They left before dawn.
The mountain paths were treacherous even in daylight, and in the gray hour before sunrise they felt almost hostile, as if the land itself resented their presence. Loose stones shifted beneath their feet, and cold mist clung to their clothes, seeping into bone and breath alike.
He leaned heavily on a crude walking staff she had cut from a fallen branch. Every step sent a dull ache through his legs and a sharper one through his chest, where shattered meridians protested movement as if insulted by the attempt.
Still, he did not stop.
Ahead of him, she moved with quiet urgency, careful to choose paths wide enough for him to follow. Several times she glanced back, slowing when she noticed his breathing grow uneven. Each time, he shook his head before she could speak.
If he stopped, he might not start again.
By the time the sun finally crested the distant peaks, painting the mist gold, the sect was already far behind them. Its towering gates, once symbols of hope and opportunity, were reduced to faint silhouettes swallowed by clouds.
She stopped then.
Not abruptly—just enough to let the silence settle.
"This is far enough," she said.
He nodded, lowering himself onto a flat rock with a groan he failed to hide. Sweat clung to his skin despite the cold. He closed his eyes, focusing on steady breaths, on not letting weakness turn into despair.
She crouched beside him and pulled a small cloth bundle from her robe. Inside were dried fruits, a few strips of preserved meat, and a stoppered gourd.
"I didn't have much time to prepare," she said. "Take it slow."
He accepted the food with both hands. Even that small motion felt heavy. As he ate, he searched his borrowed memories for her name again, afraid it might slip away.
"Lin Yue," he said quietly.
She looked up, surprised, then smiled faintly. "You remembered."
"Hard to forget the only person who treated me like I wasn't already dead."
Her smile faded, but she didn't look away.
"Don't say that," she replied. "Not anymore."
He drank from the gourd, cool water easing his throat. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind whispered through distant pines, carrying with it the faint cry of some unseen beast.
"Where are we going?" he asked at last.
Lin Yue hesitated. "There's a place west of here. Not a sect. Not really. More like… a collection of people who didn't fit anywhere else."
"That sounds promising," he said dryly.
She shot him a look. "They survive. That's more than most outcasts can say."
Survival. The word held more weight in this world than comfort ever had in his old one.
He shifted, adjusting his grip on the staff. "Will they take someone like me?"
"Someone broken?" she asked.
"Someone useless."
She stiffened.
"You're not useless," she said sharply. Then, catching herself, she softened her tone. "Your foundation is damaged, yes. But you're alive. You think. You endure. That counts for something."
In his previous life, encouragement had often felt hollow—empty words offered to avoid discomfort. This was different. There was no illusion in her eyes, no denial of reality. Only the refusal to let that reality define everything.
He looked away, unsettled by the unfamiliar warmth in his chest.
They rested longer than he would have liked, but he understood the necessity. When they set out again, his steps were steadier, his breathing more controlled. Pain remained, but it no longer dominated every thought.
As they descended into lower terrain, the air grew warmer, heavier with the scent of earth and growing things. Forest replaced stone. Birds replaced wind.
It was there, beneath the canopy of ancient trees, that he felt it.
At first, he thought it was imagination—a trick of hope. But as he focused inward, the sensation persisted.
A pressure.
Not in his body, but around it. Like invisible threads brushing against his skin, retreating when he tried to grasp them directly.
Qi.
Not within him—but near him.
His steps slowed.
"Lin Yue," he murmured. "Do you feel that?"
She paused, frowning. "Feel what?"
He closed his eyes, concentrating. His damaged meridians were like cracked channels, unable to guide energy properly. Yet when he stopped trying to pull, when he simply observed, the pressure grew clearer.
It wasn't resisting him.
It was… waiting.
"No," she said after a moment. "I don't feel anything unusual."
He opened his eyes, heart pounding. The Heavenly Veil came to mind unbidden—the way it had felt less like a wall and more like a presence.
A realization crept in, slow and unsettling.
In this world, cultivation was about taking. Drawing Qi into oneself, refining it, forcing the body to adapt.
But what if his body could no longer take?
"What if," he said slowly, "I don't pull Qi in?"
She stared at him. "Then how would you cultivate?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But forcing it has never worked for me. Not before. Not now."
He sat down, ignoring the dirt and leaves, and rested his hands on his knees. His posture was imperfect, more instinct than training. He breathed in, then out, letting thoughts rise and fall without clinging to them.
He didn't reach.
He listened.
The pressure responded.
It wasn't dramatic. No surge of power. No sudden clarity. Just a faint warmth, like sunlight filtered through clouds, brushing against his awareness.
His chest tightened—not with pain, but with emotion he couldn't name.
Lin Yue watched in silence, unsure what she was seeing. His expression had changed, the constant tension easing slightly, as if he'd set down a burden he hadn't realized he was carrying.
After a long while, he exhaled and opened his eyes.
"I didn't circulate anything," he said. "But it didn't hurt."
That alone felt like a miracle.
She knelt beside him, searching his face. "Are you alright?"
He nodded. "I think… my path might be different."
She considered that, then smiled—a small, genuine smile. "Different isn't bad."
They didn't linger. Whatever he'd touched was fragile, and he sensed instinctively that pushing would shatter it. For now, awareness was enough.
By nightfall, they reached a clearing near a stream. Lin Yue gathered firewood while he rested, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. The sky darkened overhead, stars emerging one by one, sharp and brilliant.
As they ate in silence, he found himself looking up again, half-expecting to see the Heavenly Veil stretched across the heavens.
It wasn't visible here.
Yet he knew it was still there.
Waiting.
He didn't fear it as he had before.
Not anymore.
Because for the first time since awakening in this world, he felt something fragile but real taking root—not power, not ambition, but possibility.
And as the fire crackled softly between them, he understood one thing with quiet certainty:
His cultivation would not begin with strength.
It would begin with understanding.