Myriad Pilgrimage

Dark clouds hung low over Qing You City, cold winds howling between the rows of weathered tombstones. Rain fell in a relentless drizzle, drumming against the stone markers, each drop a whisper to the dead. The air smelled of wet earth and old incense, the remnants of burnt offerings clinging to the damp ground.

The cemetery was ancient, its silence undisturbed by the distant hum of the city. This was the Garden of Eternal Honors, where the city's greatest slept beneath carved tombs and jade inscriptions. Black robes clung to the figures standing before a fresh grave, the fabric heavy with rain.

Lin Xuan stood among the elders, his dark expression hidden behind a mourning hat. A dark blue robe draped over his usual grey garment. Lin Hao stood out of place as a ten foot giant with light cloth on, giving off an odd presence unlike his usual simple look. Yet despite the downpour, he showed no sign of discomfort by the cold.

Further down the line stood Lin Mei, the cold beauty of the Lin Clan. As the wife of Patriarch Lin Tian and Madam of the House, she carried herself with refined poise. Her black mourning robe was meticulously folded, her hair pinned with white jade. Though her face remained composed, a faint sorrow lingered in her eyes.

Some distance away stood Elder Bo, hunched and gaunt, he had a long white beard and his presence felt strangely out of place, as though his mind wandered far from the mortal world. He was wrapped in a thick alchemist's robe and murmured softly under his breath.

As if accompanying the old man in silence, the representatives of the Mu and Duan Clans stood nearby. Their ceremonial robes were pristine and their faces unreadable.

And then came the two, whose presence silenced the wind. Lin Tian, the Patriarch of the Lin Clan, and Du Li, the white-robed envoy of the Jade Lotus Sect.

Lin Tian wore the mourning ceremonial garb reserved for heroes of the Lin bloodline. He wore a flowing black robe embroidered with the ancient sigil of The Baelith. Behind his broad shoulder was the spectral image of the beast itself, a massive, bear-like reptilian creature with plated obsidian-black scales. It had six eyes arranged in two vertical rows, and jaws that split open like a flower to reveal nested rings of bone-crushing teeth.

The Baelith, the Lin clan's symbol of dominion over stone and sky. It echoed the era when the Lin name was spoken with fear and awe.

Beside him stood Du Li, clad in a simple white robe, its back etched with a golden lotus in full bloom. A pale jade token hung from his waist, its surface veined with gold, and at its center was a soft pink lotus, the unmistakable mark of the Jade Lotus Sect.

---

A heavy silence settled over the crowd as all eyes turned to the freshly carved coffin resting at the center of the Garden of Eternal Honors. Crafted from black sandalwood aged a hundred years, it depicted a great battle, fought against colossal creatures, their spectral forms towering mountains. Among them, a figure with blazing red hair stood defiant: Lin Zhen in his prime, carved in eternal struggle. Along the coffin's edges, the Lin family crest gleamed, flanked by Lin Zhen's title in deep-cut characters: "Crimson-Blood Guardian."

Lin Zhen's face still bore traces of pain, his brow faintly furrowed as if caught between this world and the next. But there was peace too, that softened his sharp features in death.

Lin Chen stood beside the coffin, drenched in rain and silence. His hands trembled as he touched the carved edge of the lid, tracing the familiar lines with numb fingers.

Tears blurred his vision, mingling with the rain on his cheeks. His black robe clung to his skin, soaked through and heavy with sorrow. His lips quivered, but no sound escaped. Grief pressed down on him like a mountain.

He stood there, dazed and silent, with broken heart.

His fingers curled slightly over the coffin's edge, as his mind drifted slowly to a starry night, as if his soul, struggling beneath the weight of loss, reached back for something warmer.

---

A rare moment of quiet between sword drills and cultivation. Lin Zhen sat on the steps with his arms resting on his knees, a faint smile playing beneath the lines of an old warrior's face. Beside him, a younger Lin Chen leaned back against a tree stump, breathing calmly, eyes wide with wonder.

"I don't want much in this life," Lin Chen had said softly, watching a falling star streak across the heavens. "No wars to wage, no glory to claim, just peace. A quiet garden rich with herbs, a humble home, and a life that would make my old man proud."

Lin Zhen had laughed, not the ugly laugh of a warlord, but a warm and gentle chuckle of a father.

"You already do, brat," he'd said, ruffling Lin Chen's hair. "You already do."

---

And now, under a sky full of weeping clouds, Lin Chen stood alone with a shattered vow, but a burning promise in its place.

The last rites were performed in hushed chants. White incense coiled through the stormlight as monks lit lanterns and bowed three times.

One by one, the mourners began to leave, their footsteps soft against the soaked stone path. Black robes dissolved into the mist, umbrellas rose like wilted lotuses, and only silence remained in the Garden of Eternal Honors.

Only Lin Chen stayed.

Kneeling before the grave, his forehead pressed to the cold stone, he choked out the plea of a lost child: "I'm not ready."

Rain slithered down his neck. His fingers clawed into the mud, as if he could dig through the earth and drag his father back. For a breath—just one—he almost heard him in the wind.

Then—

He broke.

---

Days passed, life continued. Qing You City returned to its rhythms, markets reopening, vendors calling out under soaked canopies, and cultivators sweeping past like ghosts cloaked in mist. The Garden of Eternal Honors lay behind, its lanterns burned out, its mourners scattered. But in a corner of the Lin estate, pain lingered like incense trapped in stone.

Lin Chen rose with the dawn.

His limbs moved before his mind caught up—draw water, grind herbs, tend to the family garden. Roots were trimmed with practiced hands, soil turned until it was soft and dark. He said little, even to the servants. The scent of wet bark and green leaves clung to him more than his own qi.

Sometimes, as he crouched among the stalks of silver grass or trimmed the petals of blue-ice lotus, a murmur would drift in from passing mouths. The servants whispered when they thought he couldn't hear.

"Poor child… such loss at a young."

"He has his father's eyes."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Their words blew past him like dead leaves. Some meant well while other didn't, but all of them hurt.

By noon, he would train alone beneath the willow shade, drawing his wooden sword across empty air. Forms repeated until his arms screamed, his breath sharp and shallow. Each strike carved silence. No shout, no fury, just motion.

In the evenings, he would refine qi by lamplight. Legs crossed, back straight, body still—but his core ached. The golden threads of spiritual energy were slower to gather now. His mind wandered too often. Once, he opened his eyes to find his sleeves wet with tears he didn't remember crying.

He hadn't stepped foot in the training hall since the funeral. Nor had he spoken with Lin Tian, the Patriarch, since that final bow.

Even the servants tread lightly around him. They left meals outside his door and withdrew before he could open it. Only the old gardener, who had once served his father, dared speak.

"You're working too much, boy," the man muttered one evening as Lin Chen was lifting a cracked planter. "Pain needs breathing room, too. Don't let it eat you alive."

Lin Chen didn't answer.

He couldn't.

Because in truth, he didn't know if he was trying to heal.

His obsession with the sword started slowly, from missing lunches to pulling all nighters.

It began with longer hours beneath the willow tree.

Lin Chen no longer waited for the noon sun. Sometimes the servants found him already there when the morning mist still clung to the grass, his wooden sword carving arcs through the damp air before the first birdsong.

Then came the skipped meals.

At first, it was just one forgotten breakfast. Then another. Then entire days where the servants would return at dusk to find his morning congee untouched, the steamed buns hardened into stone.

"Young Master, you must eat—"

He would wave them away, his eyes never leaving the imaginary enemy before him. His stomach had long since stopped growling.

---

The nights grew longer.

What had once been evening meditation sessions stretched deeper into the dark. The lamplight flickered against his hollowed cheeks as he forced qi through meridians that burned like scorched parchment. His golden core pulsed erratically—sometimes a sunburst, sometimes a guttering candle.

Again.

His knuckles split against the training dummy.

Again.

Blood slicked the wooden hilt of his practice sword.

Again.

Lin Chen slowly collapsed in the rain, body trembling as the storm soaked through his soaked robes. The old gardener's rough hands caught him before he hit the cold earth, lifting him with surprising strength. Without a word, the gardener bore him away to a quiet room warmed by flickering candles and the faint scent of herbs.

Days passed in silent care as Lin Chen's body mended, but his spirit remained restless, haunted by loss and fury. When at last he could sit upright, a knock came—soft but deliberate.

The door opened to reveal two figures: Lin Tian, the Lin Clan Patriarch, and Du Li, the jade-robed envoy from the Jade Lotus Sect. Their presence filled the room with an air of solemnity.

Lin Tian's eyes, sharp beneath heavy brows, softened as he spoke. "Lin Chen, your father was a warrior beyond reckoning. We grieve his passing as our own."

Du Li nodded, voice calm and measured. "His legacy is now yours to carry. The Jade Lotus Sect recognizes your potential."

From Du Li's robe, he produced a small box carved of dark wood and slid it across the table. Inside rested a green jade pendant, delicately inlaid with pink lotus petals that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. A faint scent of incense clung to it, subtle but unmistakable.

Lin Chen reached out, fingers trembling as he lifted the token. He inhaled deeply. "Though I have never set foot on the Jade Lotus Sect, I have heard the color green represents inner disiplines."

Lin Tian's gaze darkened, hinting at unspoken truths. "The path ahead will be difficult, but it is yours."

Du Li smiled thinly, the warmth in his eyes barely masking something colder beneath. "We will watch over you, Lin Chen. This is only the beginning."

Lin Chen stared at the pendant in his palm — a symbol of honor, promise... and a mystery he was only beginning to grasp.