"This story…"Elder Mu Li's voice surfaced within Kiaria's consciousness, no longer carrying the strength of a living body, yet strangely clear, as if the memory itself was sustaining it."…is the most beautiful moment of my rise."
The words were not spoken with pride.
They were spoken with the calm acceptance of someone who had already walked through the end of his own life and was now looking back at its beginning.
Kiaria remained silent for a breath, allowing the weight behind those words to settle. He could feel it–Mu Li's soul was faint, unstable, like mist under the sun.
"You should start now," Kiaria said at last, his tone steady but firm. "Your soul won't last long."
Elder Mu Li nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth without resistance.
"Once," he began, his voice drifting into the past, "in Xuzhen Village, a land located on the northern border of our Empire, a teenage boy lost his parents during the Darul Xuzhen Festival."
As he spoke, fragmented images naturally formed within Kiaria's mind–harsh northern winds brushing over wooden houses, unfamiliar banners fluttering beside local totems, crowds gathered in celebration, laughter clashing with unease.
"That boy," Elder Mu Li continued, "was not born of this Empire."
His voice softened.
"He was a foreigner. A child who came here only because his parents wished to witness the Darul Xuzhen Festival with their own eyes."
There was a pause.
"They never planned to stay. Xuzhen was never meant to be his home."
The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken loss.
Then Elder Mu Li turned his gaze directly toward Kiaria, as if testing whether the next words were worth revealing.
"Patron," he asked quietly, "do you know the name of our Empire?"
The question caught Kiaria off guard.
He searched his memories instinctively–imperial records, sealed histories, oral accounts passed down through generations, even the forbidden archives he had once glimpsed through the Grand Preceptor. Titles of Emperors surfaced. Dynasties. Eras.
But not a name.
"No," Kiaria replied after a moment, his brows furrowing. "I've never heard anyone speak the name of our Empire. There are no records that clearly mention it either."
Elder Mu Li's lips curved faintly–not into a smile, but into something closer to resignation.
"Yes," he said softly. "You are right."
The faint glow of his soul flickered, emotions stirring beneath the calm surface.
"During that festival," Elder Mu Li continued, guilt bleeding into his tone, "the Emperor destroyed the ancient rites. With his absolute authority, he replaced the Darul Xuzhen statue with the God of Desires."
Kiaria felt a subtle tightening in his chest.
"The true protector of our Empire," Elder Mu Li said, his voice dropping lower, "was enraged by this sacrilege."
He clenched his spectral hand slowly, as if gripping a memory too heavy to release.
"The God who had protected this land since antiquity cursed the Empire entirely for this audacity. Not partially. Not selectively." His voice trembled. "Everyone. Every record. Every child born of the Empire's blood."
Kiaria's eyes narrowed.
"From that moment onward," Elder Mu Li continued, "the name of the Empire was erased from memory itself. No one could remember it. No one could record it. The name that once filled hearts with pride ceased to exist in this world."
The words sank like stones.
"In the future," he said, "there would be no record of it at all. Only a nameless Empire–its history spoken only through the Emperor's title, its identity hollowed out."
Understanding struck Kiaria with quiet force.
"So except for you…" Kiaria said slowly, "…no one in this Empire knows its name. It cannot even be spoken." He exhaled. "No wonder the Empire is always referred to by the Emperor's name."
"Yes," Elder Mu Li replied, his voice tightening. "I knew the name."
He looked down at his hands.
"And I spoke it."
The next words carried weight far heavier than before.
"That is why I lost my parents." His fingers curled into tight fists. "And why I became permanently trapped in this Empire."
Anger and guilt rippled through his soul simultaneously.
"I am cursed," Elder Mu Li said, his voice strained but controlled, "to live and die here… without ever seeing the faces of my parents or relatives again."
The emotion behind those words was raw, unfiltered.
Kiaria's heart clenched.
"Is this what you wanted to tell me?" Kiaria asked, the question leaving his lips faster than he intended, urgency slipping through the restraint he had been holding since the story began.
Elder Mu Li lifted his gaze slowly. The faint glow of his soul wavered, not from weakness alone, but from emotions long buried and now forced back into the light.
"No," he said firmly. "That was only the beginning."
After that incident, life in Xuzhen Village changed–changed into something ugly, something rotten at its core. The harmony that once bound the villagers together dissolved almost overnight. Neighbors who once shared meals began to lock their doors. Trust was replaced by suspicion. Robbery, deceit, and unspeakable acts crept into daily life as naturally as breathing.
"At first," Elder Mu Li continued, his voice quieter, "I gathered what little courage I could. I told myself I could endure." His lips tightened. "But later… I even attempted suicide."
The words were spoken plainly, without drama.
"Loneliness. Hunger. Bullying. Being foreign. Being cursed." His fists trembled. "There were many reasons."
Silence pressed down heavily between them.
"But the following year," he went on, "the Darul Xuzhen Festival came again."
Kiaria sensed a shift–this part mattered.
"There were no rituals," Elder Mu Li said. "No offerings. No sacred dances. All the cultural ceremonies that once honored the Protector God were abandoned."
Only one tradition remained untouched.
"The Cultural Hunt."
His voice steadied as he described it, as though recalling the ritual itself anchored him.
"The Blessed Xuzhen River possessed a unique power," he said. "It could levitate and glide tribal people over its surface. Wind acted as support, lifting bodies that should have fallen."
In Kiaria's mind, the scene unfolded vividly.
"A twelve-millennia-old tree grew bent along the river's current," Elder Mu Li continued. "It stretched for nearly a mile across the water, its trunk resting on the river's surface as if it had grown there intentionally."
The tree's branches spread wide, heavy with green leaves and fruit.
"At the far end lived an ecosystem of eagles," he said. "Unmutated. Untainted by evil. These eagles appeared only during festival season, circling above the river like living omens."
The hunt was brutal in both form and consequence.
"Participants wielded spears with hooked tips. They stabbed the tree and used the recoil to launch themselves upward. While levitating above the river, they had to capture a flying eagle and offer it to the God."
The river itself was merciless.
"Its depth changed unpredictably," Elder Mu Li said. "Sometimes shallow at the center, sometimes abyssal at the edges. Sometimes calm, sometimes violent. The river judged each participant differently."
Kiaria's expression darkened.
"If a person fell into the river without capturing an eagle," Elder Mu Li continued, "their sins were publicly revealed. As punishment, they cut off their own hand below the wrist and offered it to the God in repentance."
He paused.
"Afterward, they were fed, honored, and made the chief guest of the festival."
A twisted form of mercy.
"This," Elder Mu Li said softly, "was the real festival."
Then his tone hardened.
"But after the year of massacre… everything changed."
Time passed.
"I eventually found work," he said. "I became an accounts manager for the village landlord, overseeing the tenants' records."
On the day of the Cultural Hunt, everyone left for the river–everyone except Elder Mu Li and the landlord's sick daughter.
"I was in the corner of the office," he recalled, "rewriting the profit and loss records from the previous festival days."
That was when the hooligans arrived.
"They didn't notice me at first," Elder Mu Li said. "They took all the money. Then… one of them looked at the girl."
His voice tightened.
"I stepped forward."
Kiaria's jaw clenched.
"I offered them everything I had saved over the past year. Every coin." Elder Mu Li shook his head slowly. "They were not satisfied."
They captured both of them.
Dragged them into a cart.
"I didn't let them touch her," Elder Mu Li said. "For every attempt, I was beaten."
He looked at Kiaria, shame flickering briefly.
"I was ordinary. I couldn't cultivate. They were body-refining cultivators."
On the way, the cart reached the Blessed River. Crowds gathered there prevented immediate violence.
"People were talking," Elder Mu Li continued. "About the river turning violent. About participants failing the hunt. About bridges destroyed overnight by something unknown."
Rumors spread like fire.
"The hooligans saw an opportunity," he said quietly. "They decided to kill me–to erase evidence. And then take the girl alone."
Kiaria's anger surged, though he kept his face still. Outside his spiritual consciousness, his dragon-clawed fingers pierced into his own palm, blood dripping silently.
Elder Mu Li continued.
"They made a bet. If I caught an eagle and did not fall into the river, they would kneel before the crowd and accept divine punishment."
A bitter smile crossed his face.
"I knew their words meant nothing. But I had no other choice."
His voice steadied with resolve.
"I chose to die honorably protecting her rather than die meaninglessly."
He bought a spear–with their money.
Then he raised his voice deliberately, turning the crowd into witnesses.
"'Friends,' I said, 'those men in the cart are my companions. We have a bet. Please watch them for me. When I return with an eagle hooked on my spear, our culture will judge us.'"
The crowd responded.
"They believed me," Elder Mu Li said. "And for the first time in years, I felt at ease."
He paused.
"I had no will to live. But for that girl's safety… I wanted to live. At least for that day."
He described thrusting the spear into the tree, choosing the safer route along its side.
"They mocked me," he said. "Called me a coward for avoiding the water route. There were more eagles there–but the river depth decided survival."
As an ordinary teen, his light weight carried him higher than anyone expected.
"I saw an eagle above me," Elder Mu Li continued. "I thrust upward–but missed."
The flock scattered.
Hope wavered.
The tree neared its end.
Eagles attacked him as he approached their territory, talons tearing into flesh. He bled–but did not cry.
"One almost caught on my hook," he said. "But it escaped."
The crowd began to chant. Ritual songs echoed.
"I reached the tree's tip. One more moment, and I would fall."
He thrust again.
The algae-covered surface betrayed him.
The hook slid instead of lifting him.
Then fate intervened.
"An eagle was feeding on fish near the branch," Elder Mu Li said. "The hook caught it. The eagle pulled me upward."
Momentum tilted.
He did not touch the water.
Instead, he fell toward land.
"There was a hidden temple," he said softly. "Its door was open."
He fell inside.
The doors closed on their own.
He floated upward, struck the roof, blood spilling from his hand. Then he fell–nearly twenty meters.
Bones broke.
Blood flowed.
It seeped through a hidden slope beneath the floor.
"And from that place," Elder Mu Li whispered, "my blood touched the brush."
The brush of God Xuzhen.
"All the protections. All the justified deaths. All the wrath," he said, "were Yin–Yang formations."
The brush absorbed him.
Its memories and energy became his spiritual core.
"It transformed me into the Nascent Realm."
The ritual Yang awakened formations for wealth. Blood offerings powered healing. Yin absorption fueled balance.
"The statue was never a symbol," Elder Mu Li said. "It was a formation–to calm the river, to bless agriculture."
Replacing it cursed the land.
"The brush that guided you," he concluded, "is that same brush."
He rebuilt the land.
He forced the hooligans to kneel.
He offered the eagle.
Prosperity returned.
His voice softened at last.
Elder Mu Li's voice softened, as if the weight he had carried for a lifetime was finally being set down.
"Now… I am dead."
The words did not carry fear. Nor regret. They were spoken with the quiet certainty of someone who had already accepted the end long before it arrived.
"The brush," he continued, lowering his gaze, "is now ownerless. Without a master, the formations bound to it will slowly unravel." His soul flickered faintly, the light thinning around its edges. "In the Northern region, the grand formations will begin to weaken. In six months… they will collapse completely."
Kiaria listened without interrupting, his consciousness tense and unmoving.
"There is only one way to rejuvenate them," Elder Mu Li said. "The brush must be returned to the temple where it originated. Only by restoring it to its rightful place can the formations be stabilized once more."
He lifted his eyes again, looking straight at Kiaria.
"Patron," Elder Mu Li asked quietly, with no command in his tone–only trust, "can you do me this favor?"
There was no hesitation.
"Of course," Kiaria replied at once. His voice was calm, but resolute. "I will do it personally."
A profound relief washed over Elder Mu Li's face.
"Thank you," he said, bowing deeply despite his fading form. "Your presence… it always ignited memories of my past. Both beautiful and painful." He paused, then smiled faintly. "You have a heroic nature."
The words that followed were no longer a request.
They were a warning.
"Youngster," Elder Mu Li said gently, "remember this well. Not every heroic action brings the result you expect." His voice grew distant, layered with regret. "Some consequences come immediately. Some arrive much later. And some… only reveal themselves after death."
Kiaria's chest tightened.
"At that time," Elder Mu Li continued, "my heroic act saved my life. It saved that little girl as well." His expression darkened. "But it also cost the lives of those hooligans… and others who were dragged into the aftermath."
He exhaled slowly.
"I saved her in that moment," he said. "But the wound left behind followed her through life. When she reached marriageable age, she was rejected by others because of that incident." His voice trembled faintly. "In the end… she took her own life."
Silence filled Kiaria's consciousness.
"So remember this," Elder Mu Li said, his tone firm despite the fading strength. "The higher your power, the greater your responsibility. Act with conviction–but ensure that when all is done, no guilt remains in your heart."
The light surrounding Elder Mu Li's soul thinned further.
His form began to dissolve, fragment by fragment, like mist carried away by an unseen wind.
Then he was gone.
Kiaria stood frozen within his consciousness.
Only now did he truly understand why Princess Lainsa and Diala had been so worried about him–about the way he charged forward, about the way he carried responsibility alone, about the cost his heroism might one day demand.
Tears welled up.
When Kiaria opened his eyes, they slid down silently.
The world outside returned–faces, wounds, exhaustion, the lingering scent of blood and damp earth.
"Chief," Kiaria said softly, his voice steady despite the tears, "I'm taking this brush. Elder Mu Li entrusted me with a mission as his last wish."
He did not wait for a response.
He already knew what the answer would be.
His gaze moved through the gathered crowd–newbies, veterans, the wounded and the weary–until he found them.
Princess Lainsa.
Diala.
Kiaria walked toward them quietly, without drawing attention. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if afraid the moment might break if rushed.
When he reached them, he did not speak immediately.
He simply pulled them both into his arms.
"I… I'm sorry for worrying you," Kiaria said at last, his voice breaking despite his effort to remain composed.
They felt it instantly–the sincerity, the grief, the guilt he carried deep within.
Neither of them spoke.
Princess Lainsa tightened her embrace.
Diala held him firmly, refusing to let go.
They stood like that for a long while, surrounded by silence that needed no words, until Kiaria's trembling finally eased.
And in that quiet embrace, something within him settled–
not power,not resolve,but understanding.