Among the village children, an old legend persisted—of a bogeyman who walked the Dark Path, dressed in tattered clothes and a straw hat. Ruthless and wild, he exuded a dark aura, and any child he caught was doomed to a fate worse than death. This figure was known as His Excellency Zhu Fan.
The tale of His Excellency Zhu Fan was well-known throughout Tian, though few recalled the truth: he was once a merciless emperor of the Immortal Dynasty, infamous as the Lord of Death for his unrelenting slaughter of demons. Thousands of years ago, he had vanished into the Dark Continent, his fate a mystery. Now, he existed only as a specter haunting the nightmares of children, a warning to keep them in line.
Given the stranger's ragged appearance, it was no surprise when a group of children spotted him and shouted, "His Excellency Zhu Fan!" Yet, instead of fear, Fang Yuan felt an overwhelming surge of anger.
"Huh?? They mistake a beggar like you for someone like His Excellency Zhu Fan??? You're more like Zhu Fan's crippled carpet!!!" he yelled, laughter bubbling in his throat.
"W... What!!! How dare you mock me, you little brat!!" the man retorted, his voice a mix of disbelief and indignation.
The man's name was indeed Zhu Fan. Though only twenty-three, neglect had aged him, making him appear closer to forty. His raven-black hair fell untamed around his face, and his long beard made him resemble a wandering monk or a member of the Beggar Sect. The straw hat, a makeshift accessory taken from a scarecrow, only added to his ghostly aura. But beneath this disheveled exterior lay a dark secret: Zhu Fan was not of this world. An anomaly had pulled him into the cultivation realm, a place where time and existence intertwined in complex ways.
Though thousands of years had passed since his arrival, he retained the youthful appearance of a twenty-three-year-old, albeit scarred and weary from a lifetime of battles and sorrows. His eyes, once vibrant, now reflected a deep melancholy, haunted by memories of a past long lost.
Fang Yuan, frustrated by the loss of his precious worms, chose silence. Zhu Fan, feeling the weight of mockery, lifted his hat and bellowed, "I've had enough!!!" With a huff, he grabbed the nine-tailed fox, Xiao, and trudged eastward along a deserted path leading to a semi-ruined temple he had discovered some time ago. This small temple, with three bedrooms and a hall that could accommodate about twenty people, was shunned by locals, who believed it to be haunted—making it the perfect refuge for a man like Zhu Fan.
As he approached the temple, memories flooded back.
A cultivator's mind can store memories for quite long time, but Zhu Fan, having lived over several thousand years, had forgotten many events, leaving only echoes of the past. Coming from another world, he had unique ways of storing memories. When the anomalies opened, he wasn't the only one swept into chaos; countless strange worlds merged, unleashing a torrent of confusion and fear.
In those early years, Zhu Fan navigated through rivers of blood, ever cautious not to meet a violent end. He learned countless cultivation and combat techniques, honing his skills in battles against both humans and demons. The blood of countless foes stained his hands as he rose to power, amassing treasures and titles. He reached the pinnacle of strength, feared by many. Yet, in that moment of triumph, he came to a bitter realization: "Immortality is not a blessing."
Zhu Fan watched as friends and enemies alike perished around him, empires crumbled, and lands he once knew were reduced to ashes. He observed the cycle of humanity repeating its mistakes, demons burning in their greed, and heroes born anew with every generation. Through it all, he found himself questioning the very nature of existence.
True salvation, he discovered, was not found in the pursuit of power or the promise of eternal life. Instead, it lay in the simple joys—the laughter of children, the warmth of a genuine smile, the fleeting moments of peace amid chaos. Zhu Fan realized that the beauty of life was in its transience, in the moments that could not be grasped or controlled.
As he stood before the abandoned temple, a wave of nostalgia washed over him. This was his sanctuary, a place where he could reflect on the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future. Here, amidst the crumbling walls, he sought solace from the demons of his memories, a reminder that even the darkest paths could lead to light.