Chapter 1: Zhao Zhen

June, 1923. Summer.

As the morning mist began to dissipate, the mountain stream donned a robe of flowing silk. The brook winding down from the snow-capped peaks danced among the colorful stones like shattered jade falling onto a tray, wearing away the granite that had lain for millennia until it was smooth and gentle to the touch. The rain-soaked stones at the creek's bottom glimmered with the luster of agate—vermilion, ochre, and brilliant yellow mingling with the clear blue water, a spectacle as if the goddess had dropped her legendary five-colored stones from the heavens to the mortal realm.

On the mountain path, a youth with a wooden basket strapped to his back strode briskly toward the summit, bathed in the golden morning sun. His pace was swift; in only a few breaths, he had climbed dozens of steps. Soon, as his foot pressed down on the final stair, he reached the mountain's peak.

There, an elderly man with a hunched frame and hair as white as snow had been seated for some time already. Sensing the youth’s arrival, a satisfied smile crept across the old man's lips.

“Not bad. Your speed is improving more and more,” he remarked, glancing at the distant sunrise before turning to offer the youth a smile.

Bang!

The youth set down the wooden basket with a thud, sending dust swirling and leaving a deep pit where it landed. Upon closer inspection, the basket was filled with heavy green stone bricks, weighing several dozen pounds.

“Old man, I don’t get it. You teach me nothing but the art of drawing talismans, so why do you make me carry these heavy bricks up the mountain every day to train my legs?” he asked, half-jokingly. “Are you planning for me to become some sort of brute-force mage, charging in with a staff to bash heads?”

“You brat! Drawing talismans is the foundation of our secret arts—absolutely essential. Yet because making talismans is so intricate, the methods I teach you are not to be used lightly; they’re only for saving your life. So on ordinary days, your survival depends on your own two legs.”

“If I don’t understand, I ask. I haven’t done anything to offend anyone, so why are you always thinking about survival?” the youth retorted.

“Ahem, that’s none of your concern. Just know that I’d never harm you,” the old man replied.

“Alright then…” the youth said, still somewhat skeptical as he withdrew his gaze.

His name was Zhao Zhen. Orphaned from an early age, he had been taken in by this old man, who became his guardian and mentor, wandering with him across the country and imparting knowledge. Occasionally, the old man would disappear for stretches of time, leaving Zhao Zhen alone in some place, but the youth never questioned his whereabouts. Everyone harbors their own secrets, and Zhao Zhen was no exception.

His greatest secret was this: he was a transmigrator.

Ever since waking up in the frail body of a child on the verge of starvation, Zhao Zhen had learned to accept the most absurd events with unwavering calm. The silver lining came when, just as he was about to die of hunger, the old man appeared, fed him, and took him under his wing.

To this day, Zhao Zhen still did not know the old man’s real name; he had never been told, and was simply instructed to call him “old man.”

And so, one old and one young, they depended on each other, journeying together for eight years and traversing nearly all the famed mountains and rivers.

Even Zhao Zhen, with his transmigrator’s perspective, hadn’t expected that his story would begin with nothing but his own two feet, traveling across the land by running.

Over those eight years, he and the old man visited countless places and gradually pieced together the background of this world. The world was familiar, but only the time had changed—Zhao Zhen had awakened nearly a century in the past.

But that mattered little to him, for following the old man, he discovered a world far more extraordinary than he had ever known.

“You little brat, I must admit—your talent is the most remarkable I’ve ever seen in a child,” the old man said. With every breath, Zhao Zhen could effortlessly draw in energy; even the old man, who had traveled everywhere and seen much, had never heard of such a prodigy.

“It’s useless, though. No matter how gifted I am, you refuse to teach me anything real. What’s the point?” Zhao Zhen complained, pursing his lips. Eight years ago, the old man had taught him a strange breathing technique, but nothing else since. He had diligently cultivated this method, feeling some mysterious energy within himself grow stronger and his body improving day by day, but there were no other effects.

As for the spectacular feats he’d occasionally witnessed—breathing fire, summoning water, shooting lightning from the eyes—those remained out of reach.

“Hmph! You brat, now you’re blaming me!” the old man snorted. He flicked his fingers, and Zhao Zhen received a sharp rap on the head from afar.

“All these years, I’ve only trained your fundamental vitality because I intend to pass on my signature technique—Golden Escape and Radiant Flight!”

“Golden Escape and Radiant Flight?” Zhao Zhen echoed, a hint of confusion flashing in his eyes. The name sounded oddly familiar. Could it be…? No, something wasn’t right. He needed to confirm.

“That’s right. My method is far superior to those fire-spitting, water-spraying circus clowns you’ve seen before,” the old man said, pride swelling on his face, though it quickly faded into a more complex expression.

“Brat, although my Golden Escape and Radiant Flight is incredibly difficult to master, with your talent you could have started long ago. The reason I’ve hesitated is because I fear that teaching it to you might ultimately bring you harm.”

“What do you mean, old man?”

“Sigh, some things can’t be hidden forever. Let me be direct: my name is Duan Chuan. Friends in the community respectfully call me ‘Master of Golden Light.’”

Master of Golden Light. Golden Escape and Radiant Flight…

It must be. So I really have transmigrated into the world of The Outcast?

Suppressing his astonishment, Zhao Zhen continued, “Old man, are you famous? Why have I never seen you with any friends over the years?”

“Famous, yes, but not for good reasons. After all, we’re part of the Quanxing,” Duan Chuan sighed deeply.

“You may not know yet what the Quanxing represents, but I must warn you: if you ever encounter someone who claims to be from the Quanxing, stay far away. Do not associate with those people! Over the years, I’ve quietly kept them away, but I can’t watch over you forever. In the end, your path is yours alone to walk.”

Only then did Zhao Zhen understand why, despite being in the world of The Outcast for so long, he hadn’t realized it sooner.

First, extraordinary individuals were rare in this world, so during their eight years of travel, he and the old man mostly interacted with ordinary folk.

Second, the old man’s identity as a Quanxing member meant he couldn’t bring Zhao Zhen to meet the orthodox sects nor did he want him to mingle with the scoundrels of the Quanxing.

As a result, Zhao Zhen had little chance to encounter other extraordinary people.

Seeing the old man's serious expression, Zhao Zhen felt a wave of warmth in his heart. Whatever deeds the old man had committed in the Quanxing, he had treated Zhao Zhen with genuine care.

“If none of the Quanxing are decent people… are you insulting yourself too, old man?”

“Get lost!” Duan Chuan snapped, unable to help but smile at Zhao Zhen’s cheeky grin, the somber atmosphere between them easing a little.

“Brat, I’ve wandered all my life. Now, in my old age, I only wish to find a disciple to inherit my Golden Escape and Radiant Flight, so this art isn’t lost with me. If you wish to avoid the Quanxing altogether, then never use it for the rest of your life, and someday pass it on to another…”

As he spoke, Duan Chuan’s voice grew softer, his gaze nearly pleading.

Zhao Zhen understood the old man’s concern: his affiliation with the Quanxing might cause trouble if Zhao Zhen practiced Golden Escape and Radiant Flight. As far as Zhao Zhen knew, Duan Chuan was the sole master of this art in the world of the extraordinary. If Zhao Zhen used it in front of others, it would be obvious who his teacher was. Given the current climate among the various sects, the slightest misstep could make Zhao Zhen the next infamous outlaw.

But these worries meant little to Zhao Zhen. Others might not know, but as a transmigrator, he was well aware. What era was this? What would happen in a few years?

If he shrank from learning this life-saving skill just to avoid trouble with the Quanxing, would he rather risk being struck down like a stray dog when chaos erupted?

Never mind the old man’s warnings to stay away from the Quanxing. Even if he were told to join them, so what?

The path of the sage lies within oneself.

His feet belonged to him. As long as he remained true to his conscience, doing nothing to betray his own heart, who had the right to judge him?

Thinking this, Zhao Zhen flashed a wide, toothy grin at the old man.

“Old man, what are you rambling about? Are you teaching me or not? Eight years and you only pass down this one craft—so could you please be a bit more straightforward?”