Chapter 266

In the far hills of central China, hidden beneath a heavy canopy of trees, there was a village known to few beyond its borders. Its name, Langxian, meant "The Hidden Peace." No one knew how it had thrived for so long.

No taxes reached its people, no soldiers dared to tread on its land. Most importantly, there were no criminals. The village was quiet, its streets calm and unnerving in their tranquility. In the evenings, the villagers could hear the soft rustling of the bamboo in the wind, the only sound that seemed to be allowed.

The villagers, for the most part, lived simple lives, working in fields, weaving, making pottery, but they all feared one man. The old sage, Lao Qian, had been the heart of their peace. His hands could twist and bend the world around him, controlling the flow of ki with a concentration so intense that even the heavens themselves bowed to his will.

It was said that Lao Qian had once been a wandering scholar. He had traveled far and learned the secret ways of the ancient mystics, amassing knowledge so deep it had consumed the rest of him. It wasn't long before he had arrived at Langxian, and with him came the power to reshape life itself.

In the beginning, the villagers had feared him. He was old, bent, and his eyes gleamed with a strange, unsettling intensity. They did not know what to make of him. His house sat at the edge of the village, a small, decrepit hut, surrounded by thick vines and the smell of herbs. But the day the first injustice arrived in their village was the day everything changed.

A band of thieves, passing through the area, had set their sights on the market. They came in the night, masks pulled over their faces, swords drawn. But before they could make their move, Lao Qian stood before them, his arms raised, his mouth moving in a chant no one understood. The thieves froze in place, the muscles in their bodies locking up, their swords falling to the ground. Lao Qian moved through them, his presence cold, suffocating, as if the air itself had turned to stone.

The thieves never left Langxian. No one knew where their bodies had gone. The village continued as if nothing had happened, and soon, it became a place beyond reach. News of the mysterious village spread, and though the Emperor's officials sent soldiers to investigate, none ever returned. Some said Lao Qian had made them disappear. Others said he had bent their minds and souls until they broke.

Lao Qian's justice was absolute. His power was unmatched. He ruled over Langxian not by force, but by fear. The people did not dare to step out of line. If one was caught stealing, Lao Qian would appear from the shadows, and the thief would never be seen again. If one spoke ill of the sage, they would find themselves alone, their tongue heavy, their words meaningless.

But the villagers did not rebel. They did not even protest. They had learned long ago that to live in peace, they must endure his strange rule. And so, they worked and lived under his dark, silent gaze, watching the seasons pass, knowing that their safety was bought at a terrible price.

There was one, however, who could not accept this price.

Her name was Hua, a young woman with soft hands and a fiery spirit. She had heard the stories of Lao Qian since she was a child, and though she had learned to live with his control, something about it had always bothered her. It gnawed at her from the inside, as if a part of her was always asking: What is freedom, if it is not chosen?

One day, after a long day of working in the fields, Hua found herself standing at the edge of the village, staring at Lao Qian's hut. It sat still, lifeless, with only the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves to break the silence. A part of her hated it. She couldn't stand the way his presence hung over everything. It wasn't real peace. It was a lie.

She walked up to the hut, her heart pounding in her chest. She had heard rumors—rumors of the old sage's true power, his ability to make people disappear, to take their souls. The villagers had grown so used to it, they had forgotten what it meant to live without fear. Hua, however, had not forgotten.

She knocked on the door, her hand trembling as she did so.

There was no answer.

The door creaked open slightly on its own, and she stepped inside.

Lao Qian was seated in the middle of the room, his back hunched, his eyes closed. His breathing was slow, methodical, as if he were deep in meditation. Hua stood there, unsure of what to do, her resolve faltering.

He spoke, his voice deep and rough, like stone scraping against stone.

"You came to challenge me?"

Hua swallowed, trying to steady herself. "I came to ask you why. Why do you do this? Why do you make them afraid?"

Lao Qian's eyes opened, and for the first time, Hua saw the true weight of his gaze. It was as if he could see through her, past the surface, to the very core of her being.

"You are troubled, Hua," he said. "You seek freedom. But freedom is not what you think. The world is a delicate balance. Justice must be maintained, or chaos will reign. I do what I do because it must be done."

Hua clenched her fists. "But it's not right. You take away their choice. You control them. How can you call that peace?"

Lao Qian's gaze hardened. "You are young, Hua. You do not understand the weight of responsibility. But soon, you will."

Before she could respond, he rose to his feet. The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows stretching unnaturally long. Hua took a step back, her heart racing.

Lao Qian raised his hand, and a surge of energy filled the room. Hua gasped as her body froze, her limbs locking in place. Her breath caught in her throat as her mind screamed in defiance.

"You seek to defy me?" Lao Qian asked, his voice low, like a rumble of distant thunder.

Hua struggled, but it was no use. The power he wielded was too much. The world around her blurred, twisted, as if it were being pulled apart at the seams. Her mind screamed for release, but her body refused to obey.

And then, with a single gesture, Lao Qian silenced her.

In that moment, Hua's world shattered.

Her mind was no longer her own. She was trapped in a void, unable to move, unable to think. She felt the cold tendrils of Lao Qian's will wrap around her, squeezing, tightening, until all she could feel was his presence.

Her eyes were open, but she saw nothing. She was no longer a person, just an empty vessel, her soul lost to the power that held her in place.

Lao Qian's voice came again, soft, like the wind rustling through the bamboo.

"You are free now, Hua. But freedom comes with a cost."

And just like that, she was gone.

The villagers would later speak of the strange stillness that hung over Langxian for weeks after Hua's disappearance. The markets were quieter, the fields emptier. No one dared ask what had happened to her. They all knew. Lao Qian had claimed her, just as he had claimed the others before her.

The sage's power was absolute. No one could stop him.

And Langxian remained, as it always had been—a village of peace, built on fear.