Past—

Winter had arrived weeks early, bringing along with it flurries of snow and air you could see your breath in. The Noelani mountains were known for their drastic wintertide, but this felt excessive. Qian Meng brushed his hands together, blowing hot air between his palms to warm them even while knowing they were frozen solid. The only thing that could thaw him now was a blazing fire and two bowls of slow-roasted rabbit and root stew. He daydreamed about it while shifting on the icy branch, muscles screaming for how long he'd been crouched there, waiting on the caravan Yi Jie ensured would trek through this very mountain pass. However, he wasn't specific enough with his intel. Qian Meng didn't know when the caravan would clop through, only that it would be here. So he'd shown up hours ago just after the sun rose and had been here long since.

"Just a bit longer," he muttered to himself, tucking his hands into the folds of his robe.

If they didn't arrive by nightfall, he'd trudge back to the village and wring Yi Jie's neck. That would absolve at least an ounce of the rage festering in his chest where his heart should be. It'd long since grown too large for a single death to handle—beginning its gestation period when he was no more than five. Now, he'd be turning twenty in just a few weeks, marking two decades in this world. One more than he ever thought possible for a broken and forgotten boy like him. He licked his lips, shoving aside thoughts of his childhood. If he wasn't careful, he'd fall into qi deviation—a state of mind and body destruction wrought by poisonous emotions and dangerous practices. . . For which he had an abundance of both.

Thankfully, there was nothing else to think about as a carriage came barreling around the corner flanked by dozens of guards sitting elegantly atop their mounts. Their armor caught the afternoon sun, throwing arcs of dazzling light across the snowy banks along the path. Qian Meng straightened his posture, forcing his aching body into a ready position. Slush and dirt kicked up from beneath the spinning wheels as the guards spoke amongst themselves, at ease. Lines of malnourished and improperly clothed servants trudged along behind, heads hanging and shivering bodies a shade of frightening blue. Qian Meng's chest tightened at the sight, the hand gripping his sword clenching. Horses stomped their hooves, sweat-slicked backs dripping to mark a long journey traversed. It seemed the caravan was late and in a hurry. . . Too bad he didn't plan on allowing them through to their destination.

"Time to go," he muttered, standing and casually stepping off the branch.

His body fell for less than a second before thudding heaving atop the carriage, rattling it. The coachman startled, whipping around to witness a young man clad in worn ebony robes straighten to his full height, fingers wrapping around the dark hilt of a sword. Qian Meng looked back at him, charcoal eyes narrowed and so destitute they could suck one's soul right from their body should they stare too long. It opposed the air of magic writhing around him that was a bright, almost celestial, ivory. As if the man himself was a study in contrast—one part of him accepting of evil while the other fought against it.

The coachman opened and closed his mouth several times, face deathly pale and limbs trembling. Qian Meng thought he may pass out at any moment so he strode forward, easily slapping an incoming sword away with the palm of his hand and yanking the man up by the back of his coat.

"Sorry about this," he said, voice just as midnight soft as the rest of him appeared.

Then he chucked the man right off the carriage and into the snow! It caught his fall nicely, saving him from injury but not fury as he shouted after the carriage, fist raised and face beet red in color. More swords whirled toward Qian Meng, aiming for every blindspot. He slipped away from them, dodging each attack with lithe efficiency, his hands tucked casually behind his back. The guards, men who had trained all their lives for the opportunity to protect and serve the man sitting comfortably within the carriage below Qian Meng's feet, were filled with rage at the younger man's blatant disrespect. They surged forward, some of them hopping off their horses to meet him with a swing of their swords.

Without moving a finger, Qian Meng's saber unsheathed from his waist. Buoyed by magic, it struck out violently against its opponents. The sound of ringing steel filled the once calm forest, sparks flying in all directions. Yu Chang easily took on three to one. And while it was never-ending in its assault—the sight was nevertheless mesmerizing. Many men off to the side stopped their assault to watch. In awe of the way the blade moved as if an elegant king was the one who wielded it. The horses reared, spooked by the fighting and lack of guidance. It shifted the entire coach, and many men flipped off with a scream of alarm. However, Qian Meng was an immovable pillar in the center, celestial light a beacon around him.

A soft gasp came from inside the carriage at the movement, catching Qian Meng's attention even as he continued to defend himself, knocking men off their horses with a single flick of his wrist or a snap of his fingers. His qi roared through him, beating in time with his pounding heart and aching with disuse. If he truly wanted to, he could slaughter every single person here without a thought. When one held magic and the other did not, it didn't matter how skilled they were with a blade.

They were simply no match.

But, lucky for the guards and servants, Qian Meng did not kill recklessly. He only murdered with purpose. Even now, he knocked many men unconscious rather than slit their throats. It was an audacious process, but he had been waiting all day to kill the man inside this transport, he could wait a few minutes longer.

"Surround him!"

"Aim for his hands!"

"Aim for his head!"

Many had opinions on where to slash, but none of them landed said blows. Qian Meng walked up and down the roof with lazied steps, eyes darting each time he used magic to control Yu Chang's movements. The men who had bravely leaped onto the top to fight him off earlier had long since been expelled, but there was plenty to take their place. Each one got perhaps two hits in against Qian Meng's blade only to be slammed in the chest with the flat edge of it with such force they flew through the air. The once-grand procession dwindled until only a single guard remained, arm shivering as he held his sword out toward the dark cultivator. Qian Meng tilted his head, pausing the assault to look over the man. Yu Chang stopped as well, floating with eerie grace right beside his head. The man did not advance, he couldn't—for his legs were shaking too forcefully.

"If you don't want to fight, you can just jump off," Qian Meng said kindly, trying to show mercy in the only way he knew how.

Although, to the proud military man's ears, it was an insult on the highest level. Coming out matter-of-fact and full of hard-to-swallow arrogance. Young men respected their elders. Ones who did not were touted as useless trash who held no morals. Rage flashed through the man's eyes as he lunged, and Qian Meng sighed, flicking his fingers. Yu Chang flew through the air, knocking the man's sword away in a single blow.

Yet, instead of pushing this man off with another forceful thrust of Yu Chang's flat edge like he'd done to all the others, Qian Meng sheathed it. Lazing up to the shaking man who was pale as snow until they were mere millimeters apart. Looking into the dark cultivator's eyes, the man swore he witnessed death itself. Saw it writhing there as if Qian Meng had made a deal with Xiwangmu long ago in exchange for whatever mighty power she gifted him. Little did the man know, Qian Meng's exuberant magic came from the Divine Emperor himself—the upholder of all that was good in this treacherous world.

"You are nothing," Qian Meng told the man, eyes flashing a stunning amber under the glow of the setting sun filtering through the trees.

The man's body had gone rigid, eyes glazing over as if possessed. He repeated the words back in a monotonous voice, face slack.

"I am nothing."

"You are powerless."

"I am powerless."

Qian Meng straightened, a smug smile gracing his lips. And, no matter how much it twisted his features, it only made him all the more handsome. He held the kind of beauty that was frozen solid. Not fiery or passionate. Ordinary men would shout at the sight, claiming it an injustice.

"Good, as long as you're aware," he quipped, unceremoniously kicking the man off the back.

His body sailed without a fight, flopping into the snow to lie motionless, open eyes staring into the bright sun. Qian Meng looked after him until his body disappeared in the distance. He turned, rubbing one hand across his mouth in thought. No one remained to oppose him, and he took his time going into the innards of the carriage; first jumping to the coachman's bench to calm the animals. The horses were bucking and bleating in alarm, sweat dripping into their eyes. But, with a few whispered words, they seemed to lean into the dark cultivator's palms, arching toward him. He continued to speak soothing words in a low timber that was an utter contrast from his earlier frigid tone. To anyone listening, they'd think him crazy for such a drastic switch in character.

Once they'd calmed enough to take them safely through the remaining mountain pass, Qian Meng stood to dust off his outer robe, turning toward his final target. He hadn't heard a word from inside beyond the single gasp when the entire coach swayed dangerously from side to side. The man was in there, though, Qian Meng could hear his erratic breathing through the single curtain separating them. He flicked it aside, leaning his lithe forearms against the wood to stare at the man within. He had shoved himself into the farthest corner from the door, face void of color and chest rising and falling so quickly one might think it to be a panic attack. Qian Meng grinned, laughing softly at the display. To his very last day, the man was a coward unworthy of his title.

"What are you so terrified of, Gong Wencheng? The fight is over," Qian Meng told him, but the words were not friendly.

Gong Wencheng was the crown prince of the Kingdom of Wingulf—the most corrupt nation of the five that ruled across Rasheia and was governed by an even more repulsive royal family. Not a single one of them had their hands clean of blood or misery, not even the queen. However, the man currently pissing himself in Qian Meng's presence was, by far, the worst. Spending his life traveling across the continents as a diplomatic emissary for his father and wreaking havoc in his wake.

He'd killed many people for nothing more than annoying him or completing unsatisfactory services. Not to mention his pension for raping all manner of women on such a regular basis the entire world knew of his nefarious deeds. Yet not a single person ever dared stop them for the consequence was a brutal death.

Many of the servants scattered behind the caravan were slaves stolen from the streets of both his own kingdom and others. Qian Meng flitted his gaze to them, and the slaves eyed him back warily, happy to have been left out of the fight but unsure of what the dark cultivator would do next.

"Why are you doing this?" Gong Wencheng asked, voice rattling.

Qian Meng was suddenly no longer having fun as he stood up, ready to be done with this deed. Without a second thought, he gripped the top of the carriage and swung his body into the void, the path below racing past his dangling feet. He paid it no mind, though, as he ripped the door clean off its hinges. It was flung into a nearby tree, shattering on impact with a deafening boom.

"Why am I doing this?" Qian Meng mused, stepping into the coach on solid footing to crouch before the revolting bag of flesh before him.

Gong Wencheng was sweating profusely, lying in his own waste, and smelt atrocious. No one in their right mind would think him to be royalty should they see him in such a state. Even his once fair beauty was soiled by the visceral fear coating his features. It gave Qian Meng an inexplicable amount of satisfaction. He didn't dare debase his cultivator's blade with the blood of such a lowlife, so he took out a serrated dagger, tapping it along the tip of his index finger. Gong Wencheng's eyes widened even further as he screeched in the back of his throat, whimpering. Qian Meng leaned in close, lips twisting to the side and gaze dark as night.

"Do you know of vengeance?"

The sinister tone had returned, weaving around Gon Wencheng's neck like a tightening noose. "V—vengeance?"

Qian Meng snorted. "Yes, very good. What does it mean to you?"

Gong Wencheng was in such a state of fright he wanted to pull his hair out! How was he expected to come up with a coherent thought, let alone an answer to this wild man's question?! His limbs trembled uncontrollably, and the only thing he could stare at was the deadly serrated edge of the dark cultivator's blade, mouth dry as a bone that'd sat beneath the soil for thousands of years.

Was this how a distinguished man such as him would die? Blasphemous!

Lips pursed, Qian Meng watched closely as the despicable prince went through one million rapid-fire thoughts only to settle on a predictable emotion most men clung to at the end of their life.

Anger.

"Vengeance is what awaits you, cultivator," Gong Wencheng spat, finally grasping onto his wits.

This was a statement so true Qian Meng often considered having it etched into his gravestone. He grinned, flipping the knife a few times.

"Yes, good answer. However, we are not here together to speak on my sins. This is about what vengeance is to you, my abhorrent, spoiled prince."

Without another word, Qian Meng plunged the blade to the hilt into the man's stomach before tearing it out slowly; making certain it caught and tore every organ it came across. Gong Wencheng gasped, eyes bugging out as he coughed, splattering crimson across the ivory cushions. Qian Meng only watched with dark eyes before thrusting the blade in again, this time through his lung and twisting, collapsing it. The cultivator leaned in beside the man's ear, lips curling.

"It is a slow, painful death. Much the same as you've sentenced many others. That is your vengeance."

Rage spiraled through Gong Wencheng's chest to mingle with the pain. And yet, he could do nothing, and even if he could, the dark cultivator would simply overpower him. His lips opened and closed like a dying fish as he slumped to the side, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. It would take him a while to die, perhaps hours spent drowning in his own blood.

Good riddance.

Qian Meng cleaned his dagger on the edge of Gong Wencheng's robe before standing to step off the carriage. His feet thudded into the slush along the road, drenching his robe in icy water. Within seconds, the coach disappeared around the next bend, the horses frenzied enough to gallop without pause to the city at the bottom of this mountain. Only then would the prince's long cold body be discovered. Qian Meng straightened the silver cuffs around his wrists, feeling nothing at all after taking a life.

The army of servants who had been moving behind the carriage paused at the sight of him—rearing away from the man who'd just single-handedly defeated an entire king's procession of highly trained soldiers. There was no reality in which they could fight back against him. Should he wish them death, it would be delivered without difficulty. An incense time passed before anyone moved, and those who did gave the cultivator a wide berth, rushing away in all directions. Happy to be free but plagued by fear and horror over what they had just witnessed. Qian Meng ignored them all and stepped to the side of the path as he tugged out a small, worn journal, eyes downcast and lips sealed shut. No one could gauge his mood, and the once brilliant magic shifting around his form was nowhere to be found, leaving him a sinister sight indeed.

One brave servant, a young man no more than fifteen, stayed behind, mouth wobbling as he looked upon the dark cultivator. To the others, he was a terror, a nightmare made flesh. But to this boy, Qian Meng was an upholder of justice, a man willing to sully his hands if only to make the world a better place for others. The boy twisted his hands in front of him, trying to build the courage to speak. His gaze probed at Qian Meng, he could feel it, but even as he spoke he did not look at him.

"You must flee before the soldiers catch up," he commanded, leaving no room for argument.

The boy flinched at the dark timber of the cultivator's voice but did not move. "May I first ask y-you a question?"

At last, Qian Meng lifted his head. And, if darkness could burn, the boy thought it would look like this man's all-encompassing gaze. They stared at one another for ten heartbeats, and all the while Qian Meng was thinking it must have taken an awful lot of courage to speak up, and he decided that made the boy worthy of his time.

"Fine, but only one."

The youth shifted from foot to foot, sweat pooling on his brow. "Are you the God of Justice?"

Qian Meng took a step back in surprise, a dry laugh choking his throat. Out of all things this youth could have asked. . . Not a single person he came across, whether to kill or save, had ever uttered such a farce. Just what did this boy see in him?

"No, I am not. I am mortal."

The boy's brows rose, but he only bowed low in respect, not daring to poke for further information. And yet, Qian Meng had the inexplicable urge to provide it anyway. So when the boy turned to leave, having gotten the answer to his burning question, Qian Meng stopped him by speaking again. Not an explanation, but a question. It tumbled from his lips without a thought, one word bleeding into the next as if he couldn't ask it fast enough.

"Why did you believe me to be a God?"

The boy turned his head to look back at him, eyes bright and back bathed in gold by the setting sun as he answered with such unwavering belief it stunned the cultivator before him.

"You are willing to commit deeds others do not have the courage for in order to protect the world from evil. That is righteous, that is just."

Qian Meng blinked at him.

Is that what he was doing?

"Very well, you may go."

This time, the youth did not think twice before fleeing down the mountainous road, leaving Qian Meng to contemplate his words in silence.