The morning sun painted the village in hues of amber and gold as Yi Lian stepped out of his small wooden house. The crisp air carried the scent of damp soil and freshly baked bread, mingling with the smokiness of cooking fires.
The village was already alive—the rhythmic sounds of hoes striking the earth, hammers ringing against metal, merchants calling out their wares. Here, survival wasn't about power or cultivation but endurance, toil, and creation.
Yi Lian inhaled deeply, grounding himself in this unfamiliar yet oddly comforting world.
Yesterday, he had relied on the kindness of strangers. Today, he would earn his place.
He couldn't just take.
He had to work.
His gaze swept across the village. In the sect, everything had been provided—robes, weapons, meals, even purpose. But if he truly wanted to understand this life, he had to walk its path himself.
A fleeting thought crossed his mind. Work… something I have never done before.
Another voice in his mind whispered, If you wish to understand, you must walk the path yourself.
With that, he stepped forward.
The fields stretched endlessly, a sea of green swaying under the gentle breeze. The scent of freshly tilled soil filled the air as Yi Lian approached an elderly man tending to a row of crops. His tanned skin bore the marks of years spent under the sun, his hands rough yet steady as they carefully planted seeds.
The farmer glanced up, his deep-set eyes filled with quiet wisdom. He let out a dry chuckle.
"You stand like a man with soft hands," he mused. "Never worked the land before, have you?"
Yi Lian shook his head. "No. But I want to learn."
The farmer studied him for a long moment before handing him a hoe. "Then dig. The earth doesn't judge strength, only patience."
At first, the work seemed simple—strike the ground, loosen the soil. But as the hours stretched on, his back ached, his hands blistered, and his arms felt heavier with each swing. The once-light tool now seemed as weighty as a boulder in his grip.
Every strike against the earth became a battle against himself.
Yet, as sweat dripped from his brow, a sense of purpose took root. Unlike cultivation, where progress was unseen, here, every effort had a result. Furrows stretched across the field, seeds buried beneath the soil, promising future life.
As they rested under the shade of a tree, Yi Lian wiped the sweat from his brow. "Is this how you've lived your life?"
The farmer chuckled, a deep, knowing laugh. "Boy, we don't just work the land. We nurture it. The seed you plant today becomes the meal you eat tomorrow. Everything takes time."
Yi Lian nodded, the words settling deep in his heart.
Strength wasn't just about fighting. It was about creating, sustaining.
The forge roared with heat, flames licking the air, the scent of molten metal thick and sharp. The hammer struck the anvil with a deafening clang, shaping raw iron into something more.
Yi Lian hesitated at the entrance.
The blacksmith, a burly man with thick arms and a face set in a permanent scowl, barely spared him a glance.
"If you're here to waste time, get lost."
Yi Lian straightened. "I want to learn."
The blacksmith snorted. "Hah! You? Look at those hands—never held a hammer in your life. This ain't a scholar's work. It's sweat, burns, and broken fingers."
Yi Lian didn't flinch. "Then let me break a few."
The blacksmith stared at him for a long moment before thrusting a pair of tongs at him. "Fine. Hold this."
The first hour was pure agony. The hammer was heavier than he expected, the heat suffocating. His strikes were weak, uneven, and each time the blacksmith growled in frustration.
"Too soft!" the man barked. "You're not writing poetry—hit it like you mean it!"
Yi Lian gritted his teeth and swung the hammer again. The clang rang through the air, and for the first time, the blacksmith gave a small nod.
By nightfall, his arms trembled, his hands blistered, but when he looked at the misshapen nail he had forged, a strange sense of pride settled in his chest.
The blacksmith grunted. "You've got spirit, I'll give you that. Come back tomorrow."
Yi Lian smiled.
Hard work. Effort. It was new, but it felt… real.
The lake stretched endlessly, reflecting the sky like a polished mirror. A lone fisherman sat at the shore, rod in hand, eyes half-closed as if in meditation.
Yi Lian approached cautiously. "Why do you just sit there?"
The fisherman chuckled. "Fishing is patience, boy. You cannot rush the fish."
Curious, Yi Lian sat beside him, watching the line. "How do you know when to pull?"
The fisherman smiled. "You don't. You feel it."
Hours passed in silence. At first, the stillness was unbearable. No movement, no action—just waiting.
But slowly, Yi Lian began to listen.
The gentle ripple of water. The whisper of the wind. The subtle tension on the line.
Then—a pull.
Yi Lian's hands moved instinctively, reeling the fish in. It flailed, silver scales catching the light. The fisherman laughed. "See? You learned."
Holding the fish in his hands, Yi Lian realized something.
Cultivation had always been about force, about taking.
But here, patience yielded rewards.
By now, Yi Lian had become a familiar presence in the village. The children, ever curious, often followed him, bombarding him with questions.
"Why do you work so much?"
"Weren't you a cultivator? Aren't they supposed to be powerful?"
Yi Lian knelt beside them, meeting their wide eyes. "Power is more than just strength. Do you see the blacksmith? The farmer? The fisherman? They are powerful in their own way."
One child frowned. "But they don't fight."
Yi Lian smiled. "Not all battles are fought with fists."
The children seemed to ponder this, and for the first time, Yi Lian saw a reflection of himself in their eyes.
Days turned into weeks. Yi Lian worked, laughed, struggled.
He had no cultivation, no techniques, yet each experience shaped him in ways no battle ever could.
The farmer taught him patience.
The blacksmith, resilience.
The fisherman, stillness.
The children, curiosity.
He wasn't just surviving.
He was living.