Yan Xun awoke to the taste of blood.
The dirt beneath him was damp, either from last night's rain or his own bleeding. He couldn't tell. His ribs ached with each breath, a sharp reminder that he was still alive. He ran his tongue over his teeth—one was loose. Again.
The market square around him had already come alive with morning activity. Merchants shouted prices, children chased stray dogs, and beggars stretched their hands toward passersby. No one paid attention to him. A boy barely past seventeen, dressed in tattered robes, lying in the mud. Just another piece of refuse.
Yan Xun sat up slowly, blinking against the gray morning light. His stomach twisted in hunger, but he had nothing. No coins. No food. Not even a name that anyone would recognize. The last village he had passed through called him "ghost boy," a fitting title for someone who existed yet didn't belong.
He pulled himself to his feet and exhaled. The cold air burned his lungs. He stretched his fingers, feeling the flickers of his cultivation within. It was still there, buried beneath exhaustion and hunger—a fragile ember in a dying fire.
But unlike the sect disciples who refined their qi through structured breathing techniques, Yan Xun's cultivation was different. It had no method, no form. It was raw and wild, absorbing whatever he experienced—pain, suffering, fleeting moments of joy. His path was uncharted, an ocean with no shore in sight.
He glanced toward the food stalls. His stomach screamed at the sight of steaming meat skewers. He could steal one, but his body was slow today. The bruises from last night's beating hadn't faded yet.
A baker's wife noticed his stare and scowled. "Go beg somewhere else."
Yan Xun turned and walked away.
Not worth it.
Instead, he wandered toward the edge of the town, where the walls met the wilderness. There, beneath an old persimmon tree, an old man sat on a woven mat, eyes closed in meditation. His white robes were clean despite the dust, his long hair tied in a simple knot.
A cultivator.
Yan Xun didn't know his rank, nor did he care. The man reeked of stability—of a world where things made sense, where progress followed order. Yan Xun had nothing to ask of him.
Still, something kept his feet rooted to the spot. The wind shifted, rustling the leaves overhead. The old man opened his eyes.
"You carry a strange qi," he said. His voice was calm, like still water. "Unruly. Unstable."
Yan Xun frowned. He didn't answer.
The old man studied him for a moment before sighing. "Are you lost, boy?"
A simple question. But it burrowed into Yan Xun's ribs deeper than any punch.
Was he?
He had no home, no destination. His cultivation had no method, no path. The road behind him was erased with each step, and the road ahead was shrouded in fog.
What did it even mean to be lost when you had nowhere to return to?
Yan Xun scoffed. "No," he said, turning away. "I am where I should be."
He kept walking, feeling the old man's gaze linger on his back. But it didn't matter. The wind carried no name. And neither did he.