Chapter One: A Strange Dream

Lu Chenyuan jolted upright from the hard wooden bed, his brow beaded with cold sweat, his chest heaving as though he had just clawed his way up from the depths of a dark and fathomless lake. Even his breath was thick with the effort of someone who had nearly drowned.

He gasped for air, instinctively raising his right hand and splaying his palm open before his eyes.

Outside, the moonlight had grown viscous and frigid without warning, like a thin layer of solidified corpse wax, bathing the woodshed in a deathly pallor. He could see plainly the thin calluses, the marks of years spent in menial labor, lining his palm. Yet, as he stared, an unspeakable horror unfolded.

His five fingers suddenly lost their bones, turning supple and elongating, with thin webs growing between the knuckles. Beneath the skin, several crimson, pupil-less eyes slowly blinked open, rolling coldly within his flesh, surveying both the world and their unwilling host with a mute, malevolent intent.

He could feel, with dreadful clarity, those scarlet orbs turning beneath his flesh, each movement bringing a clammy, slippery sensation—like wet worms writhing just beneath the surface of his palm.

More terrifying still, an icy will crept up his arm, intent on invading his mind. It was a will filled with greed for the world, hunger for flesh, and a scorn for the feeble spark that was “Lu Chenyuan.”

It wanted to live—to replace him.

In an instant, a tide of violent malice surged from the depths of his soul. Images of Zhenhai River’s fishermen, woodcutters, and scholars flickered through his mind, their faces melting into scurrying ants and maggots beneath his feet. He felt no pity, only a cold detachment as if all living beings were but food for his hunger.

Even those revered immortals, who should have inspired awe in a mortal like him, brought forth not a trace of reverence. In fact, he knew with certainty that, should any of the less seasoned cultivators witness his current state, it would be they, not he, who should tremble in terror.

“It’s that dream again.”

In the dream, he stood atop a crystalline palace indescribable in human tongue, surrounded by the debris of countless stars, with twisted void yawning beneath his feet. In his hand, a sword—seeming to gather all the world’s light and bear all its sins. He could not see his own face, yet he felt an overwhelming sorrow and resolute despair rising from his core.

A thousand familiar and unfamiliar voices wept, cursed, and pleaded. One woman’s voice, clear and ringing with incredulous betrayal, pierced his heart.

“Why…”

The pain of that voice nearly split him in two.

Yet still, he swung the sword without hesitation.

With a single stroke, the heavens were riven, leaving a great, unhealing wound, glowing with ghostly blue flame.

The thunderous crash of the dream overlapped with a peal of real thunder, wrenching Lu Chenyuan fully awake.

Gazing at the grotesque transformation of his palm, a wave of nausea churned in his gut, a violent urge to sever his hand at the wrist nearly overwhelming him.

But he did nothing.

Gritting his teeth so hard that veins bulged at his temples, Lu Chenyuan summoned every ounce of will to suppress this abyssal impulse.

“Let the heart be a still lake, untroubled by wind; let the breath be a fish, passing unseen.”

“Be present in body and in spirit.”

He silently recited the nameless calming mantra taught by his master, not daring to utter a sound, barely even breathing.

In that deathly stillness, the cramped woodshed seemed to come alive. The shadows along the walls pressed inward, making the already narrow space feel like a coffin slowly closing in.

What had roused his vigilance was not only the change in his body, but the dog’s bark outside, swiftly followed by the shouts of the Night Patrol from the Demon Suppression Bureau:

“Stay sharp, all of you! The Sea Tide Festival is upon us—clearing bounties aren’t handed out for nothing! More and more heavily tainted and rogue cultivators are slipping in. Heard Old Wang from Salt Fisher’s Guild vanished last night.”

“When they found his boat, all the silver-scaled fish were belly-up, scared to death by something. In the cabin, only Wang’s empty fishing net and a shredded raincoat remained.”

A second voice replied, “Chief, what do we do if we encounter someone losing control from Daoic transformation?”

“Idiot! If there are signs of losing control, suppress them—if you can’t, execute on the spot! The Celestial Observatory’s envoys will be here soon. Don’t mess this up!”

Footsteps approached, then faded into the distance.

The monstrous hand, now a twisted tentacle, reluctantly shrank back to its normal form. The eyes beneath the skin closed and vanished, as if the harrowing vision had been nothing but the residue of a nightmare.

Lu Chenyuan exhaled deeply, his strength utterly spent. He slumped onto the hard bed, his inner garment soaked with cold sweat.

What terrified him wasn’t just the deformed hand, but the momentary, absolute apathy toward all living things that had welled up inside him—as though that was his true nature, and this identity of Lu Chenyuan was merely a prison worn too long.

Why did something so monstrous dwell within this body?

He had no answer.

He only knew that if he let that will grow unchecked, next time, he might never wake again.

For now, his only anchor was the mantra imparted by his mad, beautiful master.

That set of incantations was without system or form. Practicing it produced not the slightest ripple of spiritual energy, merely a rudimentary method for regulating breath in time with recitation.

Yet even so, this simple practice had a strange power to suppress the demon within.

Outside, the Night Patrol had already moved on. Within and without the woodshed, silence returned, though it could offer Lu Chenyuan no peace.

He began to feel that his small body was a microcosm of the vast, sick world—under a façade of normalcy, madness and corruption seethed, ready to devour everything.

This was a world afflicted with a malady.

Legend had it that over three millennia ago, a calamity severed the connection between heavens and mortals. Since then, the official record claimed, the Heart of the Nine Provinces was flawed, the sun’s righteous energy waning, while the dark Yin of the Nine Hells grew ever stronger.

Thus, if a cultivator’s mind wandered or their virtue faltered, they were easily invaded by external evils, mutating into unspeakable abominations.

The process of losing control was officially termed Daoic transformation, while the root cause of such aberrations was known as Daoic corruption.

But the strange thing was, he was no cultivator—merely a commoner struggling to survive in this world. Why, then, did he show signs of transformation?

By all accounts, ordinary people never experienced such horrors; it was a curse that accompanied the pursuit of power.

Lifting his gaze, Lu Chenyuan looked through the battered wooden window into the night.

In the indigo sky, a full moon hung bright as a silver platter, its cold brilliance almost harsh to the eye. The fishermen of Zhenhai River called this phase “Dragon King’s Open Eye”—an omen of great bounty. Every household would hang dried cuttlefish by their window for luck.

They saw only the moon’s luster and rejoiced in the rare blessing.

But near that near-perfect moon was a faint, barely perceptible blue fissure, spanning the sky like a flaw in flawless jade, or a scar marring a smiling face.

The shape of that fissure was exactly like the wound he had cleaved in his dream.

No one else could see it.

The fishermen, merchants, and wandering cultivators of Zhenhai River saw only ordinary moonlight, a sign of prosperity.

Only Lu Chenyuan, waking each night from his nightmare, opened his eyes to this ever-present “Scar in the Sky.”

What was it? The lingering shadow of a nightmare, or something real?

What unsettled him most was that, starting half a year ago, he began to hear a faint echo emanating from the depths of that rift—as if a pebble had been dropped into a bottomless abyss and the echo returned after an eternity, now beating in uncanny rhythm with his own heart.

He had once asked his so-called master, the self-styled Wine Sword Immortal—a beautiful woman whose manner was more that of a drunkard than a celestial swordswoman.

She had merely hiccuped, pointed a slender finger at the sky, and slurred, “Silly boy, that’s no scar in the sky—it’s the Dragon King’s waistband come undone, letting a crack show.”

“You must’ve stolen dried fish from the kitchen again. The Dragon King’s upset and haunting your dreams to complain.”

“You’re making things up. Last time you said it was a wound I made as an Immortal Emperor in a past life.”

“Ha! You cheeky brat, what was I supposed to say? You told me you dreamt of cleaving heaven with one stroke. That’s a whopper even I can’t match. Am I supposed to say you just poked a hole in the window paper with a rolling pin?”

“Besides, who but the legendary Immortal Emperor, ascended beyond the Celestial Abyss, could split the sky with a sword? Don’t tell me being Immortal Emperor isn’t good enough for you?”

Lu Chenyuan shook his head, forcing away those tangled thoughts. At dawn, the terrifying vision—visible only to him—would vanish as if it had never been.

He patted his empty stomach and rolled off the bed. His master’s jar of fine wine had run dry again last night. If he didn’t earn a few more coins today, he’d have to listen to her endless complaints.

He pushed open the woodshed door. A blend of damp wood and cheap liquor greeted him.

In the moonlit courtyard, beneath the crooked old locust tree, a figure slumped against the trunk, sleeping soundly.

She wore a simple blue robe, the loose fabric unable to conceal her breathtaking allure. Her ink-dark hair was unbound, cascading freely, a few strands lifted by the night breeze to brush her face—so beautiful in the moonlight, it seemed unearthly.

Her features were a paradox of sharp brows and peach-blossom eyes, a proud nose, lips soft and full—contradictory, yet strangely harmonious, creating an air both heroic and sultry.

At her side, a scarlet wine gourd had rolled to the ground.

This was his master.

He knew only that her surname was Situ; she had never shared her given name.

Lu Chenyuan stepped forward, picked up the gourd, and shook it—empty, as expected. With a helpless sigh, he took off his relatively dry outer robe and draped it over her.

Just then, as if sensing something even in sleep, Situ frowned and rolled over, seizing his wrist in her hand.

Her grip was cool, yet incredibly soft. She mumbled in her sleep, her breath thick with wine, yet tinged with a loneliness that seemed to cut to the bone:

“See? This time—I’ve won again…”

The words were boastful, but carried a sorrow that defied description.

What had Master won? Another wager in her dreams? He strained to listen, and heard her murmur again:

“Don’t go… Stay with me… just a little longer…”

With that, she drifted back into deep slumber, her hold on his wrist unyielding.

Watching her peaceful, defenseless slumber, the shadow of dread left by his nightmare seemed to dissipate.

He made no attempt to withdraw his hand, but simply sat beside her, back to the rough bark, gazing at the waning moon and the eternal scar that only he could see.

In truth, the two of them ought not linger here in Zhenhai River.

The decennial Sea Tide Festival was but half a month away. By then, the entire town would be crawling with agents from the Celestial Zhou Dynasty and the Nine Provinces’ immortal sects. They might well discover his abnormality.

For him, that so-called grand celebration could become his execution ground.

Yet he found he could not leave.

First, ever since his arrival, he heard a voice each silent night—a call ancient and commanding, echoing across three thousand years, resounding in the depths of his soul.

“…Come…”

At first, it was faint, but as the Sea Tide Festival approached, it grew sharper and more urgent, like a dragon imprisoned for a thousand years, roaring with mounting impatience.

The call stirred the monster within him, making it ever harder to suppress.

Even so, Lu Chenyuan sensed that the source of this call might hold the key to his curse.

Second, he had tried walking ten miles away from Zhenhai River. The further he went, the louder and wilder the call became, until the monster nearly tore its way out. Only when he returned did the rage subside.

He was trapped.

He feared death, feared becoming a beast, feared never being able to earn wine for his master, or care for her again.

But since he was here, he might as well accept his fate.

With the Sea Tide Festival drawing near, Zhenhai River was the eye of the storm. Cultivators, fiends, and monsters would all gather here—where the undercurrents ran deepest and the answers hid.

Perhaps this would be the chance for him to embark on the immortal path—to discover what called out to him, and at last break his curse.

If only he knew some Daoist arts, had some cultivation to rely on—then, if discovered, he might at least have a way to resist.

But his master had only taught him to read and write, to be a good person, and a single strange mantra—never any cultivation.

Yet she always boasted, when drunk, of her unrivaled swordsmanship.

He was not wholly ignorant of her power. But those memories had been worn thin by ten years of ordinary life, leaving only a faint outline.

For a moment, Lu Chenyuan’s gaze grew distant, drifting back a decade to a world bathed in blood.

The savage laughter of bandits, the glint of blades—his world narrowed to an icy despair.

A sword flashed.

It was no earthly sword.

Cold as moonlight, sharp as lightning, it split the world in two.

He could no longer recall how the sword was drawn, nor how the bandits were turned to ash.

All he remembered was, when the light faded, a blood-stained figure in blue approached against the glare—like an immortal exiled to walk the mortal realm.

At seven years old, she had saved him from the bandits.

Whenever he asked, his master would laugh and scold him for dreaming in broad daylight.

But Lu Chenyuan knew in his heart it was true.

That sword had never been drawn again. Perhaps in this world, there was nothing left worthy of its edge.