The sun hung low over the desolate hills of Qingshi Village, casting long shadows that stretched across the weather-worn roofs and dusty paths. Nestled at the edge of the Black Ridge Forest, the village was little more than a cluster of huts, where generations lived and died with no knowledge of the world beyond their borders.
For sixteen-year-old Han Liun, this isolated world was all he had ever known.
Dressed in a rough hemp tunic and carrying a woven herb basket slung over his shoulder, Han Liun moved quietly through the underbrush of the forest, nimble and practiced. His eyes, a sharp earthy brown, scanned the forest floor with precision. In one hand, he held a short bronze knife, its edge dulled from years of cutting roots and bark.
"Found you," he whispered, kneeling beside a cluster of Soulmoss—a rare, dull-blue herb known for calming fevers and restoring vitality. Carefully, he used the knife to extract the moss, preserving its delicate roots.
"Liun! You there?" a voice called, distant but familiar.
Han Liun stood and turned toward the sound. Emerging from a nearby thicket was a skinny boy around his age, Chen Bo, his face flushed from running.
"There you are!" Chen Bo huffed. "Old Wu's looking for you. Said something about a visitor coming from the city."
"A visitor?" Han Liun raised an eyebrow. "Who would come here?"
Chen Bo shrugged. "How would I know? Maybe a merchant, or... maybe a cultivator."
At that word, something flickered in Han Liun's eyes.
"Let's go," he said, slinging his basket back over his shoulder.
---
By the time they returned to the village, the sun had dipped below the horizon. A faint orange hue lingered in the sky, illuminating the stone well at the village center, where a small crowd had gathered.
At the heart of the assembly stood Old Wu, the village healer—and Han Liun's guardian since his parents died in a mudslide five years ago. The elderly man leaned heavily on his cane, his back stooped but his eyes still sharp.
Beside him was the so-called "visitor"—a middle-aged man in grey robes embroidered with cloud-like patterns, his long hair tied into a single knot. His presence radiated an invisible pressure, subtle but undeniable, like a blade sheathed beneath silk.
"A cultivator…" Han Liun whispered, heart pounding.
The man's gaze swept across the villagers and stopped on Han Liun.
"You are Han Liun?"
The crowd turned toward him. He nodded slowly, unsure whether to feel honored or afraid.
"Young man," the cultivator said, "my name is Zhao Yuren, a deacon from the Azure Mist Sect. We received word of a youth here with a rare affinity for Wood Qi. I have come to see if that is true."
Gasps rippled through the villagers.
"I… I don't know," Han Liun stammered. "I've never cultivated."
Zhao Yuren smiled faintly. "Then allow me to test you."
He stepped forward, producing a small jade slip and a square stone with a glowing green surface—the Spirit Measuring Stone.
"Place your palm on the stone. Clear your mind."
Han Liun obeyed, heart thundering in his chest. The moment his skin touched the cool surface of the stone, a subtle warmth bloomed in his fingers. The stone pulsed with faint green light—gentle, steady, yet not dim.
Zhao Yuren's eyes narrowed slightly. "Mid-tier Wood affinity… Average spiritual root, no elemental mutation. Not a genius, but not trash."
Whispers erupted behind him.
Han Liun remained silent, not knowing what any of that meant.
"You may not possess a rare constitution," Zhao continued, "but you have potential. With discipline and effort, you could become a Qi Condensation cultivator in a few years."
Qi Condensation. Han Liun knew that was the first true step toward immortality.
"Do you wish to join the Azure Mist Sect as an outer disciple?" Zhao asked, his tone calm but formal. "You would leave this village and dedicate your life to cultivation. There is no turning back."
Han Liun's throat went dry. He glanced at Old Wu, who gave him a solemn nod.
"I… I want to go," he said.
Zhao Yuren nodded. "Then gather your belongings. We depart at dawn."
---
That night, Han Liun lay on the straw mat in Old Wu's hut, unable to sleep. The old man sat nearby, stirring a pot of herbs over a fire.
"You've made your choice," Old Wu said, not looking up. "The path of cultivation is long, hard, and cruel. You may never return. Are you prepared for that?"
Han Liun turned to him. "I don't want to live and die in this village. I want more. I want to see the world beyond these hills."
Old Wu chuckled. "Then go. But remember—talent will only take you so far. The rest is grit, caution, and luck."
Han Liun nodded silently, staring at the flickering flames.
---
Dawn arrived too quickly. The villagers gathered once more to send him off, many offering dried food, old garments, and simple talismans. Chen Bo clapped him on the back, eyes red.
"Don't forget us when you become immortal," he said with a forced grin.
Han Liun smiled faintly. "I won't."
With that, he climbed onto the back of Zhao Yuren's spirit beast—an immense crane with jade feathers and a wingspan wider than a village house. The beast let out a low cry as it rose into the sky, carrying them away from Qingshi Village and toward the horizon.
As the rooftops shrank below, Han Liun clutched his basket tightly. Inside it were only a few herbs, a knife, and a worn cloth pouch. But within his heart burned a fire he had never known before.
No more was he just a herb boy from the forest.
From this day forward, he was a cultivator.
Or at least, he would become one.
---