He failed to understand things. And, this surely added to a pile of unsolved mysteries on the desk of his mind. Bei Mei slithered behind the corner and vanished, returning home with her father likely worried sick, and will in an hour tear up the Upper District if need be to find her. His clueless younger self, absolutely in the dark to her presence. He wasn’t stupid—if he had his cultivation back, he would’ve pointed her out before those rosy cheeks of hers touched the moonlight.

He couldn’t think of a reason why, and he didn’t have the luxury to dally on it. So, he moved on. Realizing that every person was a multilayered complexity.

As he expected; he was back at the Bei home. Things replayed as fate had written. At this moment, he’d begun to study people as intensely as he did for combat. It’d made him want to slap himself. How could he be so invested in the study of people for battle, yet miss the other, subtle battle of communication? They were one in the same. He had just chosen to ignore it. That frightened him. What else, what other clues, small and minute, had he missed over the years? When her father closed his ramble and begun to turn; the smaller Bei Mei had a glance, a lingering one that made his heart shift. He could recognize that glance. That glance.

Seri looked at me like that once.

Not only her, but Father. Rei Han. Rei Rangwha, and—

Mother.

The people in this room couldn’t see him whatsoever. Little Grisla and his father left the room, the servants came to sweep, and over yonder, a few steps down the hall he could still hear the mutterings of the Bei Patriarch, languishing over something that couldn’t be; yet he had to press on, for a future that his family must march to. He had his place in their thoughts: Mournful and teeming with discontent. Without ever throwing a fist or pushing out Juva he affected them in no way an enemy ever had. Not even the clan’s Patriarch himself had the power. And what had he given them?

To raise their spirits high and, crash back to earth all in part of some cruel joke he himself wasn’t aware of. A plaything by fate. An example of what could go wrong. But, but—he did not blame it. Verily, he believed no one but himself had control over it, as any man does. Despite what a mind may say otherwise, may say that what he’s exactly thinking is part of the spinning of fate, it’s great power of illusion over men who think they can.

…It is because I failed. Because I gave them something. And what did I give them for their loyalty, and for some, their love? The Untalented. A Failure. Trash. Arrogance carried me as it did Xinrei in those early days, I was part of the system, no different than he. Here I am, running from place to place, trying to scrape up and piece together what I lost…

An agony struck him. Something had driven a stake right through his head and twisted it for good measure. He couldn’t care. The tears distracted him. Raining over the Bei’s masterwork carpet, the soft wails audible through thin walls. Grisla already knew he had failed for the last time—but the care lost its grip over him. And the world, fell apart as shattered glass. Returning to the darkness once more.

He opened his eyes again. It wasn’t “the end,” as he thought he’d be sent to. It was a home with woodsmoke curling up his nose. Finished dinner he could see through the crack of the door his back faced. The soft-spoken moonlight scattered inside, aided by the lantern on the nightstand. Stone flooring evoked a reminiscence in him, not a light one. Recent, if he had to say. A humble room for a cultivator; nearly a royal bedchamber for a peasant. His ear took a hint, and he swiveled his eyes over: to the effect of stealing his breath.

Two figures. One who leaned close to the other, getting his face accentuated by the slanted shadows and light. He was a man unlike any Grisla had seen. Although it was likely a memory, he felt all this man had to do was turn to him and he could yank him from this constructed reality to theirs. Handsome. Crafted like he was made to be. His eyes brushed over the other, at an instant coloring with a feeling Grisla could only perceive as love. It was a look he couldn’t write about. For humans, you just know.

The other made his knees into jelly. His back hit the wall and he wanted to push further away.

It’s… no, impossible, it can’t—no…

If they stood together, he and her would look like siblings taken from the same crib. Ironically enough there was a crib on the far side of the room, pushed into a corner, devoid of its passenger. Whereupon with a short glance, that soul was enwrapped in a fabric, clutched so close to a bosom one would think they were trying to merge. Her finger went in, and a small hand seized it. Standing back, an artist could render indefinite pieces of this scene, of these people. A tranquility in their microcosm; everything else, even their own home, weren’t allowed to share in this. How could they, when it’s so pure that a soul cannot resist selfishness.

She was pretty. Beautiful. A heartbreaker in a city—a disaster to a village. She was a storm that made men swear vengeance for “stealing” what they claimed. Yet, there wasn’t a wink of chaos in this abode. The man’s aura wasn’t on edge for fear of reprisal. Grisla mouthed her name, a name he never spoken at any point in his life… until now.

“Mira Yunhei,” he whispered. Mother.

The man was Gihren Orlith, and who also broke the silence. “I’m worried for him, Mira.”

Mira rocked with the babe in the chair. She answered late, “Speak your mind.”

“Well,” he said, sighing, “don’t you see? It’s been a week. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet. And he’s underweight. You know this.”

“The Patriarch wants to see him. As he is now…”

A note twisted in her voice; delicate, but a keen intellect would see it, “Are you worried more about what the Patriarch thinks, than caring for your son?”

“It has nothing to do with that. You know just as well as I do that—”

“I’ve abandoned my seat, betrayed my people, traveled with you a thousand li and past the Dreadgate, and then, bore you an heir, and you dare whittle at my ear with that?” Her side-eye cut to Gihren. It was like two personalities were active at once; the one who held the babe’s hand, the other who made the man hesitate at an invisible knife.

Gihren’s face electrified Grisla. Is that fear? On my father? Gihren Orlith afraid of a mother in a rocking chair? Everyone suspected he got his willfulness from his father, but while he stood here in this memory, it looked less of that to be the case. His father bore the brunt of what he felt on his sleeve; maturity taming it. This woman—with a sentence alone she metamorphosed from a limpid dusk pond, to a lioness snapping at whomever dared to provoke.

“I see what it’s like inside him.” Her voice softened, “I’ve always been looking, Husband.”

He coddled her cheek. “Then Mira, if there’s something wrong with him…”

Grisla’s jaw tightened. Again, it was happening again. Putting people in quandaries, leaving them to doubt. A precursor of failure. The end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. He trembled. Was he meant for this, all along? Some men are stepping stones for the light of others; Xinrei…? He collapsed.

I… what? I don’t…

The drumbeat of his heart was lost as to who’s tempo it should follow, whilst shattered alarms had his faculties in mayhem. It was here, even here they mouthed what he had heard from everyone at one point. A shuddering too severe to have him return to the wheel. As a droll with his strings cut, he woodenly watched the rest, barely paying attention to much.

I was never meant to be a Chosen. The fame, the attention—all a temporary delusion, meant to bolden my resolve against Xinrei’s sword, his light. I am the antagonist of his story. Oh, how could I not see it? He laughed heartily, a booming from the depths of already distressed lungs. From that, sliding into a mania unto the joke’s punchline faded, and he was an empty shell.

“He will inherit the name and protect the clan. And, maybe one day… return to your home, as one of your own,” said Gihren, as he laid a warm look at his son.

Mira stiffened, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “They’ll never accept him. Mixing with outside blood is… more than blasphemy. Regardless if he has the gift or not. Even more so, he’ll be executed with prejudice if he does. Grandmother will see to it.”

“Heavens,” he shook his head. “I am so sorry Mira.” Kneeling, he put his head down on her thigh. “I shouldn’t have. If–If we didn’t meet—”

Her eyes hadn’t left the child’s for a second. “Regret…” she said, “is for those who’re too tethered by their past to move on. Stuck in time, yet the world moves on unimpeded. No matter who it may be, from the strongest man on the Path to the feeble, little ones like him,” Mira smoothed his hair, saying, “they birth heart demons. No amount of Juva, techniques or treasures can make it fall. Only enlightenment, from a revelation can do such. Every cultivator will experience one in their lifetime, some even more. But those that do, will have greater heights than those with little.”

“I have never regretted. Not when I saved you, and not when you shamelessly kissed me. Back home no man would ever dare it, they’d ask for death because of the thought passing through,” Mira broke the frost with a smile.

“You have no misgivings then, about this child? About… Grisla? That he might not have a future? The child may be one of a million who’re born without talent whatsoever, condemned to a life of mediocrity. If he were part of a lesser family, it wouldn’t be an issue but…”

“I named him after our Ancestor, who forged his own destiny before settling down with my clan. It’s been a very long time since then, but, I believe, with all my heart—that he too, might do something.”

Grisla raised his head.

“…And if he doesn’t?”

Mira looked at the father of her child as though he’d asked a silly question. “Then nothing. He doesn’t cultivate. He lives as a mortal, never to try to reach for the heavens. So what?”

Grisla and Gihren were struck dumb.

“Is it that hard to understand, my Husband? What’s wrong in living a normal life? He may not be special to you, or to the clan, or to all cultivators under heaven. But, to me—he’s perfect as-is.”

She raised the bundle a tad, and for the first time, Grisla saw a flawlessly white face and black pepper eyes inspired by the night. “Just look at him! He’s adorable.” The little one smiled at the two, and tears fell…

From a man; from his child.

Grisla let the rain free, weeping profusely all the while being invisible to the two in the scene and, he grasped air however he could get it. Memories he was too young to catch; wisdom he was too far gone to hear before came crashing down on him with the weight of a hundred planets. And it wasn’t intentional wisdom, just a one-off conversation cut short. How could I be so stupid? It wasn’t so hard to grasp. Mother!

When she wiped his father’s shed tears, it twisted him to be so close, yet she couldn’t do the same, not even spare a glance in his direction. He’s here! Right here! Look at me! He felt, and no voice had reached her. Only a God could twist things as he wanted it to be.

“Gihren, I must tell you something.”

“Yes?”

“If… if something should happen to me, I need you to…”

Suddenly the world fractured. Grisla stood in a panic, “No! Not yet! Please!” When Grisla looked over, the baby was falling asleep, so naturally this memory was coming to its end. The world was sucked from him. Last he saw of it, was Gihren’s twisted face.

Grisla was back where he started. The world of clouds and scattered memories. He looked at it, oh so differently now. From a pit of despair it was transformed into a world of hope for him, a place to sit in ponderance of what was. Yet still, none of it gave him the answer he was searching for.

Mattered not to him, for he had a feeling. To be grasped now.

“How much did you gather?” Grisla said to a direction. A chuckle replied.

“…Enough,” Avarice said. “For you. A pittance to me.”

Avarice’s side-eye scanned him. “You have your answer, then?”

“How many people have you hurt?”

“You mean,” Avarice said while pointing a coy finger at Grisla, “how many people—you hurt, remember. We are the same, you and I.”

He said nothing. Avarice walked backwards, to be enveloped by a darkness separate from what already painted this inner world.

“Be aware, that I won’t be as forthright as the rest of them. They’ll see my failure and learn.”

Grisla snorted. “That’s a non-issue. I won’t touch the gates ever again.”

Avarice’s throat shot out a hoarse laugh. “Sure you won’t,” He said sarcastically. “My power’s already open to you, you just have to—” he rubbed his throat “—scream the words. And if the day comes you use it, and doubt yourself—I will be back, with all my fury. Goodbye, me. I’ll be waiting.”

The last he heard of him, was laughter reverberating through the black. In this world, and inside his head. He sighed, Avarice. My envy. My sin. In order to reclaim what I once had, an obsession with cultivation materials had formed without me ever noticing. To not let them down. To not be a failure. That’s the mistake. I had to accept that won’t get to what I was before. The past is called so for a reason. However, my Path will be cleansed when I eventually wash away the pain with blood! Two men must die. That is certain, no matter what heart demons afflict me.

Grisla stared up. I can forgive myself for the past. But I will not—will never forgive them for setting me on this river.

He didn’t need an instruction on how to leave this place. He already knew, somehow. The closure of this world dropped down like curtains, and his vision faded away.

Grisla winked to life. When Seri saw hm wince, she knew it was him. It was that particular way he showed pain. A characteristic unique to him. His eyes swept around, as like a child who had to realize they weren’t in the nightmare again. She couldn’t imagine what it might’ve been like… wherever he went. She dug up a smile, It worked. He did it…! but shoved it down before he saw.

He gasped. “What the… what did I do to deserve this? I feel as if an army used me as a pack mule.”

“You’d feel a lot worse if you kept wasting our time,” Seri said. “Were you picking daises inside there? Demonic Tribulation, my foot! Next time, send a postcard and remind us to check in next year.” Seri’s grumbling continued while he tried to pick himself up, barely managing to put himself on his behind. He watched her, all the while, with her hair clinging to her forehead and her dresses that she’s so proud of marred with dirt and rips.

And Seri too, talked endlessly on about her grievances because of him. How he “owed her,” and he’ll regret it dearly. She hadn’t noticed that he was just watching her. Then—

She paused. “What’re you looking at? Got something to say?” Grisla stared on. Finally breaking as he felt her upcoming agitation.

The boy looked away. “I’m only going to say this once, but…” he said, face solemn, “…thank you.”

“Thank you.” Simple. Short and, the severity of meaning transient. But it came from him. He did say it before but—evidently—it’s different. He meant not the words, but the level beyond it. The significance; drenched in sincerity. She was caught so off-guard even she, hesitated. Her heart, what is that feeling?

He’s changed. A tad but… he’s matured. Makes me ever more curious what happened in there.

“You’re welcome,” she did a frank nod. And then—she groaned. “What’s up with that crap, ‘I’m only going to say this once,’ you think you’re cool or something? Lame! You’re a hundred years too young to try saying that to me!”

A mountain walked near. “I concur. That was, as humans would say: ‘Pretty lame.’” White Tiger said.

His eyes squinted. Grisla shivered, as his person was violated by the brief sweep of Spiritual Sense over him. “You must’ve passed then, young Grisla. But what does that entail for you?”

“I can use it,” he stared at his hand. “I mean, use that sinful energy… but I won’t. I will never. The things I’ve done—the people I’ve hurt in the meanwhile… and the risk I’m taking will never make me…”

“I see. A wise choice; to delve into such evil energy, it’s a dangerous gamble.”

“Yes, and it’s finally over. Seri,” he glanced over.

“Hmm…?”

“Once my mission for White Tiger is done, we’re heading back.”

“To where?” She said, as she watched him struggle to get up.

“Home. I have my father to see, and Olimuth’s waiting for me.”

Seri offered her arm, and they stood up together. She felt him so close, so near to her that she couldn’t help the sudden flush at her face. Gone unnoticed. When she pondered on it, it’s surreal for a child below Xiantian to undergo a Tribulation—A demonic one, even. A glance at Grisla confirmed something for her, slightly. Although he was rocked by the fault of touching an item he shouldn’t, she was sure, in a woman’s intuition of sorts, that the effects of this day won’t come crashing down, until much, much later…

However—there’s no absolutes. One can never be too sure, with fate.