Chen Ping’s gaze rested on the wooden identity token lying in the corner of the table.

The application he had submitted six months ago—a request to leave the sect for family visitation—had finally been approved. A single character, “Permitted,” was carved into the wood, along with a deadline: Valid for three months.

“Father… Mother…”

Chen Ping whispered the words into the silence of the hut.

The memory of their departure rose unbidden—the sight of their backs as they were led away, feigning strength to comfort their son.

The Immortal Path was a ladder of ice and blood. In this frozen world, the bond of kinship was the only fire left to warm him.

He had to get them out.

He could not let them rot in the lightless belly of a mine for another day.

Chen Ping inhaled deeply, his eyes hardening into flint.

He began to pack. His movements were methodical, devoid of hesitation.

Changes of clothes. Bottles of healing and detoxification pills. Everything vanished into the jade pendant’s storage space.

He strapped the Green Edge Sword to his back.

Li Yingyong’s heavy saber and Sun Qian’s short knife were tossed into the pendant. They were crude tools, but better than nothing.

Finally, he swept his gaze around the stone hut that had sheltered him for half a year.

He felt no nostalgia. He turned, pushed the door open, and stepped out.

Morning mist clung to the Hundred Herb Garden. The air was cool against his skin.

Chen Ping oriented himself and began the descent, leaving the Qingyun Sect behind.

…

The majestic ceremonial archway shrank in the distance until it was swallowed by the layered peaks and swirling clouds.

Chen Ping walked north along the bluestone official road.

His information was sparse. His parents had signed indenture contracts for a mortal operation known as the “Black Wind Mine.” It was located somewhere north of their old village.

He would find it. He would ask at every village, every crossroads, until he had a location.

The road grew desolate.

The smooth bluestone gave way to rutted dirt tracks. Endless farmland stretched to the horizon, broken only by scattered, poverty-stricken villages.

Occasionally, he passed merchant caravans coated in dust or farmers bent under the weight of their tools. Their clothes were rags. Their faces were sallow, their bodies so gaunt it seemed a strong wind could snap them in half.

Chen Ping walked in silence, a ghost in gray.

Decades of war and the plague of spirits and monsters had left the mortal world riddled with holes. He remembered the hunger of his own childhood. He had never known a full belly until he entered the Sect.

The mortals stared at him. Their eyes held a mix of curiosity and awe.

His clean, faded gray robe was a symbol of a world they could only dream of—the world of Immortals.

He ignored them. He walked through sunrise and moonset, sleeping in the wild.

When thirsty, he drank from mountain streams. When hungry, he ate a handful of Spirit Grain. He refused to touch mortal food; the impurities of the “Five Grains” would clog his meridians.

He avoided settlements, resting in sheltered hollows or abandoned temples. At night, he lit a small fire and cultivated the Evergreen Art, keeping vigil against the spirits that roamed the darkness.

He asked for directions sparingly.

The further north he traveled, the more the land decayed.

The mountains turned gray and barren. Vegetation withered, exposing vast stretches of jagged, naked rock. The air grew heavy with the metallic tang of rust and coal dust.

Travelers became scarce. Those he met were like walking corpses—ragged, numb, shuffling north with heavy, hopeless steps.

Half a month later.

A massive, ugly scar appeared on the horizon.

The Black Stone Mining District.

There were no high walls or fortresses. It was simply a wound slashed across the earth.

Hills of gray-black slag stretched as far as the eye could see, a barren wasteland where nothing grew.

Between the slag heaps, the ground was punctured by countless black pits—gaping mouths leading into the abyss. Crude wooden gantries and rusted rails snaked around the edges like metal veins.

Winches groaned. Slag carts rattled. Crooked shacks clung to the slopes like barnacles.

This was a place where hope came to die.

A shantytown of leaning sheds and mud huts festered at the edge of the mine.

“Black Stone Town.”

There was no gate. Just a muddy, potholed road churned by thousands of feet and heavy carts.

Low shops lined the street: cheap liquor dens, ore buyers, menders of rags, and brothels marked by faded red lanterns.

The noise hit Chen Ping like a physical blow.

Hawkers shouted. Women wailed. Drunks muttered. Metal clanged against metal. It was a cacophony of misery.

The pedestrians were hunched and gray, their eyes dull, as if the land itself had sucked the life out of them.

Chen Ping’s clean gray robe was a beacon in the filth. People stopped to stare.

He didn’t rush. He needed information before he acted.

He found a relatively clean tavern on the edge of town. The proprietor was a one-eyed old man whose face was a map of deep wrinkles. He eyed Chen Ping with suspicion.

Chen Ping placed a small piece of gold on the greasy counter.

“One night. Food. Keep it simple.”

The one-eyed man’s suspicion vanished, replaced by greed. The gold glittered in the dim light.

He led Chen Ping to the “best” room on the third floor.

Chen Ping set down his meditation mat. He would rest tonight and start his search tomorrow.

He ordered food, but didn’t eat. Instead, he expanded his Divine Sense, filtering the noise of the tavern below.

“…Pit No. 3 collapsed again. Buried seven or eight. Old Liu’s boy was in there…”

“Sigh. Lives are cheap. The Manager won’t even pay for a pine box…”

“Heard they opened a new vein to the south? Are they pulling crews for it?”

“Bah! That’s no vein, it’s a snake pit! No one lasts three days down there. But the Foreman needs his quota, so who cares if we die?”

“What about Old Chen and his wife? Are they still in the ‘Scrap Pit’? Poor bastards…”

“Shh! Keep your voice down! You want the Foreman to hear you? You want to end up in the Scrap Pit too?”

Chen Ping froze.

Scrap Pit.

Old Chen and his wife.

His heart hammered against his ribs.

Could it be? Was it truly such a coincidence?