The last breath of spring lingered in the air, soft and damp. Petals drifted lazily along the wind like the final sigh of a flowerbed resisting the coming heat. In the Gu Yue Village, that quiet moment between seasons brought a rare ease.
Children chased each other through narrow alleys, their laughter mingling with the clatter of pots and the grunt of pigs being driven back into pens. Mortals, bent with years of toil, sat on wooden stools fanning themselves while watching the skies.
"The merchant caravan should be arriving any day now," an old butcher said, absently scratching the stump of his missing finger. "If the prices are good, I'll buy new brine jars."
"Feh," spat another, "last time they brought nothing but spoiled rice wine and overpriced herbs for us mortals..."
Among the crowd, several Gu Masters moved like quiet wolves—unbothered, aloof, the strength in their blood separating them from the chaff.
But the peace did not extend to every corner of the village.
Far from the main path, inside a sturdy home of bamboo and packed clay, dimly lit by a single oil lamp, a man groveled. He smelled of pigs and desperation, and his voice cracked with fear.
"Mighty Gu Master, my lord, I beg of you!" he cried, pressing his forehead to the cool floorboards. "The harvest—this year, it's cursed! The goats miscarried, the hens lay no eggs, even the rice is turning yellow before its time. I-I offered incense at the ancestral shrine, I did! But—"
His words were cut short as the young man before him raised his palm, demanding silence.
He looked no older than sixteen. His black hair was short and neatly combed, but it failed to soften the rest of him. Twin scars ran down his neck and past his collarbones, suggesting the marks went deeper beneath the clothing. His eyes were black with the faintest tint of red, like wine diluted in ink.
He stood from his wooden chair slowly. He was tall, his frame covered beneath layered robes the color of storm clouds. When he moved, the fabric shifted just enough to reveal his hands, resting on the hilts of two swords strapped to his hip. Scarred and calloused, they looked like they belonged to a veteran hunter, not a Gu Master.
"I care not for your excuses."
The youth's voice held no anger—merely a blunt dismissal, like dust shaken from the edge of a stove.
The farmer began to weep outright now, collapsing into muffled sobs and broken pleas, his palms scraping against the bamboo floor.
"Please, young master! Mercy! My wife is sick, my son—he can't even stand without coughing blood, I—"
The words died in his throat as the youth's fingers curled around one of the hilts.
With a soft shfff, a sword was drawn.
The blade was unadorned—no inscriptions—just solid iron polished to a dull gleam. After all, its purpose was not ceremony, but work.
Killing work.
The sword flashed.
The farmer flinched and closed his eyes.
But death didn't come.
Pain bloomed in his arm. A stinging heat spread across his wrist. He gasped and looked down to see a thin, shallow cut bleeding freely.
The farmer cradled the arm, panting, half in terror and half in gratitude. His eyes were wet, his mouth slightly open, unable to speak.
The youth sheathed his blade with a soft click.
"I am in a good mood today," he said, his voice smooth as rain sliding off stone. "So you are merely marked instead of killed for not paying your due. You have a month to acquire the one primeval stone you owe me"
With that, he turned and left. He did not rush. Each step was quiet and unhurried. The robes swayed gently behind him as he pushed open the bamboo door and stepped into the fading spring evening.
Outside, laughter still echoed from the village square. The wind still smelled of flowers.
But in the shadowed room behind him, the only sound was a grown man trying not to sob too loudly.
The man kowtowed once, twice—his forehead smacking the floor—then scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding wrist against his chest. His sandals slapped against the ground as he rushed out into the darkening street.
In his heart, he spat curses.
May your ancestors choke on fire, you sword-wielding bastard… May your bloodline end in madness and worms…
But he didn't dare speak them aloud. Not even under his breath.
He knew he had no choice in the matter. This was the sin of weakness—the greatest sin in this world.
He slowed, panting, hidden behind a stack of firewood near the edge of his plot. The moon peeked through shifting clouds, casting a pale gleam on his bloodied arm. He stared at it, jaw tight.
Better this than a slit throat… but the cut would betray him.
A mark like that—it would not go unnoticed. In Gu Yue Village, land was the wealth of mortals.
They didn't own it, of course. They were all but cattle to the Gu Yue Clan, but they were allowed to sow and to sell what they reaped to the clan in exchange for breadcrumbs. If one was smart and resourceful, living a peaceful life wasn't a pipe dream.
Alas, if word spread that he owed a whole primeval stone and was under threat of death, it wouldn't take long before some other farmer scattered salt over his field or poisoned his water jars. He would then die, and it'd all be written off as 'bad luck'
Others would fight over the land before his body cooled.
A cold glint passed through his eyes as he wrapped the wound in a strip of cloth. He would have to hide it and lie better than he begged. He wouldn't even show it to his wife.
Damn you, Ren Zu… Damn you...