Lin Chen was born in a village so small that it did not appear on any map.
The elders used to say the village existed only because the mountains had not yet bothered to crush it. Wooden houses leaned against one another for support, their roofs patched with straw and old cloth. When the wind blew, dust rose into the air and lingered, as if unwilling to leave.
That dust clung to Lin Chen from the moment he could walk.
Before dawn, while the sky was still dark and cold, Lin Chen opened his eyes. The fire in the kitchen stove had long died, leaving only ashes. He slept beside it, curled tightly to preserve warmth, using an old sack as a blanket.
He did not stretch. He did not sigh.
He simply stood up.
At twelve years old, his body was thin, his arms weak, and his clothes hung loosely on him. The coarse fabric scratched his skin, but he was used to it. He tied his hair with a frayed rope and stepped outside, where the stone courtyard was wet with morning dew.
The first task of the day was water.
Lin Chen lifted two wooden buckets, their handles worn smooth by countless hands. He walked to the well, lowered the rope, and hauled the water up slowly, carefully. If he spilled even a little, he would be punished for wasting resources.
Each step back felt heavier than the last. The water sloshed. His arms trembled. Cold seeped through his sandals and into his bones.
But he did not stop.
Stopping was not an option.
The Zhang household was the largest family in the village, and Lin Chen belonged to it—not as kin, but as property.
No one remembered when he had arrived. Some said he had been left at the gates as a baby. Others said his parents died of illness or hunger. No one truly cared.
He had no surname at first.
Later, someone lazily called him Chen, meaning dust.
The name stayed.
As the sun slowly rose, Lin Chen moved through the courtyard like a shadow. He swept fallen leaves, scrubbed mud from the steps, and carried firewood to the kitchen. Smoke burned his eyes as he lit the stove, but he kept his head lowered.
Servants were not supposed to look up.
When Lady Zhang passed by, her embroidered robes never brushed against him. She did not need to acknowledge his existence.
"You," she said sharply, pointing with her fan. "Move faster."
Lin Chen bowed deeply. "Yes, Madam."
His voice was quiet. It had to be.
A loud servant was a troublesome servant.
A troublesome servant did not last long.
By midday, sweat soaked through his clothes. His stomach ached, empty since the night before. The smell of freshly cooked rice drifted from the main hall, where the Zhang family ate their meals.
Lin Chen was not allowed inside.
He waited until the bowls were cleared, until the laughter faded, until only scraps remained.
Sometimes there was food.
Sometimes there was not.
Today, he received a small bowl of watery porridge with two grains of rice floating on top.
He ate slowly, savoring each swallow as if it were a feast.
As evening fell, the village quieted. Chickens returned to their coops. Smoke rose gently from chimneys. Families gathered for warmth and conversation.
Lin Chen scrubbed pots in silence.
When his work was done, he returned to his place beside the cold stove. His hands were raw, his muscles sore, but he did not complain.
Complaining changed nothing.
He lay down, staring at the cracked ceiling above him. Through a small gap, he could see a sliver of the night sky.
Stars glittered faintly.
Lin Chen watched them for a long time.
Somewhere beyond those stars, cultivators flew through the heavens, wielding power that could shake mountains. He had heard stories whispered by villagers—stories of immortals, of strength, of fate.
He did not dare imagine himself among them.
He was only dust.
But as sleep finally claimed him, a quiet thought stirred in his heart, fragile yet stubborn:
Even dust exists beneath the sky.