The sun hung low over the horizon, casting long shadows across the sprawling fields of the Li family's small village. The day's labor had taken its toll, but there was still much to be done before the sky turned completely dark. The air, thick with the scent of earth and freshly tilled soil, felt heavy with the promise of the coming evening. The village, a quiet place where the hustle and bustle of the outside world barely reached, had its own rhythm. The seasons cycled with calm predictability, the work never-ending but simple, a gentle repetition of life in its purest form.
The hills to the north, covered in mist, marked the boundary between their peaceful world and the unknown. Zhenyuan had often wondered about those hills—what lay beyond them, where the world stretched further, full of mysteries and strange lands. But those thoughts were fleeting, as fleeting as the wind that blew softly through the swaying rice fields. The life of a farmer's son was rooted firmly in the earth. Zhenyuan's hands, calloused and worn from years of hard labor, told the story of his life—hands that had never touched a sword, never held a scroll of ancient wisdom.
For now, they guided the plow through the rich, dark soil of the land that had sustained his family for generations. The golden light of dusk bathed the land, giving the fields an almost ethereal glow. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something—anything—to disrupt the unbroken silence.
"Zhenyuan, don't dawdle," came the deep voice of his older brother, Zhenjian. The elder sibling's voice was always stern, always serious, a product of being the firstborn and the one who bore the most responsibility. Zhenyuan could see him now, walking through the rows of crops, his tall frame cutting through the twilight like a shadow. At seventeen, Zhenjian had already taken on the mantle of protector in the family. Though he had no cultivation abilities to speak of, he had the strength of will to lead. His broad shoulders, hardened by years of physical labor, carried the weight of expectations—expectations he accepted without question.
Zhenyuan glanced at him, feeling the familiar pull of his older brother's presence. The feeling was a mix of admiration and frustration. Zhenjian was dependable, steady, and always ready to take charge. But Zhenyuan, at fourteen, still had a sense of freedom that his elder brother lacked. It was hard to explain—this quiet longing for something more than the fields, the plow, and the endless cycle of work.
"I'm not dawdling," Zhenyuan replied with a small smile, though it lacked the usual cheer. His eyes lingered on the distant horizon, where the sky was beginning to darken, the stars starting to appear, like pinpricks of light against the dark fabric of the universe. The moment was fleeting, and as always, Zhenyuan pushed the thoughts from his mind. He had a job to do.
Zhenjian was already beside him, inspecting the plow. "We still have work to do. The well needs tending, and the animals need to be fed before nightfall."
Zhenyuan nodded, setting the plow aside. It was not that he minded the work—there was comfort in the routine, a sense of purpose in each action. But every now and then, like today, he felt as if something inside him was stirring. A sense of restlessness that he couldn't shake. Perhaps it was simply the change in the air, the subtle shift in the world around them. The seasons were moving toward the cooler months, and there was a quiet energy that filled the atmosphere. A kind of stillness that felt both unsettling and yet peaceful.
As they moved to the well, Zhenyuan glanced toward the far end of the fields, where his father, Li Qingshan, stood watching them from the edge of the trees. The man's silhouette was framed by the rising moon, his form steady and unwavering. Qingshan's presence was a quiet authority, a calm that settled over everything. Even though Zhenyuan knew his father had once been a cultivator, he had never pressed him for more details. His father rarely spoke of his past, and Zhenyuan had never asked. He'd simply accepted that there were parts of Qingshan's life that he had left behind.
In the evenings, after dinner, the family would sit together around the fire. Qingshan would share stories from his younger years—tales of far-off places and strange people. But the stories were always simple, stripped of any grandeur. It was as if his father had chosen to live without the weight of the past, preferring the quiet peace of their life in the village. Zhenyuan sometimes wondered if that was the price of happiness: to let go of the past completely and never look back. His father's deep-set eyes, always thoughtful and distant, were the only clue that there was more to him than met the eye.
"Zhenyuan," Zhenjian called again, his voice more insistent this time. "We've got to move. Father's waiting."
Zhenyuan broke his gaze from his father and followed his older brother toward the well. It wasn't that he disliked the work. It wasn't that he resented the life they led. But something gnawed at him, something he couldn't explain. The world was bigger than this, he knew it. There was something beyond the hills. Something waiting. It had always been there, but today, for some reason, it felt closer than ever before.
Later that Evening
The night fell swiftly, as it always did in the countryside. There was no streetlight, no city glow to drown out the stars. The sky was a blanket of infinite black, dotted with the distant, twinkling lights of the heavens. The sound of the crickets and the occasional rustle of animals in the distance filled the silence. The Li family's small cottage, humble and modest, sat nestled at the edge of the fields, its light flickering through the window as the family gathered for their evening meal.
Qingshan sat at the head of the table, as he always did, his hands resting on the worn wood of the table. Zhenjian sat to his right, his brow furrowed in concentration as he ate, while Zhenyuan took his seat on the opposite side, his thoughts still lingering on the strange feeling that had gripped him earlier.
"Father," Zhenyuan spoke hesitantly, looking up from his bowl. "Do you ever wonder what lies beyond the hills?"
Qingshan raised an eyebrow, his deep voice low and thoughtful. "Beyond the hills?" he repeated. His gaze seemed distant, as if looking past the walls of the room, past the village, to some faraway place. "The world is full of unknowns, Zhenyuan. But not all of them are meant to be discovered."
Zhenyuan felt a chill run down his spine, though he didn't understand why. His father's words were simple, but there was a weight to them. The unspoken implication was that some things were better left untouched, some paths better left unexplored.
"But, Father," Zhenyuan pressed, "what if there is more out there? What if we could learn... become more?"
Qingshan set his bowl down and met his son's gaze, his eyes calm but firm. "The world outside these fields is not what you think, Zhenyuan. It is full of dangers, of forces beyond our understanding. It's easy to dream of something greater, but in the end, it is the simple life that brings true peace."
Zhenyuan wanted to argue, but something in his father's tone silenced him. Instead, he fell back into his seat, lost in thought. He had no way of knowing it then, but his life was about to change. The quiet peace that had always surrounded him, the simple life he had taken for granted, was slipping through his fingers. And in the days to come, he would discover that the world beyond the hills was not a dream—it was very real, and it was waiting for him.
End of Chapter 1