Chapter 4 – The Ones Who Die Standing

Wei Lian had not eaten in three days.

His wound had festered. His body shook with fever. But he didn't stop.

Each night, he trained. Not with glowing runes or elegant techniques — but with a forgotten scroll meant for soldiers, not cultivators.

Stances. Strikes. Holds. Repetition until his vision blurred.

And each night, he collapsed in the dirt, and woke up coughing blood.

The Mortal Realm was not kind. It didn't offer him safety, only silence.

No gods. No teachers. No guidance.

Just dirt, wind, and pain.

And that suited him fine.

On the fourth night, the sky turned black with stormclouds. Wind tore through the trees like knives. Wei Lian wrapped himself in leaves and mud, crouching beneath the roots of an old pine.

Lightning cracked the horizon.

He didn't flinch.

He sat there, in the mud, repeating a breathing pattern from the scroll. It was crude — inhale while holding the stance, exhale while sinking your weight — but every repetition made his bones feel like iron bars, rusting slowly under strain.

He held it until his thighs screamed.

Then longer.

Then longer still.

Until the pain was no longer pain — just a shape. A friend. A whisper.

At dawn, he rose.

He couldn't stand straight. His legs trembled beneath him. His eyes were bloodshot.

But he moved.

He was heading toward the distant mountains — the only place on the horizon that wasn't flat, open land. He needed cover. Water. Shade.

And if the gods were cruel enough — maybe a beast to kill him.

He walked half the day without stopping.

Then he found it.

It was old. Crumbling. Hidden between two cliffs like it had been swallowed by time.

An abandoned watchtower, built from stone and overgrown with ivy. A place from before. Before the sect wars. Before the realm collapse.

He stepped inside.

It was empty.

Dirt floors. Collapsed roof. Vines and moss covering everything. But it was shelter.

He sat near the wall and unwrapped the cloth around his side.

The wound stank.

It had turned black around the edges. Pus oozed with every breath.

He bit down on a strip of bark, picked up the rusted dagger, and began to cut.

The scream never left his mouth.

But he shook. Hard. Eyes wide. Sweat pouring.

He dug the blade in slowly, cutting away the rotted flesh. Every inch felt like setting his own soul on fire.

When it was done, he spat blood into the dirt and wrapped the wound with a strip of his own torn robes.

He lay there for hours.

Breathing.

Shaking.

Alive.

That night, he trained again.

This time the stance held longer. His legs burned — but not like before.

He moved into the second form on the scroll. A series of slow, rotating punches, twisting at the waist.

Nothing spiritual.

Just motion. Balance. Flow.

And when his knees buckled, he forced them to rise again.

Again.

Again.

He didn't notice the man watching him until he finished.

A tall figure, sitting cross-legged atop the stone wall. Wearing a dark green robe, travel-stained. A wide sword rested against his back, its edge chipped and stained.

"You'll break your spine training like that," the man said.

Wei Lian didn't react.

He wiped sweat from his brow and returned to the stance.

"You're not a cultivator," the man added, tone curious now. "No spirit root. No Qi. I've seen animals with stronger auras than you."

Wei Lian didn't answer.

The man slid down the wall and landed softly beside him.

"But you train like you're being hunted by the heavens themselves."

Still no answer.

"You even hear me, boy?"

"Yes."

"Then why keep going? That scroll's trash. Old military garbage. You won't become a cultivator with it."

Wei Lian finally looked at him.

His voice was quiet, but it cut like stone.

"Because it's mine."

The man blinked.

Wei Lian held his stance.

Shaking, barely breathing, but he held.

"You'll die before you build anything real with that method," the man muttered.

"Then I'll die standing," Wei Lian said.

The man stared at him for a long time.

Then he grinned.

"What's your name?"

"Wei Lian."

"You have the eyes of someone who's already died once."

Wei Lian didn't respond.

The man nodded, more to himself than to Lian.

"Alright then. If you're still breathing tomorrow, maybe I'll show you how to punch without breaking your own shoulder."

Wei Lian raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"Because you're the first corpse I've seen try to resurrect itself with footwork."

With that, the man leapt back onto the wall.

"Don't die tonight, Wei Lian. The ones who die standing always leave behind the best corpses."

That night, Lian bled again.

He fell twice. His breath caught in his throat. His wound reopened.

But he trained.

Because tomorrow… someone was watching.

And he would not be seen crawling.