After that night, Jing Shao was never the same. The massacre that had occurred that night in the village spread like wildfire across the borders. In less than a week, it was the talk of the five kingdoms. It was a low-ranking cultivator and his fellow disciples who found the village in such a state that he and his group had to go to the Yun Xian Zong Sect *meaning immortal cloud*, the nearest sect. Some spoke of an act of revenge, others of a creature shrouded in blood and shadows. The truth is that no one forgot that night.
Jing Shao sat at a small wooden table, holding a cup of hot tea. Steam rose slowly, perfuming the air with the scent of roasted jasmine. Around him, the bustle of the tavern seemed distant, as if behind a veil.
"Have you heard about the village where cultivators went to cultivate near the Cloud Immortal Sect?" a nearby voice asked.
He didn't look up. His fingers tightened around the cup.
"They say the night turned red... that no one survived."
Another voice responded in disbelief, somewhat harshly.
"Nonsense! It's just a rumor. But... I've heard that the five kingdoms are already investigating it and treating it with ill omens."
Jing Shao brought the tea to his lips, but didn't drink. The warmth no longer comforted him.
Thus, Jing Shao vanished without a trace. His name faded over the years, like the embers of an ancient fire. What was once rage turned to regret and sadness. The story of the massacre became legend, dust in the world's memory.
One hundred years passed. Then two hundred, and no one remembered the massacre.
But Jing Shao was still there, remembering with sadness and regret.
He walked through valleys and kingdoms that were born and died in his wake. He lived in caves, huts, and forgotten temples. Every time he found a place to stay, he left after a year. The world changed, and he didn't. He grew bored with the color of the sky, the crowing of roosters, and the laughter of the people.
Over time, he became known as a wandering cultivator. A silent Taoist, he wore pale, light robes of ancient linen, patched by years of travel. His clothes weren't luxurious, but there was something about them that caught one's eye. He looked like an immortal who refused to ascend.
And so, one day, he came upon an abandoned house in a remote village. The roof seemed about to collapse. The walls rustled in the wind, but Jing Shao didn't care.
That morning, Jing Shao was finishing sweeping the dry leaves off the porch when footsteps sounded approaching.
"Mr. Taoist? Do you need help? My parents told me to come see if you were okay?"
It was a boy not much older than an eight-year-old.
He had a big smile on his face and a piece of poorly wrapped bread under his arm. Jing Shao looked at him for a moment, a little confused, and then nodded silently. "My name is Mei An, I'm your neighbor," said the little boy. "I live next door with my parents and my older sister. My parents said this house was cursed, but I don't believe in that."
Jing Shao let out a low laugh, more of a disguised sigh.
"Aren't you afraid of ghosts?"
"No! But if I see one, I can throw rocks at it."
They spent some time together. The boy talked nonstop, and surprisingly, Jing Shao listened.
Until, seeing that he couldn't reach a box on the shelf, Mei An shouted, "Mei Lin!! Come and help!"
Jing Shao gave a small laugh, but a minute later, he saw her.
A girl of about ten years old was walking towards them. Her skin was as white as jade, so pale that the sunlight seemed to reflect off it. Her straight hair was as black as night and fell down her back like a midnight curtain. Her eyes... Her eyes were a deep blue, not like those of the sky, but like the bottom of a sea that didn't know the surface.
Jing Shao blinked. An ancient story came to mind. A legend that spoke of children born with eyes as blue as the ocean. Gods reincarnated. Those marked by heaven. Those who do not belong to the mortal world. Those destined to ascend.