The innkeeper studied his face for a moment, then his eyes flicked to the rope-belt and ill-fitted clothes. A small frown appeared. "Lost your pack, did you? Robbers?" he asked, suspicion tinging his voice.
"Ah..." Long hesitated. "Something like that." He vaguely touched the bruise on his arm from crawling out of the shrine, as if indicating a scuffle.
The innkeeper's expression softened a bit. "Well, you're safe here, whatever happened. We don't see many robbers this deep in the countryside. Must have had rotten luck, friend." He pushed open the door. "Come in, we've got porridge on the fire. A copper coin is the price, but if you're short, maybe you can chop some wood for us later to call it even."
A-Mei tugged him, and he followed into the inn's common room. It was modest but cozy: a few wooden tables, the scent of millet porridge and frying dough in the air, and a shrine in the corner with incense burning faintly. He noted the deity was some local earth god, nothing he recognized. His stomach growled openly at the smell of food. Embarrassed, he quickly said, "Thank you. I will find a way to repay your hospitality. I... lost my coin purse along with my pack." This was at least true; he had none.
The innkeeper waved a hand. "We'll sort that out later. Sit, eat." He called to someone in the kitchen, "One bowl for our guest here!"
As Long sat at a table, the tension in him unwinding slightly, he reflected on the ease of this interaction. It seemed small and ordinary, yet after all the horror and solitude, this was miraculous. A simple act of kindness, a warm meal among people. It nearly brought tears to his eyes again. He quickly blinked them away, not wanting to seem odd. A-Mei sat across from him, kicking her feet.
"Are you really a cultivator?" she asked in a hushed tone. "Your eyes look like my uncle's did. He had golden eyes after forming his Gold Core! But he went away to war and never came back." Her voice fell a little. "Mama said he ascended to the heavens, but Papa said he was just dead." She pronounced the last word matter-of-factly.
Long was taken aback. Golden eyes? Did his eyes gleam strangely? Perhaps the soul fragment's power gave them an unusual hue. Or maybe the girl's uncle had simply had a rare eye color. He managed a soft answer, "I... I'm not sure what I am. I have forgotten many things."
This seemed to confuse her, so he added, "I might have been a cultivator once. But now I'm just a wandering man." That felt honest.
She nodded as if this made perfect sense. "Then you'll cultivate again, right? Everyone does if they can. Maybe you can join Jade Hollow Sect. They're nice, I think. They take villagers with talent sometimes and make them disciples."
He gave a noncommittal hum. Joining a sect... Especially one possibly tied to those who sealed him, was not in his plan, at least not now. But he didn't say that to her.
A steaming bowl of millet porridge with a bit of honey was placed before him by the innkeeper's wife, a kindly plump woman who simply patted his shoulder in greeting. He realized he must look like a suffering soul, as she gave him a sympathetic nod. "Eat up, dear. You look half-starved."
He did not need further encouragement. The first spoonful of porridge was heavenly. Warm, sweet, filling. As he ate, he tuned out the chatter of the inn which was slowly filling with a couple more locals. His mind drifted.
The girl's mention of her uncle and a war intrigued him. A war involving cultivators? Perhaps some regional conflict or a larger campaign. How many years had he been gone that wars were fought and forgotten? And Jade Hollow Sect apparently protected this area, which suggested a network of sects likely controlled different regions, as was common.
Those who once sealed him... again the thought surfaced. He was certain now that the ones responsible had risen high. If he was indeed centuries late, then they might be legends by now. One possibly started Jade Hollow Sect, or others became renowned figures. Some might no longer walk the earth, having ascended to godhood or died of old age. But the farmer's words: "gods, emperors, sect masters" resonated. He suspected one became a god, perhaps literally ascended to the heavens as an immortal, another an emperor founding a dynasty, another a sect master. If so, their influence would be everywhere. Did the people in this village unwittingly worship his enemies? The shrine's deity might even be one of them, for all he knew. The horror of it made the porridge grow tasteless for a moment.
He gripped the wooden spoon tightly. I do not seek revenge, he reminded himself firmly. I only seek a life. Revenge was a fire that would consume what was left of his soul. He'd seen in his vague memories enough blood and betrayal. No, he wouldn't chase vengeance. If anything, perhaps they had reasons... perhaps he had been in the wrong? Without memory, how could he know? The ego will paint itself as victim in every story, but reality is more entangled. If he bound himself to hate, he'd never be free.