His mother's scent was like a reflection on water, or the moon in a mirror—there for a fleeting second, and then gone, before Rong Chengqian could even really catch it.
"Come on, Erlang," his lifeless mother murmured as she took Cheng Qian's hand and led him into the back room. After only a few steps, she was already gasping for breath.
Weary, she sank onto a wide wooden bench and pointed weakly at the small oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. "Erlang, do you know what that is?"
Cheng Qian glanced up, expressionless. "The Everbright Lamp," he replied.
That little lamp was said to be an heirloom of the Cheng family, supposedly part of Grandma Cheng Qian's dowry. It was no bigger than a palm, and glowed with a faint, steady light all on its own—lighting up just enough space to matter, yet never needing oil or fire.
To Cheng Qian, it was a useless thing. Without going through proper rituals, what could it even do besides attract bugs in the summer?
Still, it had the word "immortal" attached to it, and that was enough. It didn't need to serve a purpose—as long as it impressed the neighbors during visits, it was a treasure worth passing down.
So-called "immortal tools" were supposedly inscribed with mystical spells, making them impossible for ordinary folks to replicate. There were all kinds of them: lamps that burned without oil, fireproof paper, beds that stayed warm in winter and cool in summer. Just enough to keep the myths alive.
A traveling storyteller had once passed through the village, spinning tales of big cities filled with buildings made of "immortal bricks" and shimmering roofs like glass palaces. He claimed the writing of immortals could ward off poisons and heal any illness. A single broken bowl from such places cost four taels of gold and was still in high demand.
Immortals, known also as "cultivators of truth," or more humbly as "daoists" or "real persons," were said to draw the power of heaven and earth into themselves. Some were rumored to live without food, walk through walls, soar into the sky, or escape the cycle of death itself.
But for all these stories, no one had ever actually seen one.
Immortals were rare—and kind ones, even rarer. Still, nobles would trip over themselves for a chance to meet one.
The Cheng family's wife bent closer to Cheng Qian, her voice unsteady and almost pleading. "When you return from studying, Erlang, could you make a lamp like that one for your mother?"
Cheng Qian didn't answer. He lifted his eyelids just slightly, then looked away coldly.
In his heart, he thought: What wishful thinking. You're sending me off today without caring whether I'll survive, or whether I'll come back a man or a beast. And you think I'll ever return to see you again? Never.
His mother froze. For a second, she thought he looked nothing like either of his parents—but more like her older brother.
That man, her elder brother, had been the pride of their family. From a young age, he stood apart—delicate, elegant, brilliant. A true scholar. Some even said their family had given birth to a fallen star.
But perhaps stars weren't meant to remain. He died of illness before he could even pass the provincial exam.
At the time, she had been young. Her memories of him were fading. But now, in Cheng Qian's silent gaze, she saw the same cold distance. That same quiet brilliance that never really let anyone in.
Unconsciously, she let go of her son's hand. At the same moment, Cheng Qian took a discreet half-step back.
Just like that, without drama or raised voices, they severed the thread between mother and son.
Cheng Qian didn't act out of anger. He didn't think it was fair to call it resentment. After all, his parents had given him life and raised him—for a time. If that care was only partial, then fine. It was still something. Not debt, not hatred. Just... a clean break.
He stared down at his own toes, and quietly told himself: It doesn't matter if they never see me again. It doesn't matter if they sold me to some shady daoist. Whether I become a man or a beast, it's none of their business now.
And so, Cheng Qian followed the Daoist Mu Chun and left.
Mu Chun looked like a bundle of old sticks held together by willpower. His hat barely stayed on his head, and he led Cheng Qian by the hand like some traveling performer parading around his newly captured assistant.
Cheng Qian may have been a child in years, but inside, he already had the mind of someone older.
He walked in silence, but eventually couldn't help himself—he turned to look back.
There stood his mother, carrying a ragged basket on her back. Inside it, his baby brother slept soundly. Outside, her face was a mess of tears. His father stood beside her with his head down, not saying a word. Maybe he felt guilty, maybe not. Either way, he didn't lift his head to look at Cheng Qian—not even once. Just stood there, a dull grey shadow.
Cheng Qian looked away. The road ahead was like an endless stretch of night. He held on to the frail hand of his master, the way someone might hold onto that old Cheng family lamp—not for its light, but because it was all they had left.
There are generally two kinds of wandering: travel and drifting.
Following Master Mu Chun didn't even qualify as drifting. They didn't just sleep rough and eat scraps; Cheng Qian also had to listen to the old man ramble nonsense all day. It was pathetic.
He had heard stories of cultivating immortality—of people desperate to get into the gates of a sect, like fish trying to swim upstream.
Back during the Emperor's youth, sects had sprung up like mushrooms after rain. Every Zhang, Li, Wang, and Zhao with too many sons would send one off to join a sect, hoping for glory. Martial arts? Literacy? That was secondary to the lure of becoming immortal. Even bandits were rebranding themselves as "cultivators."
It was chaos.
The Emperor, a military man with a fiery temper, eventually cracked down. He issued a decree: real or fake, any so-called "immortal" found wandering the countryside would be drafted into the army.
But the very night before the edict left the palace, courtiers and officials panicked. Terrified of offending real immortals, they rushed to the palace steps and begged the emperor not to doom the dynasty by angering the heavens.
The emperor relented, slightly. The next day, he created the Tianyan Division, a department meant to verify the legitimacy of cultivators. Only those granted an official "iron scroll" could teach disciples.
Of course, a decree meant nothing in such a vast land. Communication was slow. Corruption was rampant. The imperial court couldn't even get rid of bandits—how could it regulate spiritual fraud?
Still, the chaos died down eventually. People returned to farming and herding, and the fever dream of immortality faded.
Cheng Qian had heard all this from Old Tongsheng, the village storyteller, and so in his eyes, his current master was just another conman. A stick wrapped in robes, nothing more.
Mu Chun, stroking his unkempt beard, turned to him with a grin. "My name is Fuyao," he said. "Little one, do you know what that means?"
Old Tongsheng had loathed these sorts of people, and Cheng Qian shared that contempt. He didn't even pretend to care, but Mu Chun didn't seem bothered.
He casually lifted a bony finger and pointed ahead. Somehow, with that one finger, he stirred something unseen.
A gust of wind rose from nowhere, spiraling upward. Dry grass was swept into the air, and a bolt of light split the sky, briefly blinding Cheng Qian.
The boy stood frozen, stunned.
Even Mu Chun hadn't expected that to work, but seeing the kid properly awestruck, he retracted his hand with a smug smile.
He folded his hands into his sleeves and said slowly, "Peng birds ride the wind to the south. The water surges three thousand li. They soar ninety thousand li before resting. Their path is boundless, as deep as the wind itself. That... is 'Fuyao.' Do you understand?"