1: Beginning Is the End

"Remember!" a command echoed.

"If you die, you won't have the chance to forget it!"

An odd, yet oddly familiar voice seemed to emerge from the depths of the clouds. Repeating itself, the echoes lingered in ethereal layers, resonating for an enduring stretch of time.

Whose voice was that?

Could it be that you're unable to forget?

Unable to forget anything at all?

Ariel roused from his slumber. Just like always, his clothes were soaked, clinging uncomfortably to his body. He sat up, his gaze fixating on the stars above, set against the backdrop of a dark night that reminded him of the early hours before dawn. A cool breeze stirred, brushing against his skin.

Ah, that dream again!

With a practiced sigh, he considered the hour – still early – and decided to return to his slumber.

And so, he reclined once more.

"Ariel, don't forget to water the crops for me. It's the beginning of the month, and I've just finalized the deal. This year's harvest hinges on your diligence."

Not even having reached the mountain pass, he could hear someone's voice carrying over. An elderly figure, appearing to be in his fifties, his frame lean and weathered, was toiling away in the fields. At this distance, it was difficult to discern details.

The old man, known by the moniker "Old Blackhead," had a true name shrouded in mystery. He held the distinction of being the eldest among the disciples of the sword sect stationed outside its confines.

Ariel wiped his forehead, beads of sweat clinging to his skin, and responded, "I won't forget. Don't worry, tomorrow will be your turn!"

An air of resilience surrounded him, his aura reminiscent of a bamboo stalk, while his observant disciple clung to his teachings. However, his outward demeanor, in stark contrast to his articulate speech, was wooden and unyielding, a countenance both somber and austere.

Ariel's visage, resembling that of a zombie, had become his hallmark. Initially, he had garnered respect, though over time, it became evident that beyond his expression, he remained unapproachable. His temperament and disposition were less than ideal, discouraging engagement. Within the past two years, he had risen to prominence among the foreign disciples, excelling beyond his peers.

The old blackhead smiled, offering praise, "Excellent! Ariel, your skill is truly alive. In all my years, I've never witnessed anyone wield it like you."

Ariel's skill, the [1000 Hands], had attained notoriety. Its third level, [Death's Hand], distinguished itself amidst the skills of foreign disciples. With this mastery, he managed a plethora of tasks within the sect.

[1000 Hands], while not a profound technique, served as the principal tool for cultivating Lingtian, the art of summoning rain. The first level could be grasped in merely three to five days, the second after one to two years. Yet, advancement beyond the third level demanded personal comprehension. Among the disciples outside the Empty Sword Sect, Ariel stood alone in achieving this feat.

Upon reaching the third level of [1000 Hands], its potency surged, notably amplifying the yield of Linggu Lingcai, a type of spiritual plant. This transformation catapulted his status within the sect – he transitioned from being referred to as a "zombie" to simply "Ariel."

With a parting wave to the old blackhead, Ariel continued on his way.

Massaging his sore shoulders, he adjusted the bag on his back, the burden weighing heavily upon him. The three hundred pounds of Linggu bore down, nearly dwarfing his slender frame.

A figure, almost skeletal, trudged along the mountain path, struggling beneath the weight of a bag several times his size.

With the weight of three hundred pounds of Linggu still upon him, he reached the mountain gate. Crossing its threshold, he released the bag from his shoulder, allowing it to tumble to the ground. He seated himself, finding respite for his weary legs.

After a spell, his strength began to return. Rising once more, he carefully withdrew a straw-yellow paper crane from his pocket.

About the size of his palm, the paper crane had been meticulously folded from yellow grass paper, its form fashioned to resemble a cinnabar-red crane.

Animating it with spiritual energy, the paper crane caught the wind, expanding slightly larger than its real-life counterpart. Its bamboo skeleton was enveloped in layers of yellow straw paper, adorned with cinnabar-red markings. Alas, the craftsmanship left much to be desired, with rough edges at many joints. The quality of the yellow paper itself was subpar, containing bits of grass dispersed throughout.

Positioning the bag onto the crane's back, he prepared to send it off.