I worked stocking shelves, lifting crates, hauling inventory, but everything felt dull, weightless. I still trained every night, moving through the motions my grandfather taught me. Without Eve around to tease me or ask questions, the silence felt different. Deeper.
The basement was still mine. The qi still came, faint and stubborn. But the air hung heavier now.
A few weeks after Eve left for Thalorin, I was unloading a shipment outside the grocery store. My shirt clung to my back, and the concrete baked under the sun. Four boxes at once—twenty pounds each—like they were nothing.
“You always this strong, kid?”
I looked up. A man leaned against a pickup truck, leather vest cracked, boots caked with dried blood. A hunter. I could smell the faint trace of magic stones on his gear—or maybe that was the scent of gate ash.
“I guess,” I said.
He laughed. “You guess? Those boxes aren’t light. Ever think about real work?”
I raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t real work?”
He grinned, wiping his nose. “We’re short a porter. You know, guy who hauls loot, carries gear, doesn’t cry when a goblin screeches in his face. Pays better than this place, and I’ll be honest… we could use someone like you. What do you say?”
I didn’t answer right away. A week later, I found myself waiting outside a dungeon gate with a dozen hunters, watching them stretch and laugh like it was just another day at the office.
Life as a porter wasn’t glamorous. I hauled mana stones, monster cores, busted swords, and bloody satchels full of spoils. Sometimes corpses. Sometimes wounded hunters. I was invisible, essential, overlooked.
Hunters whispered behind me:
“Hey, you think he’s hiding an awakened class?”
“Nah. If he was, he’d have been drafted already.”
“He’s too quiet. Gives me the creeps.”
I didn’t answer. Another porter nudged me.
“Some people can’t handle being normal,” he muttered with a grin.
“Ahh yes,” I said under my breath. “The system turns you into a royal dickhead.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll turn us all into your minions.”
a
I shook it off and kept moving. Gate after gate, day after day, hunters mocking porters, but camaraderie grew. Those same porters who’d cracked jokes beside me became friends. We hauled corpses together, dodged fire-breathing drakes, laughed off discrimination, and shared victories no one outside the gates could understand. We became a unit—small, overlooked, but unstoppable in our own way.
Two years passed quietly. Life rolled by in routine. On my twentieth birthday, I returned to an old comfort: Eve’s favorite pizza joint. Same booth, same two slices I’d eaten for years. I chewed in silence, remembering. Then I stepped outside. The alley was damp from last night’s rain. Trash bins lined the walls. A cat darted past my feet, yowling. And then it happened.
A tear in space. A ripple in the air. Crackling energy, golden sparks dancing along the edges. A gate—golden, radiant, alive. Not one of the red gates that bled death. This was different.
A voice—or a presence—filled my mind:
“When you get to where you belong… we’ll begin.”
No hesitation. No trembling. The words didn’t ask questions...they demanded action. I had trained, survived, and waited. This was it.
I steadied myself. One foot in front of the other.
“Let’s see where this goes,” I muttered.
The gate pulsed, warmth spilling over my skin. Golden light reflected in the wet asphalt. My pulse raced—not with fear, but certainty. My path.
I stepped forward. The alley, the trash, the city all dissolved into gold until only light remained.
Weightless. Suspended in a cosmic void. Stars streaked past like fireflies, painting the darkness with flashes of white, violet, and electric blue. I didn’t fall; I rippled through space faster than thought, faster than memory.
A voice echoed: calm, aged, warm.
“Breathe deeper than the fear, son. Let the world move through you.”
Grandfather. Beneath the plum blossom tree. Gnarled hands guiding me through Tang Clan discipline. Quiet mornings. Bare feet on stone. The scent of incense. Rhythm of breath and movement.
“Power without breath is chaos. Breath without purpose is waste. Remember that.”
The vision fractured. Warmth faded.
Fire. Screams. Claws.
Murim torn open. Monks and martial masters cut down. Temples shattered. Rivers turned to blood. Skies split by lightning and shadow. Monsters without mercy.
“You never saw it fall, Grandfather… Maybe that was a mercy.”
Another flash. A figure in obsidian armor, tall, inhuman, horned helm hiding its face. A jagged, cursed blade. Memory surged: cleaving through my neck. Pain. Cold. Silence. That thing—still alive. Still out there.
But not this time. Not me.
BOOM.
I hit the ground like a meteor. Earth cracked beneath me. Shockwaves rippled outward, scattering ash and dead leaves. Everything still.
Ash-covered, broken, dying land. Trees reduced to stumps. Smoke and rot tainted the air. Hoodie torn, blood trailing from my lip, breath shallow. Eyes fluttered shut. Darkness rushed in.
[System Online.]
[Location Confirmed: Murim.]
[Countdown to synchronization: 48 hours]
[Welcome back, Tang Jiung.]
A few days later, a warm cloth pressed to my brow. Wolfroot and pine resin. Wooden beams above, herbs hanging from twine, clay bowls on a low shelf. Two men watched: one older, gray hair and staff, one younger, broad-shouldered.
“You’re lucky we found you,” the older said. “Half-buried near the wastelands. Most don’t walk out of there.”
“You should’ve been dead,” the younger added. “Got a name?”
“Blue.”
“Just Blue?”
“The only one I use now.”
“Where are you from?”
“Earth. A golden gate pulled me through. Woke up here.”
The men exchanged a look.
“Why the wastelands?” the younger asked.
“That’s where the gate spit me out,” I said.
The older muttered, “A golden gate, huh… Theres one in the Alliance too. They keep it under wraps. Leads to Veltrax. No qi there, just aether."
“Aether?” I echoed.
“What’s your plan?” One brother asked.
“Find a city. Learn what I can.”
“Only a few left. Most belong to sects. It used to be called Sichuan, and used to be Tang Clan stronghold. Now since most things are destroyed we all call it Chengdu.” the older said.
I didn’t flinch. My pulse raced. Murim. I’m back. Is it the same Murim? What the hell is happening?
“Can you take me to Chengdu?”
They exchanged a glance. Nodded.
It's a two-hour walk. "We planned on going in a few days for supplies, but no harm in leaving now. Beware though the city is crawling with Wudang, Demonic cult, and Tang remnants. Bandits too. Keep your head low,” the younger warned.
As we crested the ridge, the city sprawled beneath us. Old sign, faded and scorched:
MARTIAL ALLIANCE STRONGHOLD
[System Notification]
[Countdown to synchronization]: 8 hours
“This is where you belong.”