For the first time in thirty-six thousand, five hundred days, Han Xiao did not pick up his broom.
[Ding!]
[Centennial Reward: 7 Days of Absolute Rest.]
[System Note: During this period, your presence is 'Natural.' You are the wind; you are the shadow. No karma shall bind you.]
Han Xiao stood at the edge of the Seventh Peak, his hands empty. It felt strange. His palms, calloused from a century of wood and stone, felt light. He decided to walk down to the "Azure Market," a bustling town at the foot of the mountains where outer disciples and mortal merchants traded.
He walked slowly. He wasn't rushing to buy spirit stones or rare herbs. He was just... walking.
The market was a cacophony of noise.
"High-grade Spirit Rice! Only three low-grade spirit stones a bowl!"
"Flying Sword Repair! Guaranteed to last through one heavenly tribulation!"
Han Xiao sat at a small, rickety wooden table in the corner of a tea stall. The wood was stained with years of spilled tea, the grain smoothed by thousands of resting elbows. He ran his finger along a crack in the table.
"One hundred years ago, this crack was smaller," he thought. "Everything changes, even the scars on wood."
"Is this seat taken?" a raspy, trembling voice asked.
Han Xiao looked up. An old man stood there, leaning heavily on a black iron cane. His hair was a thin wisp of white, and his skin was like crumpled parchment. His cultivation base was a shaky Qi Condensation Level 3—the kind that was fading away as death approached.
Han Xiao blinked. Behind the wrinkles and the gray eyes, he saw a ghost of a memory.
"Fatty... Chen?" Han Xiao whispered.
The old man froze. He squinted, his eyes watering as he looked at Han Xiao's youthful, 18-year-old face. "How... how do you know that name? Only my brothers from the 10th Laundry Division called me that. But they're all... they're all dead."
Han Xiao felt a small tug in his heart. Chen was the only one who had shared his steamed buns with him during Han Xiao's first year as a stable boy.
"It's me. Han Xiao," he said softly.
The old man, Chen, dropped his cane. It hit the dirt with a heavy thud. "Han... Xiao? The 'Immortal Brat'? No... it's been eighty years since I last saw you. You haven't changed. Not a single hair."
Chen sat down, his breath hitching. To him, Han Xiao was a living miracle—or a terrifying omen. "I heard stories. People said you were a cursed spirit who couldn't age. Others said the Sect Leader kept you as a lucky charm. Look at me... I chased the Dao. I fought, I bled, I consumed every pill I could find... and I'm a dying dog. And you... you were just sweeping floors."
"I wasn't just sweeping, Chen," Han Xiao said, pouring a cup of cheap, bitter tea for the old man. "I was listening."
"Listening to what?"
"The world. It talks quite a lot if you're quiet enough."
As they sat there, a group of arrogant Foundation Establishment inner disciples strode through the market. People scrambled to get out of their way. One of the disciples, a young woman with a cold face, accidentally kicked Chen's iron cane, sending it skidding across the dirt.
"Move, old ghost," she snapped, not even looking back.
Chen sighed, his eyes filled with the bitter resignation of the weak. He started to struggle to his feet to retrieve his cane, but Han Xiao's hand stayed on his shoulder.
"Stay," Han Xiao said.
Han Xiao didn't stand up. He didn't shout. He didn't release any Qi.
He simply looked at the iron cane ten feet away. In his mind, he felt the Law of the World. He felt the 'intent' of the cane—it belonged in the hand of his friend.
"Return," Han Xiao thought.
The dust on the ground didn't rise. There was no golden light. But the iron cane suddenly slid across the dirt, defying every law of physics, and hopped back into Chen's hand as if it had a mind of its own.
The cold-faced female disciple stopped. She felt a shiver run down her spine. She looked back, eyes wide, sensing a terrifying 'Pressure' for a split second—a pressure so vast it felt like the entire mountain was staring at her.
But when she looked at the table, she only saw a dying old man and a plain-looking youth drinking tea.
"What was that?" her companion asked.
"I... I don't know," she whispered, her heart racing. "For a second, I felt like an ant under a giant's boot."
Back at the table, Chen gripped his cane, his hands shaking. "Han Xiao... what did you do?"
Han Xiao smiled—a small, tired smile. "I just did a chore, Fatty Chen. The cane was in the wrong place. I just put it back."
Chen looked at his old friend and realized that while he had been chasing the Heavens, the Heavens had been sitting right next to Han Xiao, helping him sweep the floor.