But, a cold voice countered from deeper within, if they stand in my way... Yes. If those who harmed him would harm him again, or prevent him from reclaiming his life, he would not hesitate. He owed them nothing now. In that sense, he would remind them why they once feared the blade. The blade... He realized his hand had subconsciously moved to touch where a sword hilt might hang at his side. Of course, there was none. Only the shard in his chest gave any solace of protection, and that power was dormant now.
A slight tremor went through him, perhaps a remnant of anger or just exhaustion. A-Mei noticed and asked, "Are you cold, Mister Long?"
He shook his head and gave her a reassuring smile. "No, just thinking. The porridge is wonderful. Thank you."
She smiled brightly. "When you feel better, you should talk to Elder Zhou. He likes stories from travelers. Maybe he knows about far away places, if that's where you're from."
"Perhaps I will." He finished the bowl and felt strength returning. For now, his plan was simple: rest a short while, earn a little money or supplies if he could, and then move on. He needed to gather information about this world's current state. A village was a start, but sooner or later he'd have to venture to a town or city, where knowledge (and risk) were greater.
The innkeeper returned and settled the informal payment by having Long help draw water from the well and chop a stack of firewood. Though tiring, the labor felt good, honest and grounding. His muscles complained, unused to such work, but by noon he had completed it. The innkeeper, pleased, offered him an old cloak someone left behind, which Long accepted gratefully. Wrapped in a threadbare but clean brown cloak, he could travel more comfortably and attract less attention to his odd attire.
Before departing the village, he did speak with Elder Zhou, an old storyteller who sat under a willow tree by the well, surrounded by a few eager children. The elder squinted up at Long and traded a few pleasantries. Through careful questions, Long learned that the Jade Hollow Sect's monastery sat on Mount Fei a few days north; the region's emperor was of the Azure Sky Dynasty, ruling from a distant city called White Jade Capital (names unfamiliar to him); and that indeed a great war five decades ago had seen many sects battle an invasion of demonic beasts from the western wastes. Perhaps that was the war the girl mentioned where her uncle died. It seemed the world was as tumultuous as ever. One detail made his breath catch: among the greatest heroes of that war was a cultivator known as Moonlit Saintess of the Radiant Moon Sect, famed for her serene beauty and merciful heart. The title alone shook him — Moonlit, like the girl's face, and Radiant Moon Sect? Could it be... No, Radiant Moon Sect was apparently a powerful sect far to the south, and the Saintess likely a young prodigy of this era, not someone from centuries past. He tucked the information away, unsure why it resonated so strongly.
Finally, as dusk approached, he spent more time than intended in the safety of the village, Long took his leave. A-Mei hugged his leg and made him promise to visit if he passed by again. The innkeeper's family waved him off with kind goodbyes, having given him a pouch with a bit of flatbread and dried fruit for the road in exchange for the extra chores he'd helped with. Their kindness was humbling.
Walking away from the village on the main road heading west, the man who called himself Long felt a mixture of gratitude and melancholy. This brief respite in normalcy was perhaps the last he would have for a while. Ahead lay the unknown: possibly large cities, sect territories, perhaps the need to reveal his cultivation to defend himself. He still had so little understanding of his abilities. Would he be able to cultivate anew? The thought both excited and terrified him. If he could, he might eventually regain the power he had lost. But along with power would come attention... Exactly what he wasn't ready for.
As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in blood-orange hues, Long ascended a hill that gave a final view of the valley. He turned and looked back at the forest he came from. From here, it was just a sea of green trees, innocent and still. The ancient shrine and his sword fragment were hidden somewhere in that expanse, unseen and forgotten. He thought of the fragment, lying under the old pine, protected by his ward and the sanctity of solitude. It felt like leaving behind a part of himself. But maybe that was fitting. That life was behind him now, and ahead a new life beckoned.
On the breeze, he fancied he heard a whisper, perhaps just wind through trees, but it felt like a voice: Live... it seemed to say. Or perhaps it was Leave... He wasn't sure. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool evening air, and let it out slowly.
"I will live," he murmured to the dying light, as if answering the whisper. "One step at a time, I will reclaim myself."
He did not seek revenge. He did not seek to disturb the order of the world. All he wanted was to find the truth of his identity, of the fate of the girl whose face haunted him, of why he had been turned into a weapon and ripped from time. But he knew that the path of a cultivator is seldom gentle. If gods, emperors, or sect masters... Whoever they may be now, chose to bar his way, then they would meet not a lost, nameless soul, but the very thing they had tried to destroy. He would show them that the echo of the blade was still sharp, and that even a forgotten fragment of a soul can cut deep into the heart of fate.
Pulling the cloak tighter around himself, the soul-born man turned and walked onward, disappearing over the hill as darkness fell, a solitary figure moving steadily under the first stars of evening, as the quiet world watched, unaware that an ancient echo had begun to walk again.