The sound of Qiantai Wuji's footsteps echoed on the damp earth and the decaying leaves scattered around the gate. The night fog still clung to the ground, seeping through the cracked wood of the entrance.
But just as he was about to step into the village, a soft yet firm voice rang out:
—"Wait!"
Qiantai Wuji halted. From within the mist, a young man appeared. His steps were not heavy, but they were steady—engraved into his instincts, as if from years of repetition.
The young man looked about twenty-eight. His stature was neither tall nor short. His body was mildly muscular—not like a warrior's, but like a man who had spent most of his life on a farm and had built that strong body through years of relentless labor. He wore simple clothes: a faded linen shirt without ornamentation, and trousers of the same material and color. His brown leather sandals looked like they had been repaired many times but were still in use.
Qiantai Wuji's gaze fell on his face.
His hair was black, shoulder-length, tied with a dusty-colored scarf. His face was smooth and clean-shaven, his eyes a deep brown and thoughtful. In his gaze lurked something between distrust and hesitation—just like a simple villager unsure about a stranger.
Noticing the doubt in the man's eyes, Qiantai Wuji spoke gently: —"I mean no harm."
Only after a moment did the young man nod. There was no malice in Qiantai Wuji's tone. The man didn't smile, merely said: —"Your name?"
Qiantai Wuji hesitated for a moment, then replied without delay: —"Qiantai Wuji."
A flicker of doubt passed through him. He doubted anyone in this remote place would recognize his name. After all, this was a village more isolated than any he had ever set foot in. So he told the truth. To be honest, he didn't like using another name in place of his real one. He had always valued his name—especially his family name.
The young man didn't raise an eyebrow. No surprise, no reaction. He simply nodded in understanding.
Qiantai Wuji continued: —"I'm a traveler. On my way, I came across this place. I'd like to rest here for a while."
His tone was casual, free of any pretense. Like a simple traveler looking for a place to rest.
The young man lowered his gaze for a moment. He seemed to be evaluating the situation. After a few seconds, he looked up and said: —"I'm Chuli Meng. I'm from this village."
Qiantai Wuji silently repeated the surname in his mind. Chuli? Odd. Not only unfamiliar, but also somewhat… out of place for the accents and regions around here.
But he said nothing. Just remained quiet.
Chuli Meng slowly turned and said: —"Come in… But know that you may not be welcomed. So prepare yourself for any outcome."
His voice was slightly hesitant, as if unsure whether he was making the right invitation. But in the end, he voiced it.
Qiantai Wuji stared for a moment. No one knew what was running through his mind.
Finally, without a word, he followed Chuli Meng. The dirt path beneath their feet was damp, yellow and dry leaves scattered along the sides. A cold wind howled as the soft sound of footsteps faded into the fog still lurking in the narrow alleys of the village.
Chuli Meng walked with a steady pace. As they moved further in, the fog receded slightly, revealing simple wooden huts one by one. The walls were made of untreated wood, and the roofs of thatch and reeds. Some doors were slightly ajar, as if untouched for years. The houses sat in eerie silence and stillness. Everything seemed somewhat... off.
To the untrained eye, this place was just a poor village tucked behind a mountain—a place where people could barely fill their stomachs.
As Qiantai Wuji closely observed the village, he thought to himself: This place feels more like the domain of forgotten farmers than a real village.
It wasn't an exaggeration—the village truly looked bad. There was no beauty. Only poverty was visible.
Along the way, he saw a few of the villagers: elderly women with wrinkled faces, children in ragged clothes leaning against the walls, men silently passing through the alleys. All had ordinary faces, wore plain clothes, with not a hint of jewelry or weapons.
But something else troubled Wuji more than anything:
There was no trace of Qi in any of them. Not even the faintest.
No training, no cultivation, not even familiarity with the energy of life.
Completely mortal?
Qiantai Wuji was deep in thought. In this era, even elderly women in far-flung villages had some grasp of life force. But these people… seemed of a different kind. Wuji found it hard to believe.
Chuli Meng said nothing more until they reached a small hut atop a short cliff. It was set apart from the rest of the village. Around it, weeds had grown knee-high, and its wooden walls were cracked and moldy. A small window with a torn curtain sat on the north wall, and a musty smell wafted from within.
Chuli Meng paused and said with a sorrowful look: —"Sorry about the condition… This place has been abandoned for years. The old man who owned it passed away long ago. He had no children, no family. That's why no one comes here anymore."
He paused for a moment, as if a distant memory had stirred in his mind.
Qiantai Wuji cast a brief glance at the hut and said softly: —"It's fine. For a while, it will do."
A short smile tugged at the corner of Chuli Meng's lips—one of those smiles born more from politeness and tradition than joy.
He nodded and said: —"If you need anything… I'll be down there."
Chuli Meng turned and disappeared into the mist. Qiantai Wuji was left alone. His gaze lingered on the hut.
Simple, empty… and a little too quiet. He wondered if this was what the end of solitude looked like.
Instead of entering the hut directly, Qiantai Wuji walked to the edge of the cliff. A cold breeze blew up from the valley below, and pale mist crept slowly across the village. From this height, he could see almost the entire settlement.
The view before him was nothing but the deceptive simplicity of an ordinary village. Wooden houses without decoration, dirt roads, and barren trees. No sound of training, no gleam of swords, not even the faint hum of a Qi aura. Not the slightest trace of energy existed here—not in the air, not in the people. This place was more like one of those ancient myths—a realm severed from the world of cultivation.
He had hoped to use this opportunity to break into the third layer of the Acquired Realm. But it seemed he would have to put that goal aside—for now.
In a corner of the village, his eyes fell upon a small pasture. A few young boys, their clothes muddy, were herding cows. One of them guided a stubborn bull with a long stick, while another sang a vague local song. Their behavior, their movements—everything on the surface matched that of a powerless mortal village.
Qiantai Wuji furrowed his brows. His mind couldn't bring itself to trust this much simplicity.
Everything was too… ordinary. Too perfect.
But without a word, he turned from the cliff edge and returned toward the old hut.
The mist curled behind him, and the earth swallowed his footprints.
---
On the other side of the village, Chuli Meng silently approached the entrance of another hut. A home far from the others, with a wooden door and a roof draped in wild plants. It looked like every other house… yet something about it was subtly different. No lamp lit its interior, no window stood open.
Chuli Meng stood before the door. He bent slightly and spoke in a quiet but serious tone: —"I've brought him to the village."
His voice carried a hint of reverence, as though addressing someone of great stature.
The door didn't open. A hoarse voice replied from within, like a whisper coming through aged wood: —"Did you learn anything about him?"
Chuli Meng shook his head. —"No. Nothing. He's completely… unreadable. He seems very calm, and on the surface, completely honest. But who's to say if that's real?"
A short silence hung in the air. The mist crept among the leaves like a shadow.
Then the same deep voice said quietly: —"Then… watch him over the next few days. But keep acting normal. Don't let him suspect a thing."
Chuli Meng bowed without resistance. —"Understood."
Then he quietly turned and vanished into the mist.
In the heart of the night, the village once more fell into a mysterious silence—one that did not speak of peace.