Shuan didn't sleep.
He sat by the window, watching the stars move across the sky with mechanical precision. Unchanging. Indifferent.
The bag sat packed by the door. Thirty-three silver taels hidden in its lining. A knife that couldn't cut anything tougher than bread. Rations that would last maybe a week.
All useless now.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd spent days planning his escape, gathering resources, working up the courage to leave.
And in the end, he was leaving anyway.
Just not on his terms.
Around midnight, footsteps approached his door. They paused outside, hesitant.
His father's footsteps. Shuan knew the rhythm of them.
A long silence.
Then they walked away.
Good.
There was nothing left to say.
Dawn came gray and cold.
Shuan dressed in his simplest clothes—the ones without any family markings. He slung the bag over his shoulder and stood in the doorway of his room for a moment, looking back.
Ten years of his life in this small space.
He felt nothing.
The courtyard was already occupied when he arrived. Elder Feng stood near a covered wagon, speaking quietly with Shen Kuang. Two guards from the sect waited nearby, their expressions bored.
Old Servant Wang stood off to the side, his weathered face carefully neutral. When he saw Shuan, he gave a small nod.
No one else had come to see him off.
Lin Zheng Yuan appeared from the main hall as Shuan approached. He'd aged years in a single night—new lines around his eyes, shoulders slightly hunched.
They stood facing each other.
"I've arranged for you to receive a small monthly allowance," his father said. His voice was hoarse, like he'd been shouting. Or maybe crying. "It's not much, but—"
"Don't."
Lin Zheng Yuan stopped.
"Don't pretend this is something other than what it is," Shuan said quietly. "You made your choice. The family survives. I understand the mathematics."
"It's not that simple."
"It is exactly that simple."
His father's jaw worked soundlessly. Finally: "I'm sorry."
Shuan looked at him. Really looked at him.
A man crushed by the weight of inherited responsibility. A father who'd never learned how to be one. A cultivator whose potential had peaked decades ago, leaving him to manage decline instead of pursuing greatness.
Pathetic.
But also... human.
"I know," Shuan said.
He walked past his father toward the wagon.
Elder Feng turned as he approached, giving him the same assessing look from last night.
"You're prompt. Good. I despise waiting."
Shuan said nothing.
"Put your bag in the wagon and sit in the back. We have a long journey ahead."
Shuan climbed into the wagon bed. It was filled with sealed crates and covered bundles—Elder Feng's equipment, presumably. He found a spot between two boxes and sat down.
The wagon lurched forward.
Shuan didn't look back.
They traveled in silence for the first hour.
The road leading away from Shianji Town was poorly maintained, full of ruts and loose stones. The wagon jolted and swayed with every bump.
Elder Feng sat up front with the driver, occasionally making notes in a small journal. Shen Kuang rode alongside on horseback, his expression as disinterested as ever. The two guards followed behind, talking quietly among themselves.
No one spoke to Shuan.
He was cargo. Nothing more.
The sun climbed higher. The landscape shifted from farmland to scrub forest, the road narrowing as they moved further from civilization.
Around midday, Elder Feng called a halt.
"We'll rest here for an hour. Water the horses."
The guards immediately set about their tasks. Shen Kuang dismounted and walked off into the trees without a word, probably to relieve himself.
Elder Feng approached the wagon, looking at Shuan for the first time since they'd left.
"Come. Walk with me."
It wasn't a request.
Shuan climbed down, his legs stiff from sitting.
Elder Feng led him away from the road, into a small clearing surrounded by thin trees. The old man moved with surprising agility for someone his age—not the fluid grace of a powerful cultivator, but the efficient economy of motion that came from decades of practice.
He stopped in the center of the clearing and turned to face Shuan.
"Do you know why I requested you specifically?"
"No, Elder."
"Elder Zhao told me about the missing spirit stone. About the searches. About how nothing was found despite thorough investigation."
Shuan's blood went cold.
"He suggested that perhaps someone in the Lin family was clever enough to hide it where even a Foundation Establishment cultivator couldn't find it. Or perhaps..." Elder Feng smiled thinly. "Perhaps they'd already sold it."
Silence.
"I don't care about the stone," Elder Feng continued. "It's worthless. But someone who could evade detection by Shen Kuang—even through luck or accident—demonstrates a certain... practical intelligence."
He began walking in a slow circle around Shuan.
"I need an assistant. Someone young, with spiritual roots weak enough that they're disposable, but not so completely talentless that they're useless. Someone smart enough to follow complex instructions but desperate enough not to ask uncomfortable questions."
He stopped in front of Shuan again.
"You fit those requirements perfectly."
"What kind of research?" Shuan asked.
Elder Feng's smile widened slightly. "The kind that proper cultivators with bright futures don't volunteer for."
He pulled something from his robes—a small glass vial filled with dark red liquid. It looked like blood, but thicker.
"Tell me, boy. How much do you know about spiritual root augmentation?"
"Nothing, Elder."
"Good. That makes this simpler." Elder Feng held up the vial. "The quality of one's spiritual roots is determined at birth and traditionally considered immutable. But recent research suggests this may not be entirely true."
He turned the vial slowly, watching the liquid move.
"Certain alchemical compounds, when introduced to a living meridian system, can theoretically alter the structure of spiritual roots. Strengthen weak connections. Open blocked pathways. Transform Grade Eight roots into Grade Seven. Or even higher."
Shuan's breath caught. "That's possible?"
"No one knows. The experiments required are... extensive. Painful. Most subjects don't survive the initial trials."
Most subjects.
"That's what you need me for," Shuan said quietly. "To test these compounds."
"Precisely." Elder Feng pocketed the vial. "You're smarter than you look. Good."
He started walking back toward the road.
"You have a choice, of course. You can refuse. Run away at the next town we pass through. I won't stop you."
He glanced back over his shoulder.
"But if you stay, and if you survive the experiments, you might actually become something other than worthless. Your Grade Eight roots could improve. Perhaps significantly."
He smiled.
"Or you might die screaming. But at least you'd die with purpose."
Elder Feng disappeared back through the trees.
Shuan stood alone in the clearing, the old man's words echoing in his mind.
Die screaming.
Or become something more.
The choice should have been obvious.
Run. Escape. Take his chances on the road.
But running to what? He had thirty-three silver taels and no cultivation worth mentioning. In a world where strength was everything, he was nothing. Would always be nothing.
Unless...
Unless I survive.
It was insane. Suicidal.
But it was also the first real choice he'd been offered in his entire life.
He walked back to the wagon.
That night, they camped beside the road.
The guards built a fire. Elder Feng retired to a tent with his journals and instruments. Shen Kuang sat apart from everyone, meditating with his eyes closed.
Shuan sat near the fire, not eating, just staring into the flames.
One of the guards—a middle-aged man with a scar across his cheek—eventually sat down across from him.
"First time leaving home?"
Shuan nodded.
"It gets easier." The guard pulled out a whetstone and began sharpening his sword with slow, practiced strokes. "The first few nights are always the hardest."
"Did you have a choice?" Shuan asked. "When you left?"
The guard paused mid-stroke. "No. I was sold to the sect when I was twelve. Debt settlement."
"Do you regret it?"
"Every day." The guard resumed sharpening. "But I'm still alive. That counts for something."
He examined his blade, then slid it back into its sheath.
"Elder Feng's assistants don't usually last long," he said quietly. "Most of them... well. Just be careful."
"Why are you telling me this?"
The guard shrugged. "Because you remind me of someone. My younger brother. He had that same look in his eyes—like he was already calculating how to survive something terrible."
"What happened to him?"
"He survived." The guard stood, brushing dirt from his pants. "Though I'm not sure he's still the same person afterward."
He walked away, leaving Shuan alone by the fire.
Shuan pulled his knees to his chest, staring at the flames.
Survive.
That's all that matters.
Just survive.