---
The river glistened under dawn's pale gaze.
Xu Lian stood still in its waters, arms at his sides, the currents licking against his robes. He hadn't moved since the night before. The cold had long left him, replaced by a dull warmth that throbbed inside his chest — steady and strange.
> You have entered the First Realm of the Cycle of the Dying Vow: Fractured Root.
That phrase echoed in him not like words, but like memory — as if he'd always known this would come, but had forgotten how to remember it.
He stepped out slowly, the mud grasping at his feet like the world didn't want to let him go. His steps were heavier than before — not with weakness, but with weight. As if each breath now carried something that had been missing for years.
Responsibility.
---
Back at the hut, he sat before the old table again. The letter lay where he'd left it, untouched by wind.
"I spoke to you again," he whispered. "Not in dreams. Not in grief. But as a man."
He didn't expect an answer. She was gone. The vow had outlived her, and yet—somehow—it had found life.
He looked down at his palm. His skin bore no mark. But inside, he felt it — a pull deep in the marrow of his spirit. It didn't burn with ambition. It wasn't the hunger of traditional cultivators. It was something quieter… heavier.
It was guilt made into soil.
And from it, something had grown.
---
Later that day, he stepped out into the farmland that lay beyond the woods. The old river path led to a distant village — Sù Valley — where merchants passed and simple folks lived lives untouched by grand sects or sky-spanning beasts.
He walked without aim. But fate, as always, had its own design.
---
As he neared the edge of the path, he heard shouting.
Two voices — one young, breathless with fear, and the other old, dry, and cracked like stone.
"Leave him alone!"
"You're a cripple's son. Be grateful we even let you live here."
Xu Lian's brow furrowed. He didn't recognize the voices, but something in him — something that hadn't stirred in years — responded.
He followed the sound, stepping into a clearing where a boy, no older than twelve, knelt in the dirt, shielding an old man with his body. Across from them stood two young cultivators in light robes — local sectlings, wearing the colors of the Broken Cloud Pavilion, a minor sect known for arrogance and little else.
One of them raised a hand, flickering with spiritual energy.
Xu Lian stepped forward.
> "Enough."
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the clearing like wind through mist.
The cultivators turned. One of them sneered. "Who the hell are you?"
Xu Lian didn't answer.
He stepped between them and the boy, his hands relaxed at his sides.
"Get out of the way, old man."
"I'm not here to fight," Xu Lian said quietly. "But I won't move."
There was no release of Qi, no visible pressure, no flashing technique.
And yet… something in the air shifted.
The space around Xu Lian grew heavier — like the silence of mourning, like the final breath of someone whose name would never be remembered.
The cultivator raised his hand. "You think you can—"
He froze.
His knees shook.
The other took a step back.
"What—what is this…?"
"I can't breathe…"
They both dropped to their knees, faces pale, gasping as if the very weight of the sky had pressed down on them.
Xu Lian's expression didn't change.
He said nothing.
He just stood there, and the grief that pulsed within him — the broken promise turned cultivation — seeped into the world like cold fog.
Then, like the shadow of a ghost, he let it go.
The pressure vanished.
The cultivators stumbled back, too afraid to speak.
"Leave," Xu Lian said.
They obeyed.
---
The boy looked up at him, eyes wide. "You… what realm are you?"
Xu Lian turned without answering.
The old man, eyes glassy, whispered as if to himself, "That… that wasn't power. That was sorrow made real…"
---
That night, Xu Lian sat alone once again in the hut.
He lit a small candle. Its flickering flame cast long shadows across the wall — like hands reaching from memory.
He looked at his hands.
"It wasn't anger that moved me," he whispered.
"It wasn't pride."
It was the weight of a promise.
It was the vow that would never die.
---
✦
In the quiet night sky, a single star blinked. Not with brilliance, but recognition.
High above, in the realm beyond mortals, something ancient stirred.
Not with joy.
Not with mercy.
With attention.
The Cycle of the Dying Vow has begun.