2: Chapter 2 A Misty Purple Aura

The sound of horse hooves circled at the base of the cliff; the crunching of snow, mixed with the barking of dogs, drew ever closer.

Lu Zhao was buried face down in a snowdrift; the wounds on his back had formed thin scabs, causing his tattered cotton robe to freeze stiff and chafe against his skin.

His fingers twitched, his knuckles turning blue, yet he felt nothing—they were frozen numb.

The strand of warm current in his Dantian, however, did not cease.

It circulated on its own, following a path he had never traversed—slow, but steady.

With every cycle, the warmth grew more intense, as if someone were adding charcoal to a fire inside his body, which felt like an ice cellar.

"Woof! Woof woof!"

The barking reached his ears, accompanied by snorting sounds.

Then came the sound of footsteps in the snow—heavy, solid—stopping three feet from his head.

"Hiss—"

A sharp intake of breath.

Then came a rustling, the sound of leather boots drawing near, and the motion of someone crouching down.

A hand reached out, brushing away the snow on his face, and rough fingertips probed beneath his nose, lingering for several breaths.

"He's alive."

The voice was thick and deep, carrying the roughness of a mountain dweller weathered by wind and snow.

Lu Zhao wanted to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt as heavy as if weighed down by stones.

He felt his body being flipped over; the person's movements were not gentle, but they intentionally avoided the wounds on his back.

Then came the sound of ropes being untied, and something was spread out on the snow—it looked like an animal hide.

He was dragged onto the hide, and his limbs were straightened out.

The man panted heavily as he rolled him up in the hide, tied both ends securely, and fastened it into a sturdy bundle.

The sound of a sled being dragged across the snow began.

Lu Zhao's face pressed against the inside of the hide; it was warm, carrying a pungent, gamey odor mixed with the smell of woodsmoke.

The sled slid over the snow, jolting and rocking him until he felt dizzy.

Yet, amidst the jolting, the warm current circulated even faster, transforming from a trickle into a stream, rushing through and scouring his frozen Meridians.

The scabs on his back began to itch.

It was not the subtle itch of a healing wound, but an itch that radiated from within, as if something were burrowing beneath his skin.

He could feel the torn flesh tightening, new skin growing bit by bit from the edges to fill the wound.

The person pulling the sled paused.

"Strange..."

The muttering drifted over on the wind; the man glanced back, then continued on his way.

The journey was long.

Lu Zhao drifted in and out of consciousness amidst the jolting, while the warm current circulated within him countless times, driving back the cold wherever it passed.

When the sled finally came to a halt, he could curl his fingers and pry his eyelids open just a sliver.

Light.

Dim, flickering yellow light leaked through a crack in the door.

The door creaked open, and a rush of warm, smoky air, mingled with the scent of food, washed over his face.

Lu Zhao was dragged into the room, still wrapped in the hide, and placed on the floor.

"He Shan? This... what is this?"

An old woman's voice asked, trembling.

"Found him at the bottom of the cliff," He Shan—the man who had dragged him back—panted as he untied the rope. "He was nearly frozen solid, and he has whip wounds on his back."

The hide was spread open, exposing Lu Zhao fully to the light.

The room was packed with people—seven or eight of them, men and women, young and old.

They all gathered around to watch in silence, with only the crackling of firewood in the stove audible.

Granny Xue hobbled over, leaning on her cane, and crouched down.

Her fingers were withered but steady as she lifted the blood-caked rag on Lu Zhao's back.

She took one look, and her eyelids twitched.

"These wounds..."

She leaned in closer, her nose tip nearly touching the wounds.

"Something is wrong." She shook her head, her fingers tracing the air above the edges of the wounds. "The flesh is turning ruddy much too quickly. These were whip wounds that exposed the bone—how long has it been?"

He Shan leaned in to look as well, his brow furrowed. "I dragged him back, and it's been half an hour at most. He was still bleeding on the way here, but now..."

The wounds had stopped bleeding.

The edges of the torn skin, revealing tender new flesh, were healing at a speed visible to the naked eye.

Even the deepest wound that had reached the bone was now covered by a thin, translucent membrane.

Gasps echoed through the room.

A burly man with a face full of stubble pushed forward—it was Zhong Tiegu. He stared at the wounds and muttered in a gravelly voice, "This is not a healing power an ordinary person would have."

"Could he be..." In the corner, Wen Qian gripped the edge of the table, his voice gentle but hesitant. "...an Immortal?"

At these words, the room fell even quieter.

Everyone turned to look at Lu Zhao's face.

His face was smeared with snow and mud, but his features were clear—young, gaunt, his lips pressed tight; he didn't look like those aloof Immortals.

"Never mind that for now." Granny Xue pulled her hand back and retrieved a small cloth bundle from her robes. She opened it to reveal several dried herbs. "He Shan, boil some hot water. Qin Wan, there's half a piece of old ginger in the cabinet; chop it up and throw it in the pot."

People sprang into action.

Lu Zhao was lifted onto the Kang, where an old mattress had been laid down.

Granny Xue wiped his body with hot water. When her fingers touched his skin, she paused—his body temperature was warm, not at all like someone who had just been pulled from the snow.

She said nothing, only wiped him clean, applied the herbs, and wrapped him in clean cloth strips.

By the time she finished, the ginger soup on the stove was boiling.

Qin Wan—the gentle-eyed widow—carried a bowl over, crouched by the edge of the Kang, scooped up a spoonful, blew on it to cool it, and held it to Lu Zhao's lips.

The scent of the soup wafted up, spicy and sweet.

Lu Zhao's eyelids fluttered, and he finally opened his eyes.

His vision was blurry at first, wavering before it finally focused.

He saw a woman's face; she was around thirty, with fine lines at the corners of her eyes, but her gaze was gentle.

Behind her, seven or eight faces watched him, a mix of curiosity, vigilance, and worry.

"Drink," Qin Wan said softly, moving the spoon closer.

Lu Zhao opened his mouth. The ginger soup slid down his throat, burning all the way to his stomach, where it merged with the warm current in his Dantian, making his whole body feel more at ease.

He slowly propped himself up, intending to sit, but Qin Wan pressed down on his shoulder. "Don't move. Your wounds are still severe."

"Thank you!" he said, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper.

"What's there to thank?" He Shan sat on the edge of the Kang and pulled out a pipe, but didn't light it, merely rolling it between his fingers. "Out here in the wilderness, we couldn't just leave you there."

Lu Zhao scanned the room with his gaze.

The walls were made of adobe, the roof of thatch, and the cracks in the walls were plastered with mud.

The furniture was simple but kept tidy.

The Kang was heated, and the iron pot on the stove bubbled with gruel.

The people surrounding him all wore patched clothes, their faces weathered and dark from the wind, yet their eyes were bright.

"Where is this..." he asked.

"Yangjiao Ravine," He Shan replied. "There are only ten households here. We dig for herbs, hunt, and till some poor land to scrape by."

Just as he spoke, the door opened again.

A teenage boy squeezed in, bringing a gust of cold wind with him. He stomped his feet, dropped the bundle of firewood he carried on his shoulder, and looked up to see the person on the Kang, freezing for a moment.

"A-Fei, close the door," Granny Xue said.

The boy gave an "Oh" and nimbly closed and latched the door.

He hurried over to the edge of the Kang, stared at Lu Zhao for a while, and suddenly asked, "Did you come down from the mountain?"

He pointed to the west—the direction of the Xuanshuang Sect.

The room fell silent again.

Lu Zhao was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Yes."

"Then these wounds..." A-Fei's eyes widened.

"I broke the rules." Lu Zhao said it simply, offering no further explanation.

He paused, then added, "I'm a scholar fleeing hardship. My family was struck by disaster, and I had hoped to go up the mountain to seek a future, but I never expected..."

He left the sentence unfinished.

The people in the room exchanged glances, their expressions relaxing slightly.

A scholar, a refugee—this sounded much more approachable than "Immortal."

"Then what about that warmth on your body?" Zhong Tiegu couldn't help but ask. "Granny Xue said your wounds are healing in a way that's just too eerie."

Lu Zhao had already prepared his story.

"It's a health cultivation technique passed down in my family," he said, his voice still hoarse but steady. "I've practiced it since I was young to strengthen my body, which helps me heal faster when injured. It's not any Immortal magic, just a rudimentary method for circulating Qi and blood."

This was half-truth, half-lie.

The warm current was real; the health cultivation technique was a lie.

But his demeanor was calm and his gaze clear, showing no trace of deceit.

Granny Xue stared at him for a few breaths, then nodded slowly. "No wonder. I once saw practitioners of hard Qi techniques in my younger years; when they were cut by blades, their wounds closed much faster than normal people's."

She seemed to believe him.

He Shan tucked his pipe back into his waistband and stood up. "Alright, let's all disperse and let him rest. Qin Wan, give him a bowl of the gruel from the pot. A-Fei, you sleep in the firewood shed tonight; give up the Kang to this young brother."

Everyone responded and began to file out.

Qin Wan brought over a bowl of gruel, placed it on the small table at the head of the Kang, and said softly, "Eat while it's hot."

Once everyone had left, only Lu Zhao remained in the room, accompanied by the occasional crackle of sparks from the stove.

He slowly sat up. The wounds on his back still ached, but the itching sensation was more pronounced—new flesh was growing.

He picked up the bowl. The gruel was made of coarse grains mixed with wild vegetables—it was thin, but warm.

He drank it spoonful by spoonful, and his body felt even warmer.

He set down the bowl, closed his eyes, and sank his consciousness into his body.

In his Dantian, that strand of purple Qi had grown much thicker. It circulated on its own, and with every cycle, a wisp of heat dispersed into his limbs and bones.

At the site of the wounds on his back, the purple Qi gathered most densely, as if an invisible hand were stitching the tears closed, one stitch at a time.

He "watched" that strand of purple Qi, and the vague sense of emptiness in his heart was slowly being filled by something.

So, power did not lie in the heavens.

It lay in his Bloodline.

It lay within himself.

Outside the window, the wind and snow still howled, but inside it was warm; the Kang was hot, and the gruel warmed his stomach.

Lu Zhao lay back down, his eyelids gradually growing heavy.

Half-asleep and half-awake, he heard He Shan's hushed voice from the outer room, discussing something with Granny Xue.

"The Black Mountain Liu Family has sent word for the third time."

"It's been a bad year; where are we supposed to find surplus grain to pay..."

"The Funiu Gang raided West Ravine last month, and two people died."

"This world..."

The voices gradually faded.

Before Lu Zhao drifted off completely, his last thought was: Yangjiao Ravine, ten households.

This place was not peaceful.