The Heavenly Demon rose to his feet. His cultivation was only at the first layer of Qi Refinement. With a hunched back, he stepped out of the house, moving slowly toward the kitchen.
The sun had begun its ascent from behind Tiger Mountain, casting golden light over the land, while birds took flight in search of their morning meal.
Outwardly, he was old Ling Yun. With sluggish steps, he passed through the overgrown hedges and entered the kitchen.
Despite being a cultivator, he had yet to reach the stage where food was unnecessary. That realm was still far beyond his grasp.
Muttering under his breath, he grumbled, "Tch, this body… By mortal standards, I should've rotted in my grave a hundred times over. But thanks to demonic techniques, I'm still standing."
He cast a sidelong glance at the sky, resentment flickering in his eyes. With slow, deliberate steps—as if refusing to acknowledge the fate that had befallen him—he pressed on.
"The Heavenly Demon, the greatest evil god of the Sacred Realm… now stuck in the middle of nowhere, in a half-dead body… about to cook?"
A bitter smirk twisted his lips. "Ridiculous. What a pathetic joke."
Then, his eyes turned cold, filled with unyielding hatred.
"Damn the Feng Clan. I hope not even ashes remain."
As he walked, his thoughts churned with plans.
"Before I set foot in the Northern Plains, I need to regain as much strength as possible."
A shadow of a smile crept onto his face.
"Old man Zhou… you said you had a daughter, didn't you?"
He murmured, "Perhaps she'll be of use to me… That's the only reason I accepted your offer, after all."
The old man Zhou's rundown hut was thick with cobwebs, damp and stifling, more akin to a forgotten grave than a home. A thin layer of dust covered everything—except the small corner where Ling Yun slept.
With little enthusiasm, he made his way to the storage shed, grabbed a few pieces of firewood, and carried them to the kitchen.
Channeling a sliver of Qi into his fingertips, he ignited a flame. A blackened pot settled atop the flickering fire as he chopped wild radishes and fresh greens, tossing them into a bit of oil. But there was no meat.
His face darkened. "Tch… those monks…"
Among the common folk, cultivators were often referred to as monks—hermits who spent their days in seclusion, dedicating themselves to the Dao. But in truth, the title "monk" was reserved for righteous path cultivators, those who renounced worldly ties in pursuit of enlightenment.
That day, the Heavenly Demon had no choice but to make do with vegetables.
The next day, he busied himself with farming and repairing the dilapidated hut, all the while continuing his cultivation of the demonic path.
He was attempting to refine his core by nurturing negative energy within his body, training in the foundational arts of demonic cultivation. Yet, he was careful—he could not afford to release even the faintest trace of demonic Qi.
Balancing two conflicting types of Qi within one body was a near impossibility. Time and time again, he tried to maintain equilibrium, only to fail each time.
Three weeks passed. In that time, he had grown accustomed to life at the edge of the world. Days were spent farming and hunting, nights in cultivation. Each small breakthrough brought a quiet satisfaction, and slowly, he began to experience a strange sense of peace.
A month went by. He had advanced to the third layer of Qi Refinement. Though demonic energy still coursed through his body, he had learned to separate its impurities using cleansing arrays, refining it into ordinary Qi.
But the nature of Qi could not be changed.
By the time a month and a half had passed, he had reached the threshold of the fourth layer. His appearance had improved, and he felt stronger. No longer did he need to rely solely on simple traps or return home with only a portion of his prey. Now, he could easily hunt beasts.
Exploring Tiger Mountain, he discovered various hidden spots. Everything seemed to be going smoothly—no interruptions, no disturbances. Day by day, he grew stronger. Days were spent hunting and tending to the land, nights dedicated to cultivation.
By the second month, he finally broke through to the fourth layer. With this advancement came access to Telekinesis—a skill most cultivators wouldn't attain until they reached the fourth layer of the Foundation Establishment realm. Yet the Heavenly Demon, with his understanding of the Dao and mastery of various techniques, had managed to wield it within the Qi Refinement stage.
He used Telekinesis for hunting, gardening, reinforcing the outer fences, and other mundane tasks.
Then, on an otherwise uneventful day in the third month, a sudden voice rang out from the road beyond the hedges:
"Hey, Senior! You home?!"
The Heavenly Demon was seated in the courtyard, tending to his garden with Telekinesis—uprooting weeds, mending the fences, and giving the old house a bit of care.
His spiritual sense had already detected the girl's presence. Without haste, he calmly ceased the use of Telekinesis.
She wasn't a cultivator, but she carried a jade token imbued with spiritual energy. However, the inscription upon it wasn't offensive—it was merely a sign of identity.
Still seated in his wooden chair, the Heavenly Demon placed a long-stemmed pipe between his lips. He sprinkled a pinch of tobacco into the bowl, pressed it down with his thumb, and lit it with a flicker of Qi.
Taking slow, measured draws, he half-closed his eyes, gazing at the endless blue sky.
For a few moments, before the girl arrived, he allowed himself to be swallowed by the silence.
Years ago, in a humble hut near Tiger Mountain, a girl was born. At first, everyone thought she had been stillborn—she did not cry like other infants. Her heartbeat was weak, her breath barely perceptible. And yet, she lived.
The villagers rejoiced at her birth, celebrating with feasts and laughter. As tradition dictated, a week after her birth, they took her to a seer for a blessing and a glimpse into her future. But the words they received struck their hearts like a blade.
The seer declared that the newborn had no star in the heavens—an ominous sign foretelling an early death.
Her mother wept upon hearing this.
For years, they had prayed for a child, only for the heavens to deny them the chance to see her future. The girl's father, burdened with grief, made a cruel yet resolute decision. If the heavens demanded his daughter, then he would entrust her to fate itself.
He carried her to the river—a river teeming with beasts and flesh-eating fish. But he could not bring himself to cast her into death's embrace so mercilessly. Instead, he placed her inside a woven basket and set it adrift upon the current.
Thus began Jing's journey.
Far from the Jing family's home, an immortal once lived—an immortal who had abandoned immortality for love. His sect had forbidden such attachments and had given him only two choices: either his beloved would ascend to immortality, or he would sever his own cultivation.
But the woman he loved possessed no talent for the Dao.
One day, without warning, she fled the city, believing that if she disappeared, the man would forget her in time.
She was gravely mistaken.
Years passed, and in the end, the man chose to destroy his cultivation. Cast out from his sect, he wandered the mortal world, searching for the woman who had left him behind.
But a few years to an immortal was a lifetime to a mortal.
By the time he found her in a remote village, it was already too late—she had grown old and frail, surrounded by her grandchildren.
Broken and weary, the man stood at the edge of a cliff, ready to cast himself into the abyss.
At that moment, something upon the river's surface caught his eye—a basket, drifting upon the waves.
He waded into the water, pulling it ashore. Inside, nestled in the woven reeds, lay a sleeping infant, silent and serene.
Thus began the tale of Jing and old Zhou.
Years passed.
Old Zhou, now well into old age, raised Jing as his own. They lived in the heart of Tiger Mountain—Jing helped him gather spirit herbs, selling medicinal plants in the summer and collecting firewood in the winter.
Thus, ten years passed.
When Zhou turned seventy, he realized his time was running short. He had to secure a future for Jing. But what could a broken man, one who had spent years in solitude, possibly do?
He descended the mountain and offered a vast collection of his rarest spirit herbs to a small sect that resided nearby. He spent his days serving them—donating herbs, chopping firewood in the winter, sweeping the sect's courtyard in the autumn.
For five long years, he persisted.
At seventy-five, his dedication bore fruit—the sect leader granted him a single request.
Thus, Jing was allowed to participate in the sect's entrance exam, an event held only once every five years.
When Zhou delivered the news, a deep, contented smile spread across his face. He pulled Jing into his arms, running a hand through her hair, his gaze filled with pride. Nothing could have brought him greater joy.
Jing now had a future.
Unbeknownst to her, old Zhou had been preparing her all along—daily brews of spirit-infused teas, subtle training in cultivating spiritual energy woven into her daily life.
Now, it was time for her to step into the path of immortality.
Zhou would be alone again. But that was fine—his time was nearly over.
At seventy-six, he felt the silence of his small home grow heavier with each passing day. With Jing gone, his mind slowly withered. Solitude and old age gnawed at him, eroding his memories.
He forgot...
He forgot that he had once been an immortal.
One day, he took up a shovel and began digging near his cottage. He meant to carve a grave for his wife. But no matter how hard he tried, he could recall neither a name nor a face.
And so, with unsteady hands, he etched a single word onto a stone beside the grave:
"Forgotten."
At that moment, his heart clenched. His breath failed him. He stumbled, his vision blurring, and then—
He collapsed.
Just like that, Old Zhou was gone.
And it was there, in that desolate place, that he met the Heavenly Demon.
Now, the Heavenly Demon sat in Zhou's courtyard, pipe in hand, leaning back against his chair. Smoke curled lazily from his lips as he waited for Jing to return.