Yi Lian awoke to an unfamiliar sensation—a hollow ache gnawing at his stomach. Hunger. A simple, mortal need, yet it weighed on him with an unfamiliar intensity.
His body felt sluggish, drained—not from battle or cultivation, but from sheer exhaustion. Days of endless walking, searching for a place to settle, had taken their toll. He had traveled without rest, without food, pushing forward as if sheer will alone could sustain him. Now, his body was reminding him of its limits.
A soft sigh escaped him.
He had never relied on spiritual pills or the luxuries of a sect. Yet, in the world of cultivation, hunger had always been secondary—easily ignored in the face of greater struggles. But here, stripped of power and comforts, hunger was undeniable.
His stomach growled.
Yi Lian exhaled, rising to his feet. It seemed his first trial in the mortal realm would be something as simple as finding a meal.
The village was already alive, bathed in the golden hues of morning. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the smoky aroma of cooking fires. Farmers led oxen toward the fields, merchants arranged their wares, and the sound of hammers striking metal echoed from the blacksmith's forge.
Life moved with a rhythm of its own, untouched by the ambitions of cultivators.
As Yi Lian stepped out, a few villagers greeted him warmly.
"Good morning, traveler! Did you sleep well?"
An elderly man, his back slightly hunched from years of labor, smiled at him. His voice carried the ease of someone who had spent a lifetime rising with the sun, working the fields, and embracing the simplicity of routine.
Before Yi Lian could answer, a chorus of young voices chimed in.
"Where did you come from?"
"Have you fought any monsters?"
"Tell us about your journey!"
A group of children had gathered around him, their faces bright with curiosity.
Enthusiasm. Warmth. Unfiltered joy.
Even in his past life, strangers had rarely greeted him this way. Most interactions carried expectations, unseen debts. But these children—they had no reason to be kind to him. They simply were.
For a brief moment, he hesitated. Was this normal? Was there something they wanted? But as he looked at them—their wide, expectant eyes, their excitement bubbling over—he saw nothing but genuine curiosity.
He exhaled, pushing aside his doubts.
"I've just started my journey," he said, his voice measured yet calm. "Before this, I lived on a mountain with my master."
Gasps of excitement.
"A mountain?! Was it tall?"
"Did you see the clouds?"
Yi Lian allowed himself a small smile. "The sky felt endless, and the wind carried the scent of blooming flowers. From up there, the world below seemed distant, almost dreamlike."
The children listened intently, their imaginations painting pictures of the world he described. Then, he spoke of mythical creatures he had read about—Garuda, divine serpents, dragons, and phoenixes.
"The Garuda is a mighty bird, its wings so vast they block out the sun," he explained. "And dragons—when they roar, the skies weep, and the oceans rise to meet them."
The children's eyes widened, but among the villagers, Yi Lian noticed something else—a ripple of unease.
The older men and women had gone silent. Their warmth dimmed, replaced by quiet apprehension.
"Do such beasts truly exist?" one of them whispered.
Yi Lian immediately sensed their fear. Perhaps, to them, such stories weren't merely myths. Perhaps, in a world where mortals had no power, the idea of such creatures wasn't wondrous—it was terrifying.
He shook his head. "No, they are only legends now."
The tension eased.
The children groaned in disappointment, but before they could protest—
GRRRRRRLLLLL.
A deep, unmistakable growl echoed through the quiet morning.
Silence.
Then—laughter.
The villagers chuckled, the children giggled, and Yi Lian felt his face heat up with embarrassment. He had been so engrossed in their conversation that he had forgotten why he had stepped outside in the first place.
A middle-aged man, broad-shouldered from years of labor, stepped forward with a knowing grin. "Traveler, if you've yet to eat, come to my home. My wife has just finished cooking, and there's more than enough to share."
Yi Lian hesitated. In the cultivation world, nothing came without a price. Every favor demanded repayment. Every act of kindness carried an unspoken debt.
But here? Was it truly that simple?
The man's gaze held no trace of expectation, only sincerity.
Yi Lian exhaled slowly.
"...I would be grateful."
The man's home was modest, yet welcoming. Wooden walls, a thatched roof, a hearth that filled the space with warmth. The scent of freshly cooked rice and roasted meat lingered in the air.
His wife, a woman with kind eyes and steady hands, greeted Yi Lian with a smile.
"Sit, sit," she urged, setting a wooden bowl before him. "You're a guest—eat as much as you like."
The food was simple. No rare herbs, no spiritual energy coursing through its fibers. Yet, as Yi Lian took his first bite, he realized—this was the best meal he had ever tasted.
It was warmth. It was care. It was the essence of a home.
As he ate, he listened. The man spoke of his fields, the woman of her daily chores. Their lives were ordinary, mundane even. Yet, in their simplicity, there was meaning.
"You remind me of a scholar who once passed through," the man mused, watching Yi Lian thoughtfully. "He left behind wisdom, not debts. Are you a scholar too?"
Yi Lian paused. He wasn't a scholar. He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't… anything.
"I'm just someone trying to understand the world," he finally answered.
The man nodded as if he understood. Perhaps he did.
After the meal, Yi Lian thanked them and stepped outside. The village stretched before him, thriving in its simplicity. Farmers tilling the soil, blacksmiths shaping iron, merchants haggling over fresh produce. Children playing without worry, their laughter painting the air.
These people had no cultivation, no mystical powers, yet they possessed something most cultivators did not—contentment.
Yi Lian thought back to the night before—how exhaustion had pulled him into sleep the moment he set foot in his home. It wasn't cultivation that drained him. It wasn't spiritual exhaustion. It was the simple fatigue of a mortal body—worn from travel, from hunger, from seeking shelter like any ordinary man.
And yet, despite that struggle, he had never felt more alive.
For the first time, Yi Lian wondered—had he spent his life chasing something meaningless?
As the sun climbed higher, he walked through the village, observing, learning. He was no longer just a cultivator passing through.
He was a traveler, seeking not power, but understanding.
And perhaps, that was the first step to something greater.