Past—

Qian Meng often wandered the countryside in search of berries to forage or leaks to yank from the Earth. He wasn’t picky with what he ate, and due to his high level of cultivation could go weeks without food should he fall on hard times. But he could go no longer as he felt his stomach rumble and his mind go hazy, begging for substance. So with a dagger twirling over his knuckles in one hand and the other tucked behind his back, he walked.

His feet took him into an orchard on the outskirts of Qiliang—a bustling city in the Pondlightian Empire—that was overrun with massive ruby apples. Their sweet, cloying scent was almost too strong. It was obvious no one had been here to pick them for the grasses were up past his knees and the limbs of the trees were twisting out of control, not having been trimmed properly. In the distance, he could spot a run-down cabin with holes in the roof and a door hanging off the hinges. Such a scene brought him to the conclusion that whoever first planted these was long since dead with no one to take their place.

He took two apples from the tree, shoving one into his pack while munching on the other as he glided closer to the shack to grasp a better look. If no one lived here, perhaps this could be a temporary residence for him. It’d been many years since he had a place to call home or possessions worthy of one, and this tranquil farm would be the perfect location to cultivate and calm his ever-darkening qi. Plus, it was far enough from the capital that there would be no need for worrying over people he knew passing by. People, that if he were to see them, would most certainly aim for his neck.

The closer he got to the structure, the more apparent its disrepair became. With one strong breeze, it might topple over in a flurry of dust and rotting wood. But even the sight of such a tragic-looking shed wasn’t enough to deter Qian Meng. Cleaning up the place would give his idle hands something to do other than killing, for which he’d done an awful lot as of late. It didn’t matter how many times he rinsed his hands in the streams on his route—it felt as though they were forever stained a dirty crimson. The shame such a heavy burden came with had long since settled into his bones. There was no bright flash of guilt upon taking a life, for he’d done it hundreds, if not thousands of times by now. It made him less human, that is if an immortal like him could even be considered such.

He sighed.

Taking a break from all that was needed.

“Where to start?” He mumbled, turning in a circle as he toyed with the silver cuffs around his wrists.

Just then, as if the very universe was mocking him, a plank of the roof flopped to the dirt at his feet. It threw up a cloud of dust, and Qian Meng coughed violently, waving it away as he staggered forward. Fine, then. Fixing the house it is. And from that day forth, he worked tirelessly to repair the once sad-looking farm. It took nearly three months to get the home back in working condition, and another two to cut the tall grasses from the fields, and pick all of the apples to be stored for the winter. Both as dried and fresh. He had so many Qian Meng was worried he’d soon be sick of the fruit.

He only paused to meditate, calming his qi from the usual raging storm to a gentle whisper. His power had long since turned sinister, replicating the writhing dark magic of the demonic realm, and ever since then, he’d done his best to keep it in check. Qian Meng couldn’t even remember what it looked like when he was young. While it fueled him with almost unstoppable power, it came at the cost of walking along a tightrope for the rest of his life. One wrong move and he would fall into the void, his soul breaking apart for the demons inside his chest to eat their fill.

Qian Meng’s fingertips twitched where they rested against his folded knees, alerting him. He opened one eye, rolling it in the direction of the single, grassy path that wove between one patch of wild forest and the next. There was someone coming, their gait slow and measured as if they’d walked this path many times before and were in no hurry to get to their destination. He’d been here for five months now without a single passerby, so his entire body went rigid. Even so, he didn’t deign to stand, only tilted his head toward the path, dark eyes focused on the opening.

It was early morning, and the dew of pre-dawn had yet to evaporate with the rising sun. Shining droplets sat atop the leaves of the fruit trees, catching the glare and bathing the orchard in almost celestial light. Now that it was well taken care of, it was a sight to behold. Anyone that came through, even with all the apples long since picked, would be inclined to stop just to take in the view. And when the man emerged from the path two hundred meters from where Qian Meng sat, he did just that. Bright eyes falling on the neat rows of trees, lips parting.

That slight movement of his mouth was the only indication of his awe. The rest of him was incredibly proper. From his unwrinkled golden robes to his long, bone straight ebony hair, nothing was out of place. No one that came across him would believe him to be anything other than an extraordinarily refined cultivator with many years of experience. Qian Meng surely didn’t miss it and was shocked that such a character ended up here. Because that style of golden robe was one he recognized from his travels as the dress of the Zephyr Temple.

“You’re a long way from home, traveler,” Qian Meng commented, drawing the man’s attention.

He’d purposely left out the proper address, trying to remain obtuse. Not that the man was fooled. His chilly gaze trailed up and down Qian Meng’s dark appearance, snagging for a few seconds too long on the ornate silver cuffs around his wrists. The dark cultivator noticed the man’s stare, and pulled his outer robe sleeves down to cover them.

“I am,” the man replied, voice smooth and pleasing to the ear.

Qian Meng almost cursed. If there were someone to properly represent the brilliant air of the cultivation world, it would be the person before him. He was clean-shaven, face golden from many days spent in the sun, and such a dark complexion brought out the jade green of his eyes. Qian Meng could find nothing wrong with him, nothing at all. And he didn’t know why, but that realization irritated him beyond belief. No one should be permitted to be handsome to the point of radiance, fair tempered, and powerful all wrapped into one. . . He knew in which category he was severely lacking.

“What brings you here?” He asked, tone a bit sour.

The man ignored Qian Meng’s sullen attitude, once again turning to look over the farm, this time taking in the newly refurbished home. The dark cultivator watched him closely, not missing when the man’s gently clasped hands behind his back seemed to tighten around each other. Did he recognize this place? That could explain why he was able to find this gem so easily.

The only reason Qian Meng found the farm was by sheer, humbling luck! He’d wandered for hours, and only when the thought of being achingly hungry floated across his mind had he stumbled in to find hundreds of trees ladened with fruit. Almost as if the Gods themselves were rewarding him. Either that or they didn’t believe he’d suffered enough in the human realm and wanted to ensure he didn’t bite the dust. The latter was more believable to him.

“That is a difficult question to answer.”

Qian Meng raised his eyebrows, not thinking it difficult at all.

“If I may be so bold, what is your name?”

The man didn’t look at him. “Song Shun. And yours?”

He didn’t hesitate to respond even while knowing what always came next. “Qian Meng.”

As expected, the cultivator’s shoulders stiffened, and his body whirled back toward him. The sword at Song Shun’s waist seemed to shiver, aching to unsheath and wreak havoc. It was the total opposite of Yu Chang; scabbard chiseled from fine white jade and painstakingly carved with whirls that resembled clouds flowing in a gust of wind. Paired with the dark red sword tassel strung together by rubies, it was truly a sight to behold. And Qian Meng could only assume the blade inside was just as praiseworthy.

“Beautiful sword you have there,” he said into the tense silence, finally lifting his gaze to meet Song Shun’s.

“Mn.”

The sound of dismissal came out cold as ice, and if Qian Meng had thinner skin, it would have sliced quite deeply. You don’t even know me! He almost wanted to shout. However, he was accustomed to the hostility all cultivators showed him upon learning his name. While he was most prominently known by the public for his ruthlessness in killing evil men, there was also another, more regretful incident he was accused of that came to the minds of most cultivators. Years ago, early in his development when his qi was unstable and on the precipice of change, a naive version of Qian Meng made a terrible mistake. Thinking himself worthy, he chose to attend the grand meeting of cultivators held once every ten years on the summit of the Achak Temple in the hazy mountains of Pondlightian.

Little did he know, he was not at all welcome there, almost immediately being prosecuted for every deed he had ever done. There was no mercy, no thank you for the many terrible people he’d killed in his attempt to make Rasheia a safer place. No, the cultivators on their high hill and even higher plane of existence detested him. Thought him just as evil as the demons beyond the veil who ate human flesh and devoured souls. And, suddenly, the meeting that was held in the name of peaceful cooperation turned into a witch hunt.

The five temple head’s strung him up with chains for all their disciples to see, locking both wrists in manacles so tight they dug into the flesh and drew rivers of blood. In no time at all, the tight courtyard was shimmering with its metallic tang. At first, he pleaded his case. Tried to tell them that the blood he shed was for the good of others and that while his anger was what fueled his cultivation, he was no less worthy of it. Yet the five grand heads of the Rasheia Temples had long since made up their minds about him and were unwilling to listen for even a moment.

Qian Meng tried to swallow the memories, but they only continued to rise, unperturbed. Fueled by the animosity in Song Shun’s gaze that was so very similar to that of the past. And if he truly thought back on it, Qian Meng could recall exactly what had been said to him, word for word. They were a brand across his soul, and would be until the day he died.

“You are evil,” the Achak head spat, lashing his chest with a discipline whip.

It tore his black robe, revealing unblemished skin ripe for punishment.

“No! I’m not! I’m not!” Qian Meng shouted.

He had not flinched when hit with the whip. If it didn’t draw blood or shuck skin, the pain was bearable to him. He’d suffered much worse many years prior, and had built up a higher tolerance for torture because of it. It seemed to irritate the temple head enough that he lashed out again, teeth clenched. This one left a thin slice along his pectoral dripping with blood, and Qian Meng reared away, chains clinking. He was in a spiral of misery. Just what had he done to end up in this situation? What excuses could they give him beyond their own wild assumptions?

“You are a blight in the land of blessed cultivation. Making a mockery of our God-given gifts,” the Sena head huffed, snatching the whip from his sworn brother’s hand.

It struck a moment later, forcing his body to curl in on itself on reflex. Qian Meng felt lost upon hearing such an overarching accusation against him. He didn’t even know what to say, and the thought that came to mind was one he kept to himself.

How so? I’ve simply grown my power just as everyone else does, killing evildoers along the way. . .

“You are no better than the demon king!” The Hakan head added with a flourish of his wrists.

Another strike. More blood sprayed across the stone at his feet.

That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? He thought, lifting his head to lock eyes with the next temple head to step forward, Dong Shi.

He was the current leader of the Zephyr Temple, an elder known for his long life and exceptionally high cultivation. He’d spent many years doing exactly as Qian Meng was doing now, albeit in the name of Lei Gong, the one Celestial Being worshiped by their sect. They were similar, and he looked up to the man, thinking of him fondly after having met him as a child. So to witness such burning hatred in his gaze. . .

Qian Meng wanted to say something, ached to protest before another strike was due to land, but his mouth went bone dry. His tongue was swollen ten sizes too large. Because, truth was, there was nothing to say. If these masters, who had lived two of his lifetimes decided he was evil, who was he to refute them? Such dreary thoughts sent him further into himself, qi thrashing through his meridians as if trying to tear its way free.

“You’ve killed thousands of innocents,” the elder scolded with disapproval.

He flicked his wrist in Qian Meng’s direction, and the other master who held the whip, the Hakan head, lashed the dark cultivator again with savage brutality. Qian Meng cried out for the first time since being strung up, a terrible wail that echoed against the mountains surrounding them. It was horrid to watch, and many of the surrounding disciples felt a distinct sense of unease, shifting from foot to foot. Was this the right thing to do? None of them knew. They could only go along with what their masters thought was right and just.

But he’d never killed without reason! Qian Meng couldn’t stop the words that tore hoarsely from his throat. “Now, that’s just an outright lie!”

Another two lashes came in quick succession, and it left Qian Meng gasping for air, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Shit, it hurts. It hurts! He thought miserably, clenching his teeth. The mess of mangled flesh along his chest was a gruesome, seeping sight. No longer could one distinguish that it used to be smooth skin, and many people winced in sympathy. It was painful enough to be lashed once or twice, but now he’d been hit six times at least! The surrounding group knew his cultivation was high if only because he hadn’t fallen prey to unconsciousness yet. Lesser men would have two strikes prior.

The final temple head, Yi Ning of the Neolani temple to the north, walked in a slow circle around Qian Meng. His head had slumped against his chest right after speaking as there was no strength left in his body to move. He could only sneak glances from the side every so often as he fought to breathe, his lungs filling up with blood. This person had an indifferent expression on their ethereal face. And while he was strikingly beautiful, almost in a feminine way, it didn’t take away from the quiet air of power vibrating around him. His dark hair tore through the air, making a sort of dark halo that drew the eye.

“You’ve really thrown yourself into a net,” the man finally murmured, leaning in.

Qian Meng remained silent, keeping his head tilted toward the ground. He genuinely had no idea that this would happen when he ascended the hundreds of steps up the mountain, but no one would believe him if he said so. It was long past the point of groveling, of asking for forgiveness. There was apparently no such thing for “ruthless” killers like him. Yi Ning lifted Qian Meng’s chin with one finger, forcing his gaze to lock with the master’s. The sound of a sword unsheathing could be heard so clearly it was deafening through the silence.

“Hm? Nothing more to say?” He asked, lips curving upward.

Was he to be stabbed? For what?! He wanted to ask, to shout but held it at bay. Speaking in a low, shaking tone instead.

“What should I say? Anything that comes from my lips will only add oil to the fire.”

Yi Ning straightened with a click of his tongue, speaking loud enough for all to hear. “If one often walks by the Riverside, one’s Shoes will eventually get wet.”

The group of seniors nodded along, clearly agreeing. Qian Meng’s vision went white. Such words were truly wrapping up his whole life and calling it a waste of time. He almost couldn’t bear it! His magical qi beat against his ribcage, flowing through his limbs too fast to stop it from manifesting physically. Bright, flickering light burst forth intermingled with strings of darkness, whipping outward as if to protect the man it came from. The blow pushed Yi Ning back several steps but did not severely maim anyone present. The disciples of the Achak Temple were particularly surprised, for the magic Qian Meng wielded was that of the Divine Emperor himself. How had such a detestable man gotten ahold of such a gift? It was rare and few between, and he was clearly unworthy of it!

“Scum! How dare you lash out with magic?” Yi Ning ground out the moment before the glare of a sword caught his eye.

He could do nothing to stop it from piercing the center of his stomach, going clean through to the other side. Many gasped at the display, eyes widening when Qian Meng spat out a mouthful of blood that had welled up his throat. His body sagged forward, held up only by the chains encircling his wrists. Pain lanced through his entire being, radiating out from the wound like cracking marble. He tried to lick his lips, only to taste the metallic sting of his own blood.

“Die!” Another shouted, piercing him.

“Traitor!” The Achak Temple head hissed, stabbing him a third time.

The pain of being stabbed did not get easier the more it happened. Yet, after the fifth and final shimmering cultivator's sword was stuck savagely through his collarbone, he found he stopped wincing. He couldn’t feel his limbs. They tingled with a sort of numbness that spoke volumes for his physical state. But death was mercy at this point. If they wished to kill him, they’d have to chop off his head. Such was the only way to kill an immortal and stop them from regenerating. Yet no final blow came, and all sound around him faded into the background but for the steady stream of his blood covering the cobblestone of the Achak courtyard.

His shoulders shook with every breath that rattled from his lungs, and each time, he could feel all five blades that had been thrust into his chest shift with aching clarity. All he could do was watch the slowly growing pool of crimson beneath him, hear the silent drip drops of it falling.

What had he done to deserve this?

Was killing horrible people truly so abominable? Or was it because he held no allegiances? Refused to cultivate the normal, rule-paved path? It was true that tall trees attract the wind, but he had never thought being exceptional by his own merit was a crime. That it meant every person he’d slain, no matter how obviously criminal they were, was suddenly touted as an innocent! Where was justice? Where was the amiable, gentle strength of the cultivators he’d looked up to all his life? These men before him were cruel, unforgiving. It made his entire worldview shift, tilting on its axis until he was spiraling out of control.

Not all cultivators are fair.

Not all cultivators are benevolent.

Such truths were ones he should have realized long ago. Qian Meng was already aware of how terrible humans could be after being raised by a man who did nothing but loathe him. Proving that hatred with vicious words and even more monstrous actions. But, Qian Meng supposed he wanted one last thing to believe in even if it was a lie. Ignorance was bliss, as they say, but now that he knew the glaring truth. . .

He felt that steady respect slip away into the void of darkness in his chest to be eaten up.

It tore at the final shreds of his resistance, digging into the power that came from a deep well within him. Suddenly, it didn’t sound so horrible to defend himself. To escape these men who craved his spilled blood, and wished to prolong his suffering. It was ironic, really. He almost wanted to laugh out loud as to how desolate his chest had become, how empty it felt without hope and shimmering purpose. From everyone and everything in his life, he’d suffered. And he decided, right then, that he didn’t want to do it anymore.

So, with great effort, he looked up with a bloodied smile, his now murderously dark qi thrumming around him, and struck.