The village did not have a formation barrier.
It did not have spiritual arrays.
It did not have defensive talismans carved into stone.
It had—
Mud walls.
Rice fields.
Children running barefoot.
Zheng Wen Te arrived at dusk.
Smoke rose from cooking fires.
Dogs barked lazily.
No one sensed his cultivation.
Not because it was hidden.
But because they did not know how to look.
An old farmer squinted at him.
"Traveler?"
"Yes."
"You have coin?"
"Enough."
"Then there's porridge."
That was the extent of negotiation.
He sat on a wooden stool.
A chipped bowl was placed in his hands.
Plain rice porridge.
No spiritual herbs.
No energy.
No enhancement.
Just warmth.
He ate slowly.
No one bowed.
No one whispered.
No one calculated his value.
For the first time in this world—
He was not anomaly.
He was simply stranger.
That night, he stayed in a small hut used for passing traders.
The walls were thin.
Wind slipped through gaps.
He could hear the village breathing.
A baby crying.
A couple arguing quietly.
An old man coughing.
No one cultivated.
He confirmed it the next morning.
Their meridians were unawakened.
Their dantians dormant.
No spiritual circulation at all.
Yet—
They were not miserable.
The villagers rose at sunrise.
Worked fields.
Shared tools.
Argued.
Laughed.
Sweated.
Rested.
One young boy approached him midday.
"Mister, are you from the mountain sect?"
"Yes."
"Is it true you can fly?"
"Yes."
The boy's eyes widened.
"Why don't you?"
Zheng Wen Te looked at the sky.
"Because I'm walking."
The boy frowned.
"That's boring."
"Sometimes."
The boy ran off, unimpressed.
No reverence.
No fear.
Just a child's judgment.
It was… refreshing.
In the afternoon, trouble arrived.
Not cultivators.
Bandits.
Five men with crude blades and desperate eyes.
They rode into the village shouting.
Villagers froze.
No defensive arrays activated.
No elders emerged with artifacts.
Just fear.
Zheng Wen Te stood.
He could end this in one breath.
But he did not move immediately.
He watched.
The bandit leader dismounted.
"Grain," he barked.
"Half your stores."
The old farmer from yesterday stepped forward.
"We barely have enough."
The leader raised his blade.
Zheng Wen Te moved.
Not with spiritual explosion.
Not with aura display.
He stepped between them.
Calmly.
The bandits sensed something wrong.
One lunged.
Zheng Wen Te redirected the strike with minimal force.
Wrist turned.
Blade dropped.
Another attacked.
He shifted.
Pressure applied at elbow.
Joint locked.
No one died.
Within seconds—
Five armed men lay disarmed in the dust.
Not broken.
Not maimed.
Just… unable.
He looked at them evenly.
"Leave."
They scrambled to their feet and fled.
No pursuit.
No dramatic execution.
The villagers stared.
Silence.
Then murmurs.
The old farmer approached slowly.
"You're not ordinary."
"No."
"Why help?"
Zheng Wen Te considered.
Because Heaven is not watching.
Because no envoy is measuring.
Because I choose to.
He answered simply:
"Because I was here."
The old man nodded.
As if that was enough.
And somehow—
It was.