Chapter 15: Disgust

The Seven Continents and the Dark Tower

Seven continents and seven seas—this world was vast, divided by oceans and shaped by ancient forces. The great landmasses were known as Avaline, Xuan, Locris, Vaeloria, Rosman, Riverian, and Luminaris. Of these, Vaeloria reigned as the largest, its sprawling landscapes teeming with diverse kingdoms and clans, while Xuan followed closely, a land of ancient traditions, martial arts, and the pursuit of enlightenment.

Legends whispered of a structure that defied time itself—the Dark Tower.

Its existence was disputed, its very name feared. Some called it myth; others believed it was real, hidden deep in the world's uncharted corners. Those who sought it either vanished or returned changed, their minds broken, their souls lost. But there was one truth all agreed upon—should the Dark Tower exist, it would be surrounded by "Roses," an enigmatic term lost to time.

I needed to find it.

A Conversation with Mu Tao

I sat across from Mu Tao, an elder of the Huá clan, a man of wisdom whose years had made him both weary and keen. His old hands gestured for the children to leave, their laughter fading as they scattered away like autumn leaves in the wind.

I leaned forward, my voice barely above a whisper. "Mu Tao, what are the possibilities of the Dark Tower existing?"

The old man exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp yet distant. "Ah yes… the Dark Tower." He folded his hands over his lap, eyes unreadable. "It is an old myth… but the possibilities of its existence are not zero."

Not zero. That was neither confirmation nor denial. It was the kind of answer Mu Tao always gave—wrapped in layers of meaning, forcing one to interpret it for themselves.

As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.

"Jun," he called out, his tone heavier than before. I turned my head slightly, listening. "Tell me, why do you seek that tower? With all the 'roses' surrounding it, it will be nigh impossible to reach—even if it exists."

I stood still for a moment, my hands tightening into fists.

"To reach immortality," I answered simply, my voice unwavering.

I left without another word.

Memories of Home

Walking through the Huá clan hall, I observed the familiar sights of my people. Some trained, perfecting their stances and strikes, while others played, their laughter ringing through the corridors.

Then, I saw him.

Jaw-long—or was it Long-Jaw?—had a child now. A strange ache filled my chest. How I missed his long jaw.

A sigh left my lips as I moved on, searching for my younger brother, Yŭxuān.

When I found him, he was training with a lance, his movements sharper, stronger. He had improved. Would he follow this new "dating" idea that had taken root in our clan? Hopefully not.

That night, I wrote a letter to my father, Jun Hie, informing him of my temporary departure from the clan. I would travel the continent, grow stronger, and seek my answers.

And so, I left the only home I had ever known.

Two Days Into the Journey

Two days had passed since I left. The road stretched endlessly before me, and the wilderness whispered with unseen life.

I was eighteen. I knew how to survive—not just in this life, but in my past one.

But the past had a way of creeping up when least expected.

The sight of a pig pen in the distance made my stomach turn. A pit of revulsion opened inside me, deep and consuming. My breath grew shallow. My hands trembled.

Memories surged forward—painful, vile.

I had been cast aside in my past life for being too kind, too soft. Beaten, discarded like garbage. They threw me into a pig pen, where filth clung to my skin, the stench embedding itself in my very soul. Pig feces covered me. Rot surrounded me.

I felt rotten.

A new expression formed on my face—disgust.

Before I realized what I was doing, my hand had reached for a sturdy stick.

I stepped into the pig pen, closing the wooden gate behind me.

Then, I began.

The Pigs and the Farmer

The first strike was instinctive—a swing of my arm, the force behind it greater than I had intended. A pig squealed as the stick connected with its side, sending it tumbling.

The second strike came easier.

The third felt natural.

The pigs screamed, their panicked eyes reflecting terror as they scrambled over each other to escape. But the pen was small. There was nowhere to run.

The piglets, fragile and soft, fell first. Their bodies were weak. Their bones broke too easily.

Then the larger ones. Their shrieks of pain turned to gurgles as the strikes became relentless. I kept going. I didn't stop.

When the last pig fell silent, the only sound left was my own ragged breathing.

The disgust inside me hadn't faded. It had only deepened.

Then, I heard footsteps.

A farmer came rushing in, his eyes wide with horror as he took in the massacre before him. His mouth opened in a scream, but the sound barely registered.

I saw him pick up a lance.

He threw it at me.

I dodged. My body moved before I thought.

My hands caught the lance mid-air. Before the farmer could react, I threw it back.

It pierced his chest cleanly. He crumpled to the ground, choking on his own blood.

Then, his wife ran out of their home. She screamed. She sobbed. She lunged at me with bare hands, fists pounding weakly against my chest.

I stabbed her too.

Her body went still. Her warmth faded.

Leaving the Farm

I stepped away from the bodies, my breath uneven.

The stench of blood mixed with the lingering scent of the pig pen. It clung to me, thick and suffocating.

Had I felt relief? Satisfaction?

No.

Only disgust.

I turned my back on the farm, on the bodies, on the past that refused to let go.

And I kept walking.

To Find the Tower

My path was set. My purpose unshaken.

The Dark Tower was waiting for me—somewhere in the vastness of this world. Immortality awaited at its peak.

But before I reached it, how much more would I have to lose?

The Mountain Clan of Dunùn

The journey had been long. Days had passed since I last saw the familiar halls of the Huá clan, and though the weight of my actions clung to me like a second skin, I pressed forward. The road ahead stretched endlessly, winding through forests, rivers, and now, steep mountain trails that led to the Dunùn Clan—a secluded people known for their resilience, living high atop the rugged peaks of the Dõn Mountain Ranges.

The air was thin here, crisp and biting against my skin. The slopes were treacherous, the paths carved from jagged stone, barely wide enough to accommodate a lone traveler. Yet, despite the difficulty, there was something serene about this place. The mountains stood like silent guardians, their snow-capped peaks piercing the heavens, untouched by the wars and strife that plagued the world below.

It wasn't long before I arrived at their settlement. Unlike the vast and structured halls of my clan, the Dunùn people built their homes along the cliffside, wooden bridges connecting various levels of the mountains. Their structures clung to the rock, defying gravity itself.

I had barely stepped into their territory when two guards blocked my path. They stood tall and imposing, clad in thick furs and reinforced leather armor. Their weapons—long spears carved from the bone of some great beast—rested in their hands, gleaming under the mountain sun.

"Halt! Name and identification." The command was sharp, unyielding.

I met their gazes without hesitation. "Jun Caishen, son of Huáxià and Jun Hie." My voice carried no arrogance, only certainty.

The guards exchanged looks. The taller one, a man with a broad chest and a scar running down his left cheek, leaned slightly toward his companion.

"Heh, Jun Hie… isn't he that venerable from Mao Xing Mountain?" His words were meant to be discreet, but the wind carried them to my ears.

"Yes," the shorter one confirmed, his expression shifting slightly as he studied me. "Seems this kid's from the Huá clan."

I chose to ignore their whispers. It was better that way.

After a moment, the shorter guard cleared his throat. "Alright, reason for visiting Dõn Mountain Ranges?"

"I am merely a traveler." My response was calm, measured.

The taller guard scoffed, his grip on his spear tightening. "The last guy who said that committed murder." His voice was neither accusing nor suspicious—just factual. "Not that murder is surprising."

I tilted my head slightly, considering his words. Murder. A common occurrence in this world. It had been two days since I stained my hands with blood, and already the universe seemed to remind me of the nature of man.

Still, I had to ensure my presence here would not be met with hostility.

With a steady breath, I lifted my right hand and spoke with solemnity. "Ah… well, that is unfortunate. But in my father's name, I swear an oath—for I will commit no murder, no genocide, no homicide. In my clan's name, I will not kill a person."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with the weight of sincerity. The guards studied me, searching for deceit, but there was none. Whatever darkness lurked within me, I had buried it deep enough that even they could not sense it.

Finally, the shorter guard nodded and turned, disappearing into the settlement. He would inform their leader of my arrival.

That left me alone with the taller guard.

For a moment, there was silence between us. Then, in a voice tinged with curiosity, he spoke. "So, how is it like being the son of a venerable?"

I turned my gaze to him. His expression was neither mocking nor admiring—simply inquisitive. It was a fair question.

"Tough," I answered simply. "Much is expected. Little is forgiven."

He grunted in response, as if expecting my answer.

The minutes stretched on, the quiet of the mountain settling over us once more. Wind howled through the cliffs, carrying the scent of pine and frost. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of life—the echoes of warriors training, the rhythmic thud of axes splitting wood, the distant hum of a blacksmith's hammer meeting steel.

Then, footsteps.

I turned my head to see the shorter guard returning. Beside him walked an elderly man, his presence commanding despite his age.

His hair was long and silver, cascading down his back like a flowing river, tied at the end with a crimson band. His robes were layered, a deep shade of navy adorned with intricate silver embroidery that mirrored the swirling patterns of the wind itself. Though his face bore the marks of time, his eyes—sharp, piercing, ancient—held the wisdom of centuries.

I did not need an introduction to know who he was.

Lee Dõn.

The High Elder and leader of the Dunùn Clan.

As he approached, the guards straightened, their spears tapping against the stone in silent salute. I, too, inclined my head slightly—not a bow, but a gesture of respect.

His gaze settled on me, and for a long moment, he simply observed. It felt as if he were looking through me, peeling away layers of flesh and bone, searching for the truth buried within.

Then, at last, he spoke. His voice was deep, carrying the weight of generations.

"Jun Caishen. Son of Huáxià and Jun Hie." His lips curled into something that was not quite a smile. "What brings the son of a venerable to my mountains?"

There was no suspicion in his tone, but there was caution. The Dunùn were a proud people, untouched by the affairs of the great clans. They did not welcome outsiders lightly.

I met his gaze, unwavering. "I seek knowledge. Strength. Understanding."

A flicker of something passed through his expression—amusement? Interest?—before it was gone.

"Then you have come to the right place," Lee Dõn said. "But whether you leave with what you seek… that is yet to be seen."

And with that, he turned, motioning for me to follow.

The mountains had welcomed me, but whether they would let me stay was another matter entirely.

The Mountain's Secrets

I had been given a room to stay in, a simple yet comfortable space within the Dunùn Clan's settlement. It wasn't extravagant, nor did I expect it to be. A bed, a desk, a window overlooking the cliffside. It was enough.

I would only be here for a week.

The Dunùn Clan had existed for five hundred years, a lineage that stood firm against time itself. They had built their home atop the Dõn Mountains, enduring the harsh winters, defending their lands from both invaders and nature itself. Their strength was undeniable.

That evening, as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, I sat on a wooden bench in the backyard of the clan's settlement. The yard was large, enclosed by the natural embrace of the mountain cliffs. Stone pathways wove between towering trees, their leaves rustling in the cold breeze.

I sat still, deep in thought—or perhaps, empty of it.

The journey had been long. Though my body was accustomed to travel, exhaustion still clung to my bones. The climb had drained what little energy remained, leaving me worn but watchful.

As the night deepened, I observed the celebration unfolding before me.

A group of warriors, their faces alight with victory, gathered around a roaring fire. They drank. They laughed. They feasted on roasted fish, the scent of charred flesh mixing with the crisp mountain air. Their voices carried through the yard—loud, unfiltered, brimming with the raw joy of survival.

Their latest victory had clearly been significant, enough to warrant such revelry.

I watched as one of them, a young man, stumbled away from the group with a woman in his arms. She giggled, her hands resting against his chest as they disappeared into the shadows. It was obvious where they were going.

None of this was strange. In this world, indulgence was not reserved for the old. I had seen younger boys drink, fight, and bed women without a second thought. Mortality was a fickle thing—no one knew if they would wake to see the next sunrise.

I, however, had never cared for such distractions.

I was turning twenty in a few months.

And yet, I felt like a man who had lived far longer than my years.

The Moon and the Unease

As I sat there, my gaze drifted upward.

The moon hung high in the sky, a silver sentinel in the vast darkness. Its glow bathed the landscape in a soft luminescence, stretching shadows across the cobblestone paths.

Something felt wrong.

At first, I couldn't place it. It was a faint sensation, like a whisper in the back of my mind.

Then, the air shifted.

The night was too quiet.

The wind had stilled. The trees no longer swayed. Even the crackling of the fire seemed distant, muffled.

My breath slowed.

Somewhere—deep within the Dõn Mountains—something stirred.

A presence.

An eldritch horror.

It moved through the darkness, slithering. Unseen, unheard—its very existence bending the natural order.

Such horrors were unpredictable.

Unperceivable.

But I could feel it.

And if I could feel it…

It could feel me.