The finality of turning his back on Green Bamboo Village settled over Wang Jian like a shroud, but one woven not of sorrow, but of release. The simple warmth of his mortal parents' love, the familiarity of the fields and bamboo groves – they were anchors to a life that was no longer his. Pleasant memories, perhaps, but ultimately insignificant compared to the vast tapestry of his true existence and the boundless ambition that now surged anew within his soul.
He adjusted the simple pack on his back. Coarse cloth, sturdy boots, a sharp knife, dried meat, a waterskin, a small pouch with the remaining silver taels from Master Feng's 'compensation'. Pathetically mundane compared to the spatial rings and divine treasures he once commanded, but functional. Necessary.
