Chapter Three: The Village's Transformation

The cultivator in violet robes gazed disdainfully at Li Mu. With a wave of his hand, Li Mu, covered in mud and water, seemed to be lifted by an enormous invisible palm, suspended in mid-air.

“Water Sphere Technique.”

A gentle breeze swept through, and all the sludge clinging to Li Mu vanished. The cultivator scrutinized Li Mu's entire body, confirming that he was not hiding anything.

“He has some semblance of spirit, after all.”

Li Mu, at eighteen, was not particularly handsome, but his features were clear, and there was an unmistakable vitality in his face.

“I’ll take you,” the cultivator said, waving his hand again. Li Mu was pulled onto the flying sword. “You people, born of this land, striving for immortality—it’s futile. I’ll toss you some money, and that will be the end of it.”

If this superior multicolored stone had been truly rare, he would scarcely have cared about Li Mu’s life or death. But being in a good mood now, a trace of benevolence stirred within him.

The sword glided effortlessly, swiftly carrying them out of the mine passage.

It was Li Mu’s first time leaving the mine, his first glimpse of the world outside, and the scene before him left him in awe.

He found himself at the bottom of an enormous cavern, several miles in circumference and depth. The cave walls were densely dotted with mine entrances, and people, looking like ants, scurried in and out. From time to time, swords soared overhead, slicing the air with sharp gusts of wind.

How many immortal slaves labored desperately in those tunnels, Li Mu could not fathom. It was unimaginable—all of them, possibly forced from the surrounding villages. Though only ten days had passed, the bitterness of exile had already seeded hatred in Li Mu’s heart.

“The multicolored earth from a hundred mining tunnels combined cannot compare to the stone in my hand,” the cultivator remarked casually. “Hold tight. We’re almost there.”

Li Mu did not respond, his gaze fixed on a nearby hill, unmoving.

The cultivator followed his glance, a strange smile appearing on his face. “I kept my promise—not only did I teach him a cultivation technique, I even gave him a spirit crystal to aid his practice. You saw it yourself.”

On the hill, Li San’s body had decayed, ruptured and exploded—a sight too dreadful to witness.

“Even with a cultivation technique, what does it matter? For him, the influx of spiritual energy meant certain death. But I helped him fulfill his wish; he should be quite content.” The cultivator still smiled, clearly pleased.

Li Mu said nothing, only pretended to nod.

Li San, a native of these lands, knew nothing of true cultivation. He believed receiving a technique would let him ascend, and had seized Li Mu’s multicolored stone, unaware that this was tantamount to courting death. The cultivator, knowing all this, not only failed to intervene but even helped Li San absorb spiritual energy—watching his demise for amusement.

Neither man was good; one died, and the other would not fare much better.

“To become an immortal, to rise above mortals, is not so simple,” Li Mu pondered coldly as he soared atop the sword. “Li San’s fate must never befall me! Yet I still must cultivate. From the memories of the previous Li Mu, this world is one of cultivation, and I must survive well—become a cultivator at all costs.”

Soon the sword reached the cavern’s summit. The cultivator halted, letting Li Mu step off the flying sword.

“You may leave now,” he said, tossing a translucent crystal. “This is a low-grade spirit crystal—enough to provide for you for the rest of your life. Go on.”

Li Mu caught it, bowed respectfully, and said, “Thank you, Immortal Master. I will repay your kindness in the future.”

The cultivator said nothing, merely laughed, turned, and drifted away on his flying sword, vanishing in an instant.

Watching the immortal depart, a cold fierceness flickered in Li Mu’s eyes. “I will repay you—just wait and see.”

He casually stowed the spirit crystal in his spiritual tower and hurried toward the village.

Li Mu’s home was called Little Creek Village, many miles from the mine. His parents had died young, leaving only his nine-year-old sister for company.

Recently, an immortal master had come to Little Creek to recruit laborers, promising generous rewards and perhaps the chance at cultivation. The impoverished villagers, enticed by hope, eagerly volunteered. Li Mu joined as well, intending only to earn a little for his sister. Never had he imagined they would be tricked into servitude, forced into brutal labor. In the months since, not a single person had returned from the mine—instead, many had died.

Thinking of his return, Li Mu wondered how he could face his beloved family, who awaited him so anxiously.

But the original Li Mu was already dead, and that brought him a strange relief.

He hurried along the path, and with the spiritual tower in his body, his movements felt much lighter.

After a while, he spotted the familiar tree outside the village, but strangely, its once green leaves were now pitch black.

Li Mu sensed something was wrong.

Entering the village, he was stunned; the scene before him was unbearable.

The air was thick with the stench of blood; everywhere, burnt houses and charred vegetation. Dozens of mutilated corpses littered the ground, dried blood soaked the earth, and smoke still drifted from collapsed homes.

The temperature was oddly high, but Li Mu’s heart was icy, like water.

“Sister!”

He rushed to the small house where he and his sister lived.

The humble home had its roof destroyed, fragments of bodies everywhere, not a trace of life.

A shattered mirror lay on the scorched ground—the favorite toy of his little sister.

“Sister! Ying’er!”

Li Mu circled the village several times, shouting desperately, but found nothing.

He sat in front of his house, dazed, muttering to himself, “What happened here?”

Li Mu, having traversed here, had little attachment to the villagers, their memories already fading in his mind. But his sister, Li Ying, was different. She occupied a major part of his inherited recollections. Before crossing over, she was his sole longing, unalterable.

With time, Li Mu calmed himself and began to think carefully.

Could it have been the immortal master?

His thoughts raced, but he quickly dismissed the possibility.

Immortal masters regarded human life as trivial, but would not commit such utter atrocity. They used people for labor, but rarely killed without reason; such actions were beneath them.

It could not have been them.

Judging by the evidence, these events must have occurred only recently. What had truly happened?

A faint sound came from a nearby house.

Li Mu immediately sprang up, following the noise.

It was a small hut on the outskirts—belonging to young Li Si, a boy of about ten, nameless and always trailing behind Li Mu, admiring him.

Li Mu burst into the hut; the sound ceased, but he saw, before the broken wall, a stone lifted and then dropped back.

Someone was hiding.

Li Mu called out loudly, “It’s me, Li Mu! I’m safe now, come out!”

He pushed the stone aside with all his strength, revealing a dark hole.

“Who’s there? It’s me, Li Mu.” He peered inside.

In the shadows, two frail figures huddled in the corner.

“Brother… brother…”

The trembling voice was irregular, but to Li Mu, it sounded sweeter than anything in the world.

“It’s me, Ying’er!”

Li Mu jumped down, immediately embracing Li Ying.

“Sob… Brother… I’m scared…”

Li Ying broke into tears, all her pent-up emotions finally spilling forth, and in moments, she was a weeping mess.