Chapter 1: The Screaming Carrot, the Uninvited Corpse, and a Disturbingly Chatty Teapot

The first sign of trouble was the carrot. It wasn't just any carrot; it was a meticulously cultivated, Grade-Three Spirit Carrot, plump and radiating with an almost palpable energy. And right now, it was screaming bloody murder.

Well, not audibly, of course. Not in the ear-splitting shriek of a banshee or the melodramatic wail of a spoiled noble brat. Ling Chen, perched precariously on a rickety, three-legged stool amidst his wildly overgrown spirit herb garden, perceived it as a high-pitched, incessant whine resonating directly in his skull, a sensation akin to having his brain repeatedly flossed with barbed wire.

"By the benevolent beard of the Jade Emperor," Ling Chen muttered, his slender fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, "must you be so excessively dramatic? It's merely a spot of weeding. A minor inconvenience, at best."

His silver hair, an unusual side effect of his Amplified Sensory Perception, cascaded down his back like liquid moonlight, catching the faint glow of dawn filtering through the swirling mists. He'd long ago given up trying to tame the unruly strands, accepting that chaos was simply a part of his existence. Despite his striking appearance, the perpetual furrow in his brow, the constant twitch of his fingers, and the almost frantic darting of his eyes betrayed the exhausting battle he waged against the world every waking moment.

"System," he hissed, barely moving his lips. He wasn't addressing a sentient AI overlord, dispensing quests and experience points. "System" was merely the sardonic nickname he'd given to the overwhelming torrent of sensory information that perpetually assaulted him. Sometimes, personifying the chaos helped him maintain a modicum of sanity. "Filter: Carrot. Priority: Code Red. I repeat, Code Red."

The incessant screaming subsided to a dull, throbbing ache, allowing Ling Chen to focus on the task at hand. Weeding. A task he loathed with a passion usually reserved for overly enthusiastic tax collectors and poorly written romance novels. The scent of the earth was a discordant symphony of pungent aromas, the texture of the soil was a million tiny needles pricking his skin, and the sunlight... the sunlight was like being slowly roasted alive in a golden oven.

"Aiyah," he grumbled, his voice barely a whisper, "this is even worse than the time I accidentally ate an entire ghost chili. I swear, I saw sounds for a week."

His existence was a solitary one, carved out on the fringes of a world that neither understood nor particularly cared for his unique… affliction. Cast aside by his clan, deemed too "sensitive" for proper cultivation, he'd carved out a meager living tending this neglected spirit herb garden, bartering his rare and potent creations for supplies and information.

He could feel the subtle vibrations emanating from the spirit herbs, each plant a tiny, sentient being humming with its own unique energy. They were always talking, whispering their secrets and complaining about the weather. It was enough to drive anyone mad. Well, anyone normal.

He plucked a particularly tenacious weed, its roots clinging stubbornly to the soil, and muttered a string of apologies to the now slightly less agitated carrot. "There, there, little one. All better now. Just helping you achieve your full, screaming potential. You'll thank me later."

Suddenly, a new sensation slammed into him, an overwhelming wave of cold, heavy energy that sent his senses reeling. It felt like being submerged in a glacial lake while simultaneously being pelted with ice shards. It was a sensation he recognized instantly: death. And it was approaching his garden with alarming speed.

He squinted, his eyes straining to penetrate the swirling mists that clung to the edges of the garden like mischievous spirits. Something was coming. Something big, something powerful, and something undeniably, irrevocably dead.

"Oh, bloody hell in a handbasket," Ling Chen sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Not another one. This is starting to become a habit."

The "one" in question usually referred to stray spirit beasts riddled with incurable diseases, lost and confused souls seeking a final resting place, or, on particularly memorable occasions, overly zealous debt collectors with entirely too much enthusiasm for their profession. All of them, invariably, ended up on his doorstep, seeking his aid or, at the very least, his compost heap.

This "one," however, was different. This "one" practically radiated an aura of lethal menace, an oppressive weight of suppressed power that made the screaming carrot sound like a soothing lullaby.

A figure stumbled out of the swirling mists, collapsing unceremoniously at the very edge of the garden. He was tall, clad in battered and bloodstained black armor that seemed to absorb the surrounding light, and possessed an aura of such profound… nothingness that it made Ling Chen's Amplified Sensory Perception recoil in horror.

Ling Chen recognized him instantly. He knew his voice. From the realm of souls. Zhan Yi. The Obsidian Tyrant. The legendary war god who had single-handedly conquered half the known realms, leaving a trail of blood and shattered empires in his wake. Zhan Yi, the man whose name was whispered in fear and reverence across the land, a name synonymous with ruthless efficiency and terrifying power.

And he was currently sprawled unconscious amidst Ling Chen's prize-winning fertilizer, looking remarkably like a discarded heap of particularly gloomy laundry.

"Well," Ling Chen muttered to himself, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "this is just absolutely peachy. First the screaming carrot, now the uninvited corpse. What's next? Am I going to wake up and find a dragon using my prize-winning peony bushes as a toothpick?"

He cautiously approached the fallen tyrant, prodding him with the toe of his worn leather boot. The man remained stubbornly unresponsive.

"System," Ling Chen said, his voice barely audible, "Full diagnostic scan. Priority: Immediate. And please, for the love of all that is holy, filter out the death stench. It's giving me a headache."

The verdict came back swiftly, a wave of information flooding his senses. "Vital signs: Critically low. Spiritual energy reserves: Severely depleted. Emotional state: Astonishingly, completely, utterly nonexistent."

Ling Chen frowned, his brow furrowing even further. "Nonexistent? How in the name of all that is sacred is that even possible? I thought everyone had at least a little bit of emotional baggage. It's practically a requirement for sentient life."

He cautiously crouched down, extending a hesitant hand and gingerly touching Zhan Yi's forehead. The man's skin was as cold and unyielding as polished ice, his features as sharp and unforgiving as granite. He felt… empty. Hollow. Like a beautifully crafted but ultimately lifeless statue.

"Aha," Ling Chen said, a glimmer of morbid curiosity lighting up his eyes. "Emotional Nullification, I presume? The legendary technique. Fascinating. I've only ever read about it in ancient texts. Never thought I'd actually see it practiced in real life. Or, rather, unlife, given the circumstances."

He hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. He could, of course, simply leave Zhan Yi to rot in his garden. It would undoubtedly be the most sensible, logical, and frankly, least troublesome course of action. But Ling Chen had never been particularly renowned for his adherence to sensible or logical thinking.

"Besides," he murmured to himself, a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes, "it's not every day that a legendary war god falls into your lap, smelling faintly of decomposing lilies and existential angst. Might as well see what makes him tick. Or, in this case, doesn't tick."

With a dramatic sigh, Ling Chen heaved Zhan Yi's surprisingly heavy body onto his shoulders. The man was surprisingly dense, a testament to his formidable physique and years of rigorous training.

"Right then," Ling Chen grunted, staggering towards his dilapidated cottage, his knees threatening to buckle under the weight. "Let's see if we can't bring this walking corpse back to life. And maybe, just maybe, figure out why he smells like a particularly depressing funeral. And then, perhaps, persuade him to leave before he attracts any more unwanted attention."

As he stumbled through the garden, the screaming carrot seemed to intensify its lament, its tiny plant-heart clearly sensing the presence of imminent doom.

"Oh, for the love of all that is good and green, just shut up!" Ling Chen snapped, his patience finally snapping. "He's not that bad. And besides, he's probably cleaner than half the noblemen I've met."

Inside the cottage, a cheerful voice piped up.

"Oh, welcome home, Master!" the voice chirped. "Did you bring a friend? He looks rather… stiff. I hope he appreciates my Darjeeling blend. It's aged beautifully, you know. Just the right amount of floral notes to offset the taste of despair."

Ling Chen groaned. He'd forgot that his teapot was feeling chatty.