The gates closed without ceremony.
There was no thunder, no final decree echoing across the peaks. The massive stone doors simply moved inward, met, and sealed with a dull, decisive sound.
Shen An stood outside them.
For a moment, he did not move.
Wind slid down from the mountain ridges, unfiltered by formation arrays. It was colder than he remembered. Or perhaps he simply felt it more now.
Behind those gates lay spirit veins, protection, structured hierarchy, and the invisible pressure of cultivated qi saturating the air.
Out here—
There was nothing.
He exhaled slowly.
His dantian was a hollow ruin. When he attempted to circulate even a thread of qi, there was no response. No warmth. No current. Only emptiness.
So this is what remains.
He adjusted the cloth bundle over his shoulder. Two worn robes. A blanket thin enough to insult winter. A small book. And wrapped carefully inside a separate fold—
The cracked clay bowl.
He had carried it when he first left the village years ago. His mother had pressed it into his hands.
"We don't have much," she had said, smiling softly. "But this one never breaks completely."
It had, in fact, broken twice. Iron staples held the fracture lines together now.
He began walking.
The mountain path that once felt short now stretched endlessly.
When he had been a cultivator—even a low-ranking disciple—distance had been flexible. A steady circulation of qi strengthened muscle, steadied breath, lightened steps. Even fatigue was manageable.
Now, each descent jarred his knees.
The uneven stone edges dug into thin-soled cloth shoes. His calves trembled within the first half hour.
He forced himself not to stop too frequently. Pride was useless, but discipline remained.
By mid-afternoon, his breath had grown ragged.
Sweat soaked through the back of his robe. The weight of the bundle seemed to double with each bend in the road.
He paused beside a rock outcropping and leaned one hand against it.
His palm shook.
He stared at it.
So fragile.
He attempted to regulate his breathing the way he once had during cultivation.
Inhale. Guide energy downward. Stabilize.
Nothing responded.
Only air.
He let out a faint breath that almost resembled a laugh.
This is real.
He continued.
By dusk, he had barely reached the lower forest slope.
The sect's towering peaks still loomed behind him, though partially obscured by mist. He did not turn back.
Hunger began as a dull sensation.
Then it sharpened.
He had eaten little since morning. Cultivators could go days on minimal intake if qi was abundant. Now his body demanded immediate fuel.
He searched along the roadside and found sparse wild berries clinging to a thorny bush.
Sour.
Small.
He ate them anyway.
They did nothing to quiet the growing ache beneath his ribs.
As night settled, the temperature dropped sharply.
Without qi circulation, the cold penetrated fast.
He located an abandoned roadside shrine—a crumbling structure built of stone and rotted wood. The idol inside had lost its face to weather. Moss climbed its shoulders.
It would block the wind, at least.
He entered.
The air smelled of damp earth and neglect.
He set his bundle down carefully. Unwrapped the cracked bowl and placed it beside him, almost instinctively.
Then he sat cross-legged.
The stone floor leached heat from his body.
He wrapped the thin blanket tighter.
Wind moaned through gaps in the broken roof beams.
Hours stretched.
His stomach twisted repeatedly, forcing him to curl slightly.
He had known hunger before—briefly, as a child. But since entering the sect, meals had been regular. Even outer disciples did not starve.
Now there was no kitchen hall.
No shared rice.
No quiet chatter of fellow disciples.
Only wind.
And his own breath.
He did not sleep easily.
The second day began with stiffness.
His legs resisted straightening fully. His shoulders ached from carrying the bundle.
He resumed walking.
Lower terrain flattened gradually into forested hills.
Midday, he heard laughter ahead.
Three men stood near the road—rough clothing, blades at their belts. Not cultivators. Bandits.
They saw him immediately.
One squinted.
"Oi. You."
Shen An stopped.
He could not outrun them.
"Where are you coming from?" another asked.
"The mountain," Shen An replied evenly.
They exchanged glances.
"From the sect?" The first man stepped closer, eyes scanning him.
Shen An did not answer.
The bandit circled once, assessing.
"Where's your aura?" he muttered.
Another snorted. "You think he's a cultivator? Look at him. He's barely standing."
The first man shoved him lightly in the chest.
Shen An staggered backward, barely keeping his balance.
Laughter erupted.
"Search him."
The third bandit stepped forward, rifled through his outer robe. Found nothing.
No coin pouch.
No talismans.
No jade token.
He pulled out the wrapped cloth and unrolled it carelessly.
The cracked bowl tumbled out.
They stared at it.
Silence.
Then—
They laughed again.
"A broken bowl?" one said.
"That's what you're carrying down from the immortal mountain?"
The first bandit spat on the ground.
"Leave him. He's got nothing worth stealing."
They shoved him once more, harder this time, and walked off, still chuckling.
Shen An remained where he stood until their footsteps faded.
He slowly crouched and picked up the bowl.
Inspected it.
No new cracks.
He wiped the dirt off carefully with his sleeve.
The shove had jarred his ribs. Pain lingered sharply when he inhaled too deeply.
He stood again.
So this is worth.
Not a threat. Not even a target.
Invisible.
He resumed walking.
By the third day, blisters had formed on both heels.
Each step reopened them.
He did not stop.
Stopping meant sleeping in the open again.
He forced himself onward until the forest thinned and distant smoke indicated human settlement.
A small village lay ahead.
Mud-walled homes. Thatched roofs. Chickens wandering loosely.
He approached cautiously.
A few villagers looked up from their tasks.
Their gazes were not welcoming, but neither openly hostile.
He bowed slightly.
"I am seeking work," he said.
The words felt unfamiliar in his mouth.
An older man leaned on a hoe, eyeing him critically.
"You sick?" the man asked.
"No."
"You look it."
Shen An said nothing further.
The man shrugged. "Carry water from the well to the east field. We'll give you porridge."
He nodded.
The buckets were heavier than expected.
The rope burned his palms.
By the fourth trip, his arms trembled uncontrollably.
A younger villager watched with faint amusement.
"You don't look built for farm work."
"I will manage," Shen An replied.
The villager rolled his eyes.
By dusk, he had completed the task.
They handed him a wooden bowl of thin rice porridge.
He ate slowly.
It tasted better than anything he remembered.
Because he was truly hungry.
That night, they did not offer lodging.
He slept beneath a cart near the field's edge.
He placed the cracked bowl beside his head.
The sky above was wide and unguarded.
No formation arrays.
No protective barriers.
Just stars.
He watched them for a long time.
In the sect, the stars had seemed smaller somehow—obscured by ambition and hierarchy.
Out here, they felt vast.
Indifferent.
His body ached everywhere.
His ribs throbbed where the bandit had shoved him.
His feet burned.
But something within him was quiet.
He was not angry.
Not yet.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time since leaving the gates, sleep came without interruption.
Not deep.
Not peaceful.
But real.
Before dawn, he awoke to frost.
His blanket had done little.
His fingers felt stiff.
He sat up slowly.
The village was still.
Roosters had not yet begun.
He wrapped the bowl carefully in cloth again and tied it to his bundle.
He stood.
His legs protested.
He breathed through it.
Then he began walking again.
Behind him, the mountain peaks were barely visible through the morning haze.
He did not look back.
Ahead—
Only road.
Only uncertainty.
And no qi to carry him.
The road curved away from the village before the sun had fully risen.
Shen An did not stay.
Temporary labor meant temporary tolerance. Once his usefulness ended, so did his welcome. He had learned that quickly.
The frost on the grass had not yet melted when he stepped back into the forested stretch between settlements. His breath came in thin white strands. The blisters on his heels had hardened overnight, but each step still pressed against raw flesh beneath.
Hunger returned sooner this time.
Porridge sustained him for a few hours. Nothing more.
He scanned the underbrush as he walked.
When one no longer possessed qi, survival became a matter of observation.
He noticed movement near a cluster of low shrubs just past midday.
A rabbit.
Gray fur, alert ears, thin but sufficient.
He stopped immediately.
Did not rush.
He crouched carefully, shifting his weight slowly to avoid snapping twigs beneath his feet.
In the sect, he had practiced footwork techniques capable of silencing entire movements. Now he relied only on balance and patience.
The rabbit twitched its nose.
He took one step.
Another.
It bolted.
He lunged instinctively—
And his foot slipped on loose leaves.
He fell hard against exposed roots, his shoulder striking first, his chin slamming into dirt.
By the time he pushed himself upright, the rabbit had vanished.
He sat there for a moment, tasting soil.
He spat.
His shoulder throbbed sharply.
"I was too direct," he muttered quietly.
The forest did not respond.
He stood again.
Hunting without qi was not pursuit.
It was planning.
He moved deeper into the brush, studying the ground. Small prints. Droppings. Narrow pathways through grass.
He fashioned a crude snare from a torn strip of inner robe and thin branch fibers twisted together. His fingers worked slower than they once would have, but steadier than yesterday.
It took time.
He set the loop carefully at a narrow gap between two stones where tracks were dense.
Then he waited.
Waiting was colder than walking.
Wind passed through the trees in uneven breaths. His stomach tightened again.
He attempted to regulate his breathing to conserve strength.
No qi flowed.
Only air.
An hour passed.
Then another.
The forest remained still.
He began to suspect failure.
Then—
A sharp rustle.
A violent thrashing.
He rose too quickly, nearly losing his balance, and rushed forward.
The snare held.
The rabbit struggled, its hind leg caught tight in the cloth loop.
It screamed—a thin, high sound that pierced the quiet.
Shen An hesitated only briefly before grasping it firmly.
The body was warm.
Fragile.
Alive.
He ended it quickly, pressing down and twisting sharply.
Silence returned.
He remained kneeling for several breaths, staring at the still form in his hands.
When he had been a disciple, meat had arrived cooked in bowls. No one thought of the hands that prepared it.
Now he understood.
He carried it to a small clearing.
Fire came next.
That proved more difficult than the trap.
He gathered dry twigs. Scraped bark. Struck stone against stone repeatedly until sparks caught thin fibers.
The first attempt died.
The second sputtered out.
The third caught faintly, smoke rising before flame followed.
His eyes stung as he fed it carefully.
By the time a steady flame formed, sweat mixed with soot along his temples.
He sat back, breathing hard.
So simple.
So exhausting.
He began skinning the rabbit.
This part tested him more than the fall.
The blade he carried was small, duller than ideal. He cut carefully along the belly.
The first slice was uneven.
He adjusted his grip.
His hands were not as steady as he wished.
He pulled the hide slowly—
The blade slipped.
A sharp sting lanced through his left index finger.
He inhaled sharply.
Blood welled immediately, bright and thick.
He frowned slightly.
Careless.
He pressed the wound briefly against his robe, then returned to work.
Several drops fell unnoticed.
Not onto the ground.
Onto the cracked bowl he had placed nearby to collect water earlier.
Clear water turned faintly tinted.
He did not look at it.
The iron staples along the bowl's fractured seam darkened—just slightly—for a single breath.
No glow.
No light.
No sound.
Then stillness.
He finished preparing the meat with deliberate slowness.
He skewered it with a thin branch and held it above the flame.
The smell of roasting flesh filled the clearing.
His stomach tightened painfully at the scent.
He waited.
Too long on one side.
The outer layer charred slightly.
He adjusted.
Turned it.
When he finally tore off a piece and tasted it, it was undercooked near the bone and burnt at the edges.
He chewed anyway.
It was the best thing he had eaten in days.
After eating, he poured some of the boiled broth into the cracked bowl.
The water inside, mixed faintly with earlier blood, had been heated by the fire.
He lifted it to his lips.
Drank.
Warmth spread down his throat into his chest.
He closed his eyes briefly.
It was not qi.
There was no circulation.
No internal current responding.
But something settled.
The trembling in his hands eased faster than expected.
The tight ache in his stomach softened without a lingering cramp.
He exhaled slowly.
Food.
That was all.
He told himself that.
He finished the broth and set the bowl down beside him.
The iron staples remained darker than before.
He did not notice.
Night fell more gently this time.
He built the fire lower to conserve wood.
The forest seemed less hostile with food in his body.
He leaned back against a tree trunk, exhaustion pressing heavy behind his eyes.
His shoulder still throbbed from the fall.
His finger pulsed with a dull ache.
He examined it briefly.
The cut was shallow.
Manageable.
He wrapped it with a strip torn from his inner sleeve.
He lay down on his side, using his bundle as a pillow.
The cracked bowl rested near his hand.
Wind moved through the leaves overhead.
He listened.
When he had been in the sect, nights were filled with subtle sounds—distant training strikes, murmured recitations, the faint hum of formations stabilizing spiritual currents.
Out here—
Only insects.
Only branches shifting.
Only his own breathing.
He realized something quietly.
Today, he had failed.
Fallen.
Burned meat.
Cut himself.
Yet he had also succeeded.
He had eaten because of his own effort.
No sect kitchen.
No assigned rations.
No borrowed qi.
Just labor.
The thought was not triumphant.
It was steady.
His eyelids grew heavy.
Sleep took him more quickly than the night before.
Deep.
Unbroken.
And somewhere in the silence between breaths—
Something shifted faintly within him.
Not qi.
Not awakening.
Just… alignment.
He did not dream.
Not yet.
The fire dimmed slowly to embers.
And Shen An slept like a mortal beneath the open sky.