The Man Who Came Back Empty

Chapter Nine: The Man Who Came Back Empty

"Sometimes, the most terrifying thing about someone isn't what they hold—it's what they've dropped."— Zhao Gu

The guards didn't know what to do with me when I came back.

They opened the gate like they expected me to be glowing or levitating or radiating spiritual pressure like a volcanic demigod.

Instead, I just walked in.

Unarmed. Unshaven. Unimpressed.

"Did… did you pass?" one guard asked, looking behind me like a parade might follow.

I shrugged. "I finished."

They muttered, shuffled their feet, and let me through.

No ceremony. No punishment. Just reabsorption into the same cracked walls, the same mildew-stained stone, and the same quiet hallway that smelled like forgotten rice.

But everything felt different.

Because I wasn't carrying anything anymore.

Not even a name.

Zhao Gu saw me before I saw him.

He was standing in the courtyard, pretending to balance a mop on his head while lecturing two confused disciples about gravitational flow and spiritual stability.

When he noticed me, he froze.

The mop fell. The disciples looked relieved.

He walked up slowly, his usual grin missing.

"…You're back."

I nodded.

"You look like you fought a thunder god and made peace halfway through."

"Something like that."

Then silence.

He stared at me for a long time. Searching for something, probably. Trying to find the old lines of the man he once called "philosopher janitor."

They weren't there.

"You feel… weird," he said.

"I feel… quiet."

"That's worse."

I didn't answer.

He exhaled and finally smiled.

"Alright. Well. Welcome back, I guess, Mr. Enlightenment. Or should I call you Voidbro now?"

"You can call me whatever you want," I said. "Names don't stick anymore."

"Oh, that's not ominous at all."

Word spread.

It always does.

Not loudly, not publicly—but through the invisible veins of a place like Black Hollow.

The guards started avoiding eye contact.

The prisoners stopped whispering when I passed.

Even Disciple Lu—who once took joy in spitting near my bowl—now left his spoon behind when I entered the mess hall.

It wasn't fear.

It was… disorientation.

People knew how to handle anger. Arrogance. Power.

But I had none of that.

I had silence.

And for some reason, that scared them more.

Zhao Gu adjusted faster than most.

He still talked endlessly. Still staged philosophical plays with socks. Still tried to teach roaches to meditate.

But now he watched me more carefully. Like I was a bird he didn't want to startle.

"You ever think about what's next?" he asked one evening as we sat on the prison roof, where the stars were clearer and the wind less judgmental.

"I don't think in 'nexts' anymore," I said.

"No goals? No grand finale? No seven-step enlightenment plan?"

"Just this. This moment."

He scoffed. "You're no fun anymore."

"I wasn't fun before."

"Fair. But you were at least sarcastic."

I chuckled softly.

Then he said, quieter, "Did it cost you anything? The last weight?"

I didn't answer right away.

Then: "Yes."

"What?"

"Me."

He looked down. "That's heavy."

"It was."

"And now?"

I looked at my hands.

They weren't glowing.

They were just hands.

"I think I'm still here. But different. Like I'm borrowing myself for a while."

Zhao lay back on the tiles.

"I still think you should've gotten a new name."

"Why?"

"So I could mock it creatively."

One morning, a new prisoner arrived.

Young. Nervous. Clinging to a scroll like it was a weapon.

He got assigned to our corridor. Which meant Zhao immediately adopted him.

"Young disciple," Zhao said dramatically, "welcome to the worst spiritual retreat ever devised. We have soup that tastes like socks and spiritual growth that involves emotional collapse. You'll fit right in."

The boy looked at me.

"Is… is that him?"

"Yup," said Zhao. "The man. The myth. The broom."

The boy bowed too quickly. "S-senior Shen!"

I shook my head. "Not Shen."

He blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm not Shen Wei anymore."

He looked confused. "But… that's what they said. That you reached ascension without cultivation. That you—"

"Whatever they said," I interrupted, "let it go. If you want to survive here, don't hold on to names. Or stories."

He nodded, hesitantly.

I started to walk away.

Then paused.

"...But do hold on to humor. You'll need it."

Later that week, I found a note tucked under my mat.

In Zhao's handwriting, of course.

You may not have a name now, but you've got a legend forming. They're calling you The Hollow Ascendant.

Not bad. A little dramatic. But it beats "Mop Monk" or "The Guy Who Stared at a Wall Until He Cried."

I know you're empty now. But if that emptiness ever gets too loud... come find me.

I'll be the idiot trying to brew tea with no kettle.

I folded the note, smiled, and tucked it into the wall crack behind me.

That night, for the first time in a long time, I dreamed nothing.

Not silence.

Not darkness.

Nothing.

And it felt… free.