Zhao Wen opened his eyes to grass.
Not the scratchy mat beside his bed. Not the thin carpet of his apartment. Real grass—cool, slightly damp, bending beneath his fingers when he moved.
He lay still for several breaths, staring upward.
The sky was vast. Not empty, but deep, layered with slow-moving clouds that drifted without urgency. The light was soft, neither morning nor evening, and it gave the world a muted clarity that made everything feel unreal and sharp at the same time.
Zhao Wen pushed himself upright.
Mountains surrounded him.
They rose in every direction, their peaks hidden by clouds, their slopes layered one behind another like waves frozen mid-motion. Mist clung to the lower elevations, drifting lazily, parting and reforming as though breathing.
No buildings.
No roads.
No people.
"This… isn't my room," he said quietly.
His voice sounded normal. Too normal.
He stood, legs trembling slightly. His body still felt weak—thin, light, unreliable—but something was different. His chest rose and fell easily. Breathing did not feel like work. The tightness he carried so often, the background discomfort he had learned to ignore, was absent.
The air felt familiar.
His eyes widened slightly.
It was the same sensation as the mountain that day. The same pressure, the same clarity. But here, it was stronger—and yet it didn't suffocate him. It wrapped around him gently, like water holding something afloat rather than pulling it under.
He pinched his arm.
Pain flared sharply.
He hissed, then laughed under his breath.
"Not a dream," he muttered.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
No one appeared. No voice spoke. The mountains remained unmoved by his presence, the clouds drifting on as if he were an afterthought.
After a while, he noticed the path.
Stone steps, worn smooth, climbed the mountain ahead of him. They did not look newly built, nor ancient enough to crumble. They simply… existed, as though the mountain had always expected people to walk there.
Zhao Wen hesitated, then stepped onto the path.
The climb was slow.
His legs burned quickly. His breath deepened, but never turned ragged. He stopped often, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, waiting for the familiar dizziness that usually followed exertion.
It never came.
Fatigue existed. Weakness remained. But the air itself seemed to take part of the burden, easing it just enough that he could continue.
This place doesn't make me strong, he realized.
It just doesn't let me break.
He climbed.
Doubt surfaced again. Fever. Hallucination. Some elaborate trick of the mind. He pinched himself a second time, harder this time, until his eyes watered.
Still real.
After what felt like far too long, the path leveled out.
A platform emerged from the slope—stone smoothed flat, wide enough to stand without fear of slipping. The clouds thinned here, revealing more of the mountain's vastness.
And someone was waiting.
The man stood near the edge of the platform, hands folded behind his back. He wore robes that moved gently despite the absence of wind. His posture was straight, his presence quiet—but the space around him felt… heavier.
Zhao Wen stopped instinctively.
The man turned.
"You have finally arrived," he said.
Zhao Wen swallowed. "Do you… know me?"
"The Lord informed me," the man replied calmly.
"The Lord?" Zhao Wen echoed.
The man did not answer.
Instead, he gestured upward.
"This is the lowest summit," he said. "The sect gate lies above."
Zhao Wen followed his gaze. The mountain continued rising, steeper now, disappearing into dense clouds.
"You must reach it before sunset," the man continued. "If you fail, you are unworthy."
Zhao Wen's heart skipped. "Unworthy of what?"
The man's eyes met his.
"Those who fail," he said evenly, "forget this place."
Before Zhao Wen could respond, the man stepped forward—and rose into the air.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically.
As naturally as one might step onto another stair.
He ascended, robes unmoving, body steady, and vanished into the clouds above.
Zhao Wen stood alone.
His legs trembled, not from exhaustion, but from shock.
He looked up again.
The sun hung low in the sky, its position unmistakable now. It was descending—slowly, yes, but undeniably moving toward the horizon.
Before sunset, he thought.
He took a breath.
Then another.
His body was weak. His legs hurt. His chest still bore the memory of illness. He could not fly. He did not understand where he was, or what this place truly was.
But he knew one thing.
If he stopped now, he would lose everything—without ever knowing what it was he had almost touched.
Zhao Wen clenched his fists.
"I can do it," he said quietly.
And he started climbing again.
End of Chapter 38