After some days, long after the crowd's greed had faded into whispers and the filth on his skin had crusted into a second skin, a cold night arrived with no moon, only a wind that moved like a dying breath. He lay chained in the slum's corner, half-asleep, half-awake, when suddenly hot water splashed across his body. His skin burned and screamed silently. Before he could move, cold water followed, stabbing him deeper than the heat. More hands grabbed him. They unlocked his chain.
Then they dragged him toward the riverbank.
Only the sound of footsteps scraping dirt, the distant singing of night insects, and the river breathing in the dark accompanied them. The moonlight briefly broke through clouds, shining on their faces. He recognized many: a woman whose child he once helped find food, an old man he once gave his share of bread, a boy he once shielded from a beating. They placed him in a small boat, pushed it away.
One of them said softly, almost kindly, "May the river guide him to where his destiny should be…"
Then silence swallowed the rest.
The river carried him like a corpse drifting through forgotten prayers. He closed his eyes. Halfway across, lantern lights flickered on the water, patrolling soldiers. The boat bumped against their craft, and strong arms hauled him out. "What is this?" a soldier muttered. "A boy thrown to the river? Check his mark."
The moment they saw the wound-scarred letters on his forehead, their expressions hardened. "Send him to prison. Sinners float only one way." Days later, he never knew how long, the prison doors opened to drag him out. They took him out through a hidden gate and into a garden. The world was strangely quiet, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and old memories.
It was the garden where he used to play with his mother, where she once held his tiny hands and spun him in circles until they fell laughing on the grass. Back then her smile was sunlight. But now, as she stood before him, something colder lived within her eyes.
For a moment he almost reached out. But the way she looked at him, like he was a stranger stitched from shadows, killed the impulse. "Take him back," she said. Her order was the first thing she gave him in years. The chains returned.
Memories came and went, bright ones and miserable ones clashing like twin storms inside him. That garden moment stayed heavy in his chest, like a stone he couldn't swallow.
In prison again he heard rumours whispered between inmates like cursed wind: The slum had burned. People said it looked like a meteor fell upon it, a blazing tear of heaven smashing down. Everything turned to ash. Even the soil was blackened, sunken, forming a pit where lives once huddled.
He cried again. Not loudly, quiet tears that dripped onto the cold stone floor. Tears for those who betrayed him, those who didn't, those he saved, and those he couldn't.
Life moved on. He became a silent observer. Watching, enduring, breathing. On his fifth release from prison, when he was around seventeen, they threw him onto the main street like discarded meat. The city had changed, or maybe he had. Nobles now recognized him on sight. They bullied him for fun, spat on him like rain, whipped him with laughter dripping from their mouths. Some fed him scraps, half-chewed or rotten. Others threw stones and called it charity.
One day someone carved the word SINNER onto his forehead with a knife. Blood seeped, dried, became part of him. People saw the mark before they saw the boy.
One morning, at daybreak, someone dragged him to the middle of the road. A carriage thundered toward him, its wheels roaring like an oncoming beast. He didn't move. He didn't even blink. At the last second a woman in red cloth grabbed him. The carriage missed by inches, dust spraying into the air like broken stars.
He remembered laughing afterward, not from joy, but from the absurdity of living when he shouldn't. In the realm where he later recalled these memories, he even murmured, "That is where my real life started."
She took him with her. A quiet place, a small shelter at the edge of the mountains. He didn't speak for five months, but she healed him every day. One morning she decided to leave, believing he had no will left. Yet when she stepped outside, she saw him gripping a wooden branch, swinging it like a sword. His stance was weak but determined. He swung until he collapsed. Even after she healed him, he said nothing, only trained again… and again.
Even his left arm stopped responding for some time. He drew pictures with his right hand, broken circles, crude shapes, fragmented emotions. At some point, she stopped healing him, wanting to see what his spirit chose when no one lifted him.
And still he rose. Still he trained.
After a year of treatment, his body was healed. But his heart, shocked, scarred, afraid. He tried to run away more than once but came back again. Three months passed again before he finally spoke his first question:
"Why are you helping me? Aunt…"
The red-clothed woman pulled down her veil. The face beneath was half-beautiful, half-scarred, as if a demoness had kissed one side of her flesh and burned eternity into it. Her voice trembled, yet it was steady enough to break mountains.
"Am I still beautiful?" she asked. "I thought you forgot about me."
He shook his head, the words spilling out softly, smiling. "You are still beautiful, Aunt. How can I forget? But… why did you cure me? I was living fine. Can't you see? I was about to die. If you didn't save me that day… then I could leave. It would be good for everyone."
She said quietly, as if speaking to the wounded sky, "Indeed… but our debt will not end if you die. You sacrificed yourself for me. How can I go on, owing a life-debt that was never paid? I am not someone who forgets her debts, friend or enemy, even if I turn to ash." Her voice carried a weight heavier than the mountain fog drifting outside their small hut. It held tenderness… and a ferocity that came from a soul burned but unbroken.
He lowered his gaze, thinking for a long moment before whispering, "But you'll be found out quickly after staying with for me for long time… Mother will find you… and then you'll have to fight her again." She softly laughed at him. "Whom are you talking about? Your mother? You still called her like that. That woman already forgot you. They already have another child now, your little brother."
He blinked in mild curiosity. "Is he good looking?" She grabbed his head with both hands and shook him. "Come to your senses, you bastard!" Her voice cracked with frustration, anger, pity, and something else more complicated. "You don't understand the world you were thrown from. Those five months you spent in confinement, do you know what they did? Everyone knew you had nothing. Nothing! But somehow they discovered you were born with a great fate. Even greater than some beings…"
He stared, puzzled by the concept. "They used you," she spat. "You became their puppet. And even now, you still think… what? That if you behave well, if you keep suffering, they will accept you again? How laughable! How absolutely tragic!" Her laughter filled the small room, not mocking him, but mocking the cruelty of fate.
He scratched his cheek, confused and innocent. "But I never asked for too much… I only said I wanted a small room to draw in." The simplicity of his words hurt more than any wound. She sighed, a long, weary sound, like a demoness mourning her own past sins.
"Listen carefully. They used your fate to cleanse your brother's destiny. They dragged your good fortune out of your bones and washed him in it, so he could avoid future calamity. Even your uncle resisted at first, but he also used your fate to bless their child. They drained you dry."
He lowered his eyes. "But I told them I wouldn't waste their food… so why… why did I become the bad one? Why does my own mother despise me so much?" He laughed weakly, then stopped. "Forget it. Thinking about it won't change anything…"
Without another word he stepped outside into the cold air. He picked up the wooden stick and began swinging with his left hand. The rhythm echoed across the yard—swish, swish, thud—like a broken heartbeat trying to find its pace. She followed him, leaning against the doorway, watching carefully.
"You're right-handed," she said. "Why use your left?"
He didn't look back. "This right hand is only for drawing and eating. Nothing else. If someone tries to make me use it for anything else… I'll cut it off myself. Or destroy it until I can't lift it. If I must, I'll feed myself with my legs." He resumed swinging, slow, uneven, stubborn. She clapped softly. "I like your spirit," she murmured, a faint grin forming. "Then tell me, do you desire something? Revenge? A way to remake yourself? Bloodshed?" Her voice lowered to a whisper that curled like smoke,
He looked up from the wooden stick he was still gripping, sweat dripping down his left arm, and asked quietly, "I don't need revenge or bloodshed. Can you… give me something else? Something like changing my face… into different forms—animal, human, anything."
She blinked, surprised, then burst into laughter—deep, rolling laughter that echoed across the empty yard like the cry of a demoness remembering her true nature. "I thought you'd ask for strength, or a forbidden art, or a way to slaughter your past. But… faces? Fine. But what would you even use it for?" He wiped the sweat above his eyebrow and said, "When I can use energy one day… I will practice on it. Faces are also a path to understand the soul."
She raised an eyebrow, amused. "You talk like an old monk trapped in a child's skin. If you ever learn proper cultivation, I'll teach you the art of shifting form, but not now. Any other wish?"
He thought for a long time. The moon climbed above their heads, pale and distant. Finally he said, "Then… release me from my emotions. Untie my desires. Cut the chains… just for one day. I want my consciousness to stay in one place. No wandering. No pain."
She leaned forward, eyes narrowing, demonic aura flickering faintly beneath her skin. "You want to cut off your emotions for a day?" She started to calculate and said "It's beyond my debt. What will you give in exchange?"
He hesitated, then answered calmly, "My remaining fate. The little that's left. I'll give it all. But can you do it?" She clicked her tongue. "What? You're underestimating my power. If the trade is fate, I can take it. But if you give up what remains… you will die. Your body won't hold together after that."
He breathed deeply, as if welcoming the idea. "Even living… is not better than dying. If losing fate means peace for a day, then it's worth it." A faint blue flame shimmered beneath her eyelids. "So that's what this is… you want to walk the invisible path. The path to the 'other side.' You still believe in those myths, boy."
He said nothing, only looked into her half-scarred, half-divine face. She sighed, her demonic breath chilling the air. "Fine. I will give you a seal. But listen, if your mind fills with stray thoughts, if desire or fear enters even a corner of your heart, the seal will collapse. You'll break. The body can't survive a split consciousness. But… not now. Wait until your mind is stronger. I need to make preparation…"
He nodded slowly.
Three months passed.
Seasons shifted from cold-green rains to warm winds that brushed across the hills. He continued his left-handed practice every morning, his drawings every afternoon, and his quiet stares into the distance at night. His aunt—half-demoness, half-remnant of a beautiful woman with a fate stained in in, —stayed with him. She slept lightly, like someone who fought nightmares every time she closed her eyes.
And every day, he asked the same question: "Is Mother… doing well?" She tolerated it for a while. For weeks. But one evening, when the sun bled into crimson behind the mountains, her patience snapped. Her voice shifted, low, guttural, deep, her demon side rising like a shadow behind her. "You foolish boy," she growled, her hair whipping as if a storm gathered around her. "Still thinking your mother will one day call you her child again? Still dreaming she will hold your hand and bring you back home?"
She approached him, her aura shaking the wooden house. "I have seen that woman since she was born," she hissed. "She always chased beauty, glory, shiny things. If a thing interested her, she grasped it. If it didn't, she destroyed it whole. She is a—"
…....…
She stopped herself. Her fangs showed slightly. "Do you know the real reason she hates you?" He stayed silent, tightening his grip on the stick. "She hates you," his aunt continued, "because the day you were born, her beloved spirit-quill, the peacock bird she used to nurture her destiny, died. She blamed you. She cursed you from the moment your first cry came."
He swallowed. She wasn't done. "Your father hates you because you were weak, because your hands preferred drawing to swordplay. He felt humiliated that day when you couldn't lift the sword properly. And when he learned you had the fate of a mortal, nothing special, nothing bright—he despised you further."
Her aura thickened, glowing like embers. "Your elder sister hates you because you never listened to her schemes. You were always right, too clever for her liking. And the people around you? They are puppets of the strong. They bow to those who shine and crush those who don't." She stepped closer, voice trembling with fury and sadness. "Even your grandfather hates you. Weakness disgusts him. When they discovered your cousin, your uncle's son, had a better chance at cultivation, they used your fate to elevate him. They washed him in your destiny. They drained you."
Her voice softened, almost begging. "So tell me again, why are you obsessed with returning to them? Why tie yourself to people who abandoned you the moment you were born?" She extended her hand, claws retracting, turning into a gentle human palm. "Leave them," she whispered. "Join me. I will teach you the forbidden arts. I will help you avenge everything taken from you. Come to me." The night wind rustled between them.
.....
After some days, might be day outside but inside the room, darkness is present and two people are siting face to face, it was good a candle was burning to see them. He lifted his gaze slowly, then said in a voice emptied of all emotion, "Aunt… you also came for my last remaining fate, didn't you? The part you couldn't take before. The part you still need to settle your debt."
She stiffened, but he continued, pointing toward the far corner of the old house, the place dimmed by shadows, where moonlight never reached.
"In that place," he said, "when I woke up suddenly that night, I saw you. Your power was weakening. You were… in pain. I thought you hid it carefully." He lowered his hand. "But aunt, I am a painter. Nothing can hide in front the eyes I see." Aunt exhaled slowly, a soft sigh mixed with resignation and faint admiration. "You really are good," she murmured. "No… the best painter I have seen in my long life. Nothing escapes you. Your mind is too sharp, your eyes too wide. Even the heavens would be uncomfortable under your gaze."
She brushed her demon-scarred fingers along her cheek, the half-beautiful, half-distorted face flickering like two identities trapped together. "So? What is your thought, my clever little artist?" He said nothing. Instead, he slowly stretched his palm toward her, a quiet offering. Her lips curled in a rare, almost gentle smile. "So you noticed… and yet you still give it?"
She summoned a brush, the same ancient, demonic artifact, the air trembled faintly, as if space itself bowed to it. She placed its tip over the lines in his palm, but something unexpected happened. The brush did not drink his fate. No ink rose. No threads of destiny were pulled. Aunt frowned, confused. "What do you want in return?" she asked. He paused, then asked with a calm voice, "Can I cultivate?"
Aunt looked at him long and deep, her gaze like a storm studying a fragile leaf. "It will be painful," she said softly. "Too painful for a boy who already suffered so much. Can you hold it?" He looked at his hands, scarred, thin, trembling but still alive. "Will it hurt more than what I've already lived through? My heart… hardly remembers what pain feels like."
The demoness looked away. That sentence struck even her. "If you want," she said after a moment, "I can send you to a place. If you manage to return, you will be able to cultivate. But it still depends on your leftover fate." He laughed, genuinely, bitterly. "Don't joke with me. My fate was already stolen. My body is useless for martial cultivation. What part of me is left to train? Aunt, I'm only joking."
But she didn't laugh. She turned to him, her half-demonic eyes glowing faint crimson. "Fate is not a script written by someone above. You are supposed to become the writer of your own. Even the questions burning inside you… the answers lie at the tip of your own brush. Not in your bloodline, not in your clan."
Those words struck him strangely. Fire rose in his dimmed eyes, tiny, defiant, trembling. She smiled faintly. "Good. Then today… my debt will be paid." She lifted his palm again. This time, her brush moved slowly over the faint lines of his destiny. As the tip glided across, ink, his fate lines finally appeared and accumulated in the tip of the brush.
But he wasn't looking at the ink. He was staring at the brush itself. "What is it?" she asked. He whispered, "I… forgot what it felt like. To hold a brush. To draw. You've been the one carrying it all this time."
Aunt blinked, as if realizing something important. "Ahh… right. You couldn't draw for so many years. The pain, the hunger… you never held it again." She straightened the brush above his left palm. "Try it. But don't force it if you can't lift it up."
Without hesitation, he took it. And instantly, he changed. He spun the brush on his finger like a child reunited with a lost toy. His aura sharpened, his breathing steadied. The world around him seemed to expand. He lifted the brush. Drew a line into the air. A black stroke hung there. Aunt's eyes widened. "Impossible…" His fate ink remained in his palm, unconsumed. More than that, something flickered behind him.
A faint ring. Thin, translucent, like a halo made of compressed energy—or something beyond energy. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were calm, deep, and frighteningly focused. He pressed the brush into the air. White ink poured out, like mist, like water, like breath itself. Both sat on the ground of ink and on it grass with one stroke. He drew another stroke. A mountain appeared. Third stroke, bamboo grew, swaying in non-existent wind.
Fourth trees bent and rustled in silence.
Fifth, a river flowed, carving space into movement.
He continued, each stroke birthing another fragment of a world. Mountains, clouds, falling leaves, distant peaks, a lone lantern in mist, a shattered moon, an echo of a childhood memory beside a river… everything flowed out of him. He lost himself in thought, falling deeper, deeper, as if drawing was the only form of breathing he understood.
Behind him, 5 lotus bloomed on the ring and it cracked. Then shattered.
He collapsed. His brush fell from his fingers, landing quietly on the ink floor. The ink dissipated, but the world he created remained for several breaths, then dissolved like a dream.
Aunt stared, stunned to the core. The demon in her whispered, "This is beyond mortal talent." She knelt beside him, touching the fading traces of the ink realm.
"If he is useless," she murmured, "then in my entire life, I have achieved nothing. How you can't cultivate? I will make you pass the test for sure." Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with awe. "But how… how does he have such affinity? Such purity of ink? And without energy, without cultivation, he paints a realm?" She looked at him, unconscious, breathing shallowly. "For eight years… has he been cultivating only with his mind?"
Even she, a demoness could not understand. She placed her hand gently on his forehead. "What have you become, child?"
To be Continued...