Chapter 1: The Quiet Man of Greenstone Village
Greenstone Village lay at the edge of the world.
Mountains surrounded it like old guards who had long forgotten why they stood watch. The river flowed slowly, never flooding, never drying, as if it too had learned contentment. No immortal sect cared for this place. No flying swords crossed its sky.
And so, life was peaceful.
Every morning, a young man named Lin Chen opened the wooden door of his small house and swept fallen leaves from the stone path. He moved unhurriedly, his breathing steady, his expression calm.
To the villagers, Lin Chen was ordinary.
He rented a small field behind his house, grew herbs and vegetables, and sometimes went into the mountains to gather medicinal plants. He smiled politely, spoke little, and never involved himself in disputes.
Children liked him because he fixed broken toys. Elders trusted him because he listened without interrupting. Even the village dogs never barked at him.
"Good morning, Chen'er," Old Zhang would say.
"Good morning," Lin Chen would reply, bowing slightly.
Nothing more.
At dawn, before the rooster crowed, Lin Chen sat cross-legged beneath an ancient willow tree behind his house.
Mist curled around the ground. Dew clung to grass blades like fragments of moonlight.
He closed his eyes.
No grand aura burst forth. No spiritual pressure shook the land.
His breathing was slow—so slow it seemed to fade into the rhythm of the earth itself.
If an immortal cultivator passed by, they would scoff.
No spiritual roots. No cultivation base. A mortal wasting time pretending to meditate.
And yet—
As Lin Chen inhaled, the mist subtly shifted. As he exhaled, the leaves trembled.
Deep within his body, something ancient and vast stirred—not awakening, not revealing itself, merely existing, as it had for countless years.
A presence older than the mountains. Calmer than time.
Lin Chen opened his eyes.
"Today's circulation was smoother," he murmured softly. "Perhaps the body is finally remembering."
Remembering what, he did not say.
Later that day, Lin Chen entered the mountains.
He moved carefully, avoiding fragile plants, stepping around ant trails. When he encountered a wounded deer caught in a hunter's snare, he quietly freed it, applied herbs, and watched it limp away.
The forest did not fear him.
A sudden tremor passed through the ground—so faint that no one in the village noticed. High above, beyond clouds and distance, something unseen paused.
In a place far removed from Greenstone Village, an ancient formation flickered.
A sealed relic… resonated.
For the first time in ten thousand years.
That night, Lin Chen cooked a simple meal: rice, vegetables, and clear soup. He ate slowly, then lit an oil lamp and read an old, tattered book with no title on its cover.
The pages were blank.
To anyone else.
Lin Chen traced a finger across the paper, and faint golden characters appeared—only for him.
"The Dao is not cultivated."
"It is remembered."
He smiled faintly.
"Still impatient," he said to the book, as if it could hear him. "This life is peaceful. Let me live it properly."
Outside, the wind passed softly through the village.
Far away, stars shifted slightly out of alignment.
And somewhere beyond heaven and earth, fate quietly adjusted its gaze, settling—at last—on Greenstone Village.