavenly Veil shimmered faintly.
And for the first time, it noticed him looking back.