What Remains
Lin Chen sat motionless.
His back was straight, his breathing even.
At first, nothing happened.
Thoughts came and went as before.
The sounds of the village did not disappear—dogs barking, footsteps, distant voices, the rustle of wind through dry leaves. Everything remained in its place.
And then he realized:
he was no longer following them.
Thoughts passed without catching.
Sounds existed without drawing attention.
It felt as though he stood on the riverbank and, for the first time, did not step into the water.
A heaviness appeared in his chest.
Not pain.
Not warmth.
Rather—something slowly settling, like dust after a long journey. It did not hinder his breathing, yet it did not vanish either, as if reminding him of itself simply by existing.
Lin Chen did not try to control it.
Nor did he resist.
He simply allowed it to be.
Time lost its shape.
He did not know whether a minute or an hour had passed when he suddenly noticed that his breathing had changed.
It grew deeper.
Between inhale and exhale, a brief moment of silence appeared—so clear that nothing could hide within it.
And it was in this silence that he felt something strange.
Every action he had taken in the past
had left a trace.
Not in the body.
And not in memory.
Somewhere deeper—where there had once been no words, no images. He could not see these traces, but he knew they existed. And if one touched them carelessly—the consequences would be inevitable.
The thought flashed and vanished.
But the sensation remained.
When he opened his eyes, the light outside was the same.
The sun stood where it always had.
The world had not changed.
Only he had.
Lin Chen rose slowly.
And in that moment, he felt it clearly: if he took a wrong step now—
it would weigh more than before.
Footsteps sounded outside.
"Don't move suddenly," a calm voice said.
Lin Chen turned.
By the wall, within the shadow, stood an old man. His figure seemed indistinct, as if he were not entirely present. His facial features were clear, but his gaze was too deep for an ordinary person.
"You have begun to contemplate," he said.
"And that means you have begun to notice."
The old man studied Lin Chen carefully, as though evaluating not the body, but what lay behind it.
"From this moment on," he continued, "the world will no longer be indulgent."
He stepped back, dissolving into the shadow.
"And it will answer you honestly."
Lin Chen did not ask questions.
The old man did not disappear immediately—he simply stood in the shadow, as if shadow were his natural place. No wind, no movement, no pressure. His presence was felt, but never imposed.
"Are you not afraid?" he asked.
Lin Chen considered.
Listened to himself.
"No," he said at last. "If you meant to harm me, you would not have warned me."
The old man nodded slightly.
"Then you have already begun to understand the difference between power and intent."
He stepped forward. Light touched his face, but not completely—as if the world itself hesitated to acknowledge his existence in full.
"Do not look at me that way," he said calmly.
"I am not a teacher in the way you imagine."
Lin Chen remained silent.
"I will not give you techniques.
I will not point out a path.
And I will not save you if you make a mistake."
Each word landed heavy, but honest.
"Then why are you here?" Lin Chen asked.
The old man looked at him for a long time.
Too long for a simple answer.
"Because you have already taken the first step," he said.
"And because most who take it immediately turn back."
He raised a hand and pointed to Lin Chen's chest.
"You feel the heaviness.
The settling of what was once scattered."
Lin Chen shuddered. The old man spoke as if he saw not the sensation, but the process itself.
"Remember this," he continued.
"As long as you do not give it a name, it will grow correctly."
"And if I do name it?" Lin Chen asked.
"Then you will begin striving not for understanding, but for a level."
He lowered his hand.
"That is the first mistake."
They stood in silence for a while.
"My name is Xu Mo," the old man finally said.
"It no longer belongs to the living world. Do not use it for reverence."
He looked directly into Lin Chen's eyes.
"Use it to remember this:
A path does not become purer because one walks it correctly.
It becomes purer because one does not walk it unnecessarily."
With those words, his figure began to dissolve, as if he had always been nothing more than a reflection on water.
"Next time," the voice added from the shadows,
"I will tell you what must not be done."
And the silence returned to normal.
Lin Chen remained alone.
He sat.
But this time—
knowing that with every breath,
something remained.
---
The village awoke slowly.
Lin Chen carried water from the well, as he had done hundreds of times before. The wooden bucket was the same, his hands the same. Even the road beneath his feet had not changed.
But he walked differently.
He did not notice it at once—
only when he stopped too early.
A man stood on the road before him.
Zhao Long.
A hunter from the eastern part of the village. Strong, taciturn, with eyes accustomed to searching for prey in the brush. They had barely spoken before.
"You…" Zhao Long narrowed his eyes. "You've changed."
Lin Chen did not answer.
"No," the hunter continued, circling him. "Not outwardly. You've become… heavier."
He stopped in front of him.
"When I look at you," he said more quietly, "it feels like the air around you doesn't want to move."
Lin Chen felt that same sensation settle again in his chest.
Not fear.
Not joy.
A trace.
"You're mistaken," he said.
Zhao Long smirked.
"I'm rarely mistaken when it comes to prey."
He leaned closer—then suddenly stepped back.
"No…" he muttered. "Not a beast. And not a cultivator."
He spoke the last word almost in a whisper.
"You didn't do anything? Eat something strange? Find something in the mountains?"
Lin Chen remembered Xu Mo's words.
As long as you do not give it a name, it will grow correctly.
"No," he said calmly. "I just sat."
Zhao Long stared at him for a long time.
Then turned away.
"Then don't do that again," he threw over his shoulder.
"Some things are better left unnoticed."
He left quickly, as if afraid to linger.
Lin Chen remained standing.
"He can feel it," a familiar voice said.
Xu Mo appeared by the wall of a house, almost transparent in daylight.
"He cannot see it. But he feels it. Such people are dangerous."
"To me?" Lin Chen asked.
"To themselves," Xu Mo replied.
"They are the first to reach for what they do not understand."
He glanced toward where the hunter had gone.
"Remember this feeling.
When the world begins to react to you before you react to it."
"What should I do?" Lin Chen asked.
Xu Mo shook his head.
"Today—nothing.
If you act to confirm the change, you have already lost."
He vanished as quietly as he had appeared.
Lin Chen set the bucket down. The water inside rippled—too slowly, as if resisting motion.
He understood:
his path could no longer be hidden.
But neither could it be shown.
Not yet.
---
Night fell unnoticed.
Not because the sun dipped below the horizon—
but because the sky itself grew deeper.
Lin Chen sat motionless. His breathing was even, almost imperceptible, as if he feared disturbing something fragile within himself. The strange sensation still glimmered in his chest—not strength, not weakness, but presence.
He did not know how much time passed.
A moment or hours—there was no longer a difference.
"You are doing it wrong."
The voice sounded behind him. Calm. Old. As though it belonged to someone who had long since stopped hurrying.
Lin Chen flinched and turned sharply.
Behind him, only a few steps away, stood an old man in gray robes. His figure seemed blurred, as though he were part of the mist. His beard fell to his chest, his eyes were narrow, but there was no malice in them—only quiet curiosity.
"Do not be afraid," the old man said.
"If I wished you harm, you would no longer be breathing."
Lin Chen swallowed.
"Who are you…?"
The old man smiled faintly.
"Once, I had a name. Now it is of little use to anyone."
He stepped forward—and the ground beneath his feet made no sound.
"But if you must have one… you may call me Xu Mo."
The name echoed strangely in Lin Chen's mind.
"Why can I see you?" he asked after a pause. "Before… there was no one."
Xu Mo looked at him carefully, as though seeing him for the first time.
"Because before, you were looking," he answered.
"And now… you have begun to see."
The old man sat on a stone opposite him, unhurried.
"What you were doing—contemplation—is correct in form, but empty in essence.
You tried to grasp the path without losing anything."
He shook his head.
"The path is not taken. It is paid for."
Lin Chen frowned.
"Paid… with what?"
Xu Mo closed his eyes.
"Time.
Warmth.
Illusions.
Sometimes—yourself."
He opened his eyes again.
"You stand at the first threshold.
If you step beyond it, you will not return as a mortal."
Something trembled in Lin Chen's chest.
Fear?
Or… anticipation?
"And if I refuse?" he asked quietly.
Xu Mo smiled—for the first time truly.
"Then you will live an ordinary life.
And die without ever knowing why, that night, the sky grew deeper."
Silence hung between them.
Lin Chen exhaled slowly…
and closed his eyes again.
"Teach me," he said.
At that moment, the wind changed direction.
And somewhere far beyond the village,
something took its first step along his trace.
"Before I teach you," Xu Mo said,
"I must be certain you are ready to lose."
Lin Chen opened his eyes.
The night was still there, but it no longer felt the same. The sounds of the village—distant dogs, creaking roofs—seemed to retreat, leaving emptiness around the two of them.
"Lose what?" he asked.
Xu Mo did not answer immediately. He raised a hand and pointed at Lin Chen's chest.
"Take a breath," he said.
Lin Chen obeyed.
"And now… let it go."
"I am already exhaling," the youth frowned.
"No," Xu Mo replied calmly.
"You are clinging to the breath. To life. To continuation."
He stepped closer. His figure now seemed almost transparent.
"The first lesson is simple," he said quietly.
"You must allow the breath to leave, even if it feels as though you will leave with it."
The words were frighteningly calm.
Lin Chen hesitated.
Then…
he remembered the thought from the third chapter.
The moment when a mortal ceased to be merely mortal.
He exhaled slowly.
And did not inhale again.
The world trembled.
One second.
Two.
Pain flared in his chest. His consciousness clawed back toward the body, toward fear.
And at that instant, Xu Mo snapped his fingers.
"Enough."
Air rushed back in. Lin Chen coughed, bending over, but inside there was something strange…
clean.
As if something unnecessary had vanished.
"Did you feel it?" Xu Mo asked.
"I…" Lin Chen searched for words. "I felt like I disappeared. For a moment."
Xu Mo nodded.
"That is the price of the first step.
To let go of yourself—even briefly."
He turned and looked toward the mountains, their silhouettes dark against the horizon.
"Those like you were once called the quietly walking," he continued.
"Not because they were weak.
But because their path leaves no traces… until it is too late."
"Are there others like me?" Lin Chen asked.
"There were," Xu Mo replied.
"Some of them created a place.
A place where one is not taught to shout with power."
He paused.
"The Sect of the Silent Trace."
The name was spoken softly, yet within Lin Chen it echoed like a dull удар.
"If you survive the early stages," Xu Mo said,
"that is where I will send you."
Lin Chen clenched his fists.
"And if I do not survive?"
Xu Mo chuckled.
"Then you will simply become another mortal
who once took too deep a breath… and never understood why."
The wind changed direction once more.
And far away, among the mountains,
within the stone halls of the Sect of the Silent Trace,
one of the elders suddenly opened his eyes.
"Someone… let go of their breath," he murmured.