Does the loss of something or someone significant ever truly leave you? Does the wound heal, or does it simply sink deeper, hidden beneath layers of scar tissue and time? Or will everything—the pain, the memory, the person themselves—be lost to the sands of time forever?
No one will remember.
No one will ever care.
And no one will remember you for eternity.
Consider this truth: after your passing, as centuries unfold like pages in a book no one reads, even your descendants—your own blood—will forget you. Your face will blur in their memories. Your voice will fade. Your true nature and essence will be overshadowed by the opinions of strangers, by the stories others tell about you, twisted and reshaped until they bear no resemblance to who you actually were.
Some argue that losing is crucial for growth—that defeat teaches lessons victory never could. Others refuse to accept defeat at all. Their pride and ego create a powerful resistance, a wall built brick by brick in the fortress of their minds, making them impenetrable but also brittle.
Some individuals may initially lack ego or pride, moving through the world with quiet humility. But eventually, these traits will emerge within their hearts and minds, flourishing like trees in autumn—beautiful, perhaps, but ultimately preparing for the death of winter.
Then why lose?
Why win?
Just... why?
Ultimately, the world will forget everything. Your victories, your defeats, your sacrifices. Even those in your own lineage will let your memory slip away like water through cupped hands.
If winning and losing both end in the same oblivion, then what meaning do they hold?
But here's the answer: if you're unconcerned about being forgotten in the future—if you've made peace with the inevitable erasure that awaits all things—then direct your energy toward yourself and your ambitions. Realize the greatness you aspire to achieve not for posterity, but for the sake of the pursuit itself.
Some individuals attribute their achievements to life's circumstances and fate, especially when they receive significant blessings—career opportunities, wealth, love, power. They say, "I was fortunate. I was blessed."
But what about the unfortunate ones?
What did they receive?
A life in the streets. A life lived in the worst possible way. A childhood of hunger. An adulthood of grinding poverty. An old age of complete abandonment.
The unfortunate souls endure torment, passing away alone in cramped rooms, in desolate alleys, in circumstances so heartbreaking that even recounting them feels like a violence.
Fate governs all, they say. It wields power over both fortune and misfortune, maintaining some cosmic balance throughout the world—as if suffering and joy somehow cancel each other out in the grand ledger.
Yet some unfortunate souls rise to the top despite everything. They shatter the chains of fate that bind them, struggle upward through impossible circumstances, and ultimately attain true greatness. History reveals these exceptions—the ones who ascended from nothing to reshape the world.
One word encapsulates it all: *ambition*.
How did they reach the top? Through the rarest quality—ambition paired with relentless will. Ambition is a journey where you may stumble, fall, break yourself against obstacles that seem insurmountable. Yet you also have the potential to rise and reach extraordinary heights that others deemed impossible.
There's nothing holding you back from your ambitions except yourself.
You are free to proceed.
The only power that can truly stop you lies within your own heart, your own mind, your own choice to surrender or continue.
Pursue your aspirations relentlessly. The decision lies solely within you: surrender to fate's design, or strive for your shot at greatness.
---
Perched atop the mountain ridge, Zhung gazed at the rising sun as it painted the sky in shades of gold and crimson. The magnificent ascent took his breath away—not from beauty, but from the raw mathematical certainty of it. The sun rose because physics demanded it. There was comfort in that inevitability.
A gentle breeze carried autumn leaves downward in spiraling patterns, creating a tranquil dance around him. The air smelled of pine and morning dew.
His eyes tracked movement on the road below—a familiar figure walking with steady purpose. His expression, normally frozen in careful neutrality, softened almost imperceptibly.
He began his descent down the mountain path, his injured left arm held carefully against his chest, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd learned to compensate for permanent damage.
As Zheng Han swung open the door of their small hut, a sudden gust of wind played with her hair, creating an unexpectedly graceful scene. Zhung, finally reaching the clearing, offered her a warm smile—the kind that could breathe life into cold spaces, the mask he'd perfected over years of practice.
"Welcome back, Mother," he said, his voice carrying genuine warmth that wasn't entirely false. This was the one person he could still feel something for, the last ember in a heart that had learned to stay cold.
Zheng Han's expression shifted instantly from tired contentment to horror as her eyes fell on Zhung's left arm, still cradled awkwardly against his body. She dropped her ragged traveling bag without care, rushing to his side with a mother's panic, her hands hovering over the injury, afraid to touch but needing to assess.
"Zhung! How did you—" Her fingers gently probed the arm, and she felt the unmistakable shift of broken bones that had never properly healed, fragments that moved slightly beneath the skin. Her face went pale. "This needs a healer. We need to get you to the village physician immediately—"
"It's fine, Mother." Zhung's voice remained calm, measured, designed to soothe. "I fell in the mountains while exploring. It happened quickly—I lost my footing on loose rocks. The bone set poorly on its own, but it doesn't pain me much anymore. We can't afford a physician anyway, and it's been weeks. What's done is done."
The lie came easily. He concealed the truth—that he had deliberately lured a hunter to use as bait, hoping to obtain demonic or divine beast blood. That instead of transcendence, he'd received only a vicious bite from the creature's powerful jaws, bones crushed like dry twigs. That he'd gained neither the blood he needed nor the use of his arm.
But his mother didn't need to carry that weight. So he smiled and let her fuss over him, accepting her concern as payment for the deception.
---
*Eight years later...*
As autumn leaves cascaded to the earth in their annual ritual of death and renewal, one solitary leaf drifted down to land at the feet of a young man. He stood motionless on the mountain path, brown hair neatly tied back, broken left arm held against his side as it had been for eight years now. His gaze remained cold and distant as he looked up at the sky, watching clouds gather with the detached interest of someone observing weather patterns rather than experiencing them.
The clouds were darkening overhead, promising rain. He frowned slightly—rain would make the path more treacherous—and continued his descent. As he neared the familiar fences surrounding their small but tidy hut, his expression began its carefully rehearsed transformation.
By the time his mother looked up from tending her garden, he wore a genuine smile.
Time had moved relentlessly forward, as it always did, caring nothing for human wishes. Eight years had passed since Zhung was eight years old. He was sixteen now, on the cusp of manhood, and his left arm remained unhealed. The bones had set wrong, leaving it weaker, less flexible, a permanent reminder of his first real gamble and its failure.
Zheng Han had aged more noticeably. Elegant streaks of silver now decorated her hair, lending her a distinguished air despite being only in her late thirties. Hard work and worry had added lines to her face, but she remained beautiful in the way that good people often are—lit from within by kindness.
For Zhung, these eight years had been characterized by a surface tranquility that belied constant internal calculation. His life appeared peaceful, serene, devoid of strife to any outside observer. But beneath the calm exterior, he'd spent every day planning, learning, waiting for opportunities.
Before entering the hut, he paused to greet his mother properly, letting her see the son she wanted to see—dutiful, content, safe. The smile he wore faded the moment he crossed the threshold, his expression returning to its natural state: cold, distant, analytical.
His eyes fell on the stack of books piled in the corner—stolen, borrowed, copied by candlelight over the years. Texts on beasts, on cultivation theory he couldn't practice, on the geography of dangerous places, on the economics of blood trade.
*Even after eight years, I've remained unable to obtain the blood of either the demonic or the divine,* he thought, examining his useless left arm with clinical detachment. *Eight years of careful planning, calculated risks, and strategic patience. And still nothing to show for it but this.*
He grimaced at the accumulated weight of setbacks—eight years trapped as a mortal, unable to open an Aperture, unable to channel Will, unable to begin the path that would lead to power.
His gaze drifted to the window where sunlight streamed in. His expression remained devoid of emotion—perpetually striving, unyieldingly cold, yet somehow there was nothing left to lose. He'd already lost everything that mattered in previous lives. This body, this existence, was just another attempt.
He opened a drawer and retrieved a small pouch of coins—savings accumulated through odd jobs, careful theft, and his mother's small earnings from sewing work. Just enough for what he needed today.
Stepping outside, he transformed his expression once more into one of boyish enthusiasm.
"Mom, I need to visit Black Water Village to pick up a few things. Medical supplies and maybe a new shirt if I can find one cheap enough."
His voice radiated warmth and casual cheer, the perfect performance.
His mother paused in her gardening, worry flickering across her face as it always did when he left. She approached and gently kissed his forehead—a ritual of protection, a mother's blessing against a world she knew could be cruel.
"Be careful, Zhung. Come back before dark."
"I will. I promise."
Moments later, he was walking into the forest, and the mask fell away instantly. His expression turned icy, reverting to its natural neutrality as he followed the familiar path. Autumn leaves cascaded around him like the falling of years, like the slow death of all warm things.
---
Black Water Village had changed in eight years.
What had once been a small, quiet settlement had grown into something more substantial—a minor hub where travelers stopped, where merchants set up permanent shops, where money flowed more freely than before.
As Zhung entered the village proper, he noted the changes with methodical observation: three new buildings on the main street, a proper smithy where there'd only been a traveling metalworker before, and most notably, a newly constructed tavern—two stories, well-built, obviously catering to people with money to spend.
The sun bathed the world in golden afternoon light, making everything look prosperous and warm. Zhung's expression remained carefully neutral as he approached the new tavern, curiosity overriding caution.
Before he could reconsider, a window on the second floor suddenly *shattered*. Glass exploded outward in a glittering spray, and something large flew through the opening.
A body.
It hit the ground outside with a sickening *crunch*, limbs sprawling at wrong angles. Blood began pooling immediately on the dirt road, dark and spreading fast.
Zhung stared at the corpse without flinching, his face betraying no emotion whatsoever. He stepped around the growing blood pool, pushed open the tavern door, and walked inside as if he'd merely passed a dead dog in the street.
The interior was chaos—overturned tables, spilled drinks, the sharp smell of alcohol mixing with tension. Various patrons pressed themselves against walls or huddled in corners: a burly merchant, a grizzled hunter still holding his drink, several laborers who looked like they desperately wanted to be anywhere else.
But what caught Zhung's attention was the man standing near the broken window.
He wore pristine white robes that practically glowed in the dim interior—expensive silk, elaborately embroidered with symbols that marked him as affiliated with a cultivation sect. His face was classically handsome in the way that wealth and power often produce, with sharp features and an expression of casual superiority.
Zhung found a seat at an empty table and calmly ordered a meal from a terrified serving girl, as if bodies being thrown from windows was perfectly ordinary. His broken left arm rested on the table, useless but familiar.
As he waited for his food, he observed.
The man in white robes walked to the broken window and looked down at the corpse with theatrical disgust. Then, deliberately, he hawked and spat, the glob of saliva landing directly on the dead man's face.
"How bold of you," the man announced to the room, his voice carrying the affected refinement of someone from a wealthy family, "to accuse the Hang family of corruption. As if peasants have any right to question their betters."
The name hit Zhung like cold water: *Hang*.
His own family name—or rather, the name of the parasites who'd raised him in his previous life, who'd driven his brother to suicide, who'd sent thugs to beat him in the rain.
His face remained perfectly neutral, but something dark and satisfied settled in his chest.
He ate his meal methodically, gathering information through careful observation. The cultivator was from the Hang family, clearly. Not particularly powerful based on his casual display—probably Copper or Bronze rank at best. A bully exploiting the weak, comfortable in his position of minor authority.
Perfect.
When Zhung finished eating, he paid with exact change and slipped out without anyone paying him attention. Outside, someone had already dragged the corpse away, leaving only a dark stain on the ground.
He walked through the village, noting more changes: cultivators were common here now, no longer rare sights. Black Water Village had become a minor hub in the regional cultivation economy—a place where beast hunters sold their kills, where minor sect members stopped for supplies, where power was casual and brutal.
Zhung's face twisted briefly into an expression of disgust and cold calculation.
The name "Hang" echoed in his heart like a curse, like a promise. To him, it represented everything he hated—a burden of resentment, a flame that refused to die no matter how many years passed.
*The Hang family is here,* he thought with clinical interest. *That could be useful. Eventually.*
But not yet. He was still mortal—no Aperture, no Will, no power beyond what his body could manage. His gaze didn't falter at this reality. It remained unmoved, patient as stone.
He continued walking until he reached a place outside the village—a cave he'd discovered a year ago, embraced by vibrant green fields and towering ancient trees. A gentle breeze swept through the entrance, leaving the cave in peaceful silence.
Zhung entered without hesitation, lighting a torch he'd prepared and left hidden near the entrance. Its dancing flame cast wavering shadows over rough stone walls, revealing the cave's secret: a deep chasm at its center, perhaps fifteen feet across, dropping into darkness.
But the chasm wasn't empty.
At the bottom, clearly visible in the torchlight, lay a creature that made Zhung's pulse quicken with cold excitement: a large fox with pristine white fur and two magnificent tails.
A Snow Moon Fox—a demonic beast of rare lineage.
Its expressionless golden eyes locked onto Zhung, and it released a low, threatening growl that echoed in the enclosed space.
Zhung stared back without fear, his mind calculating as it always did.
*Still only two tails,* he observed with frustration. *It needs a third before the blood concentration will be sufficient. The book said three-tailed variants have enough demonic essence to open an Aperture. Two-tailed is worthless—barely enough potency to sicken a mortal, not enough to transform one.*
He turned and left the cave, returning to the village.
An hour later, he came back dragging something heavy wrapped in cloth—the corpse from the tavern, retrieved from where it had been carelessly dumped behind the building.
Without ceremony or hesitation, Zhung unwrapped the body and pushed it over the edge of the chasm.
The sounds that followed were sickeningly familiar: the crunch of bones breaking, the wet tearing of flesh, the satisfied growls of a predator feeding.
Zhung watched with clinical detachment, remembering.
*A year ago, when I was fifteen, I lured my first victim here,* he recalled without guilt or pleasure, simply noting facts. *A drunk who'd tried to rob me. I led him into the forest, knocked him unconscious, and brought him here as bait. Instead of attacking me, the fox killed him instantly, tore his head off with one bite.*
*That's when I realized what it was—a Snow Moon Fox-Tailed Beast of demonic lineage. The books say they can grow up to nine tails, each one representing increased power and blood concentration.*
*I've been feeding it ever since. Twelve victims now over the past year. Criminals mostly, though I'm not particular. People who won't be missed, or whose disappearance benefits me.*
*And still only two tails. It should have grown a third by now. The growth rate is slower than the texts suggested.*
The fox finished its meal and turned those golden, emotionless eyes back to Zhung—neither grateful nor hostile, simply aware of him as the source of food.
"Eat well," Zhung said quietly to the beast. "Grow strong. I need you to reach three tails soon."
The creature offered no response, simply retreated to the shadows at the back of the chasm.
Zhung sighed and departed as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold.
As he walked home, he reflected on the mathematics of his plan. Twelve victims so far. The fox showed no signs of growing its third tail yet. Perhaps it needed more. Perhaps the quality of the prey mattered—cultivators instead of mortals might accelerate its growth.
That thought led naturally to the man in white robes, the one with the Hang family name.
*Not yet,* Zhung reminded himself. *Patience. Wait until the fox has three tails, until I can harvest its blood and open my Aperture. Then I can begin planning how to deal with the Hang family presence here.*
*Revenge is a dish best served with overwhelming power.*
He arrived home as twilight settled over the world. The familiar fences came into view, and his expression automatically softened into the mask his mother needed to see.
She waited at the door of their small hut, smiling as she always did when he returned safely.
"Welcome home, Zhung."
"I'm back, Mother."
They had a peaceful dinner that night—simple food, quiet conversation, the comfortable routine of family.
Later, Zhung lay on his pallet staring at the ceiling, his broken left arm aching with phantom pains as it often did. He thought about the Snow Moon Fox growing stronger in its cave prison. About the Hang family establishing themselves in Black Water Village. About the eight years he'd spent trapped as a mortal, unable to begin his true path.
*Patience,* he told himself. *Everything moves according to plan, just slower than I'd like. The fox will grow its third tail eventually. I'll harvest its blood. I'll open my Aperture. And then...*
Then the real work could begin.
The moon cast its pale light through the gaps in the roof, illuminating his face—young, handsome, utterly cold. Outside, the autumn breeze gently swayed the falling leaves in their endless dance.
Somewhere in the darkness, a fox with two tails dreamed of power. And in a small hut, a boy with a broken arm and unbroken will dreamed of the same thing.
The pursuit was relentless. The eyes never closed.
And time, indifferent as always, continued its steady march forward.
**End of Chapter 7**