In the heart of the Azure Wind Continent, beneath the shadow of the Cloudsea Mountains, nestled a modest yet peculiar town known as Yunjing. Unlike the major cultivation cities where clan wars, spirit beasts, and ancient legacies clashed in a brilliant fury, Yunjing was quiet. Too quiet, some would say. A town stuck between the pages of a slow-moving book—where time strolled, not surged.
At the edge of this unassuming town lived a boy named Jiang Luo.
From the outside, he was as average as boys came. Not too tall, not too short. His features were not sharp enough to turn heads, yet refined enough to not be overlooked. With jet-black hair often tousled by the morning breeze and eyes the color of overcast skies, Jiang Luo walked the streets of Yunjing with the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need attention—and thus, ironically, attracted it.
He was seventeen years old this year, a student at the Yunjing Spiritual Academy, a school not known for prestige or power but for its consistency. The kind of place where average talents became decent cultivators and decent cultivators retired peacefully without ever setting foot on a battlefield.
Each morning, Jiang Luo would wake up at the same time—before the sun crested the mountain peaks. He would open the sliding door of his wooden room, stretch under the orange sky, and walk barefoot across the dew-dappled yard to feed the spirit koi in the pond. The fish gathered toward him instinctively, their golden scales glimmering beneath the surface. He didn't smile often, but this daily ritual always brought a softness to his eyes.
He lived alone.
That fact alone had long been the subject of whispers among the townsfolk. His house was far too spacious for one boy. Its walls, though modest, were of high-quality spiritwood. The courtyard was clean, swept daily, and its array of potted spiritual herbs—some rare even for bigger sects—grew healthy and undisturbed.
No one knew where Jiang Luo came from.
He had appeared in town one rainy evening three years ago, soaked to the bone, carrying nothing but a small satchel and a bamboo umbrella. He rented a room at the old inn for a week. Then, out of nowhere, he purchased land at the town's edge and built a home of his own. There were no signs of a clan name, no visiting relatives, and no mention of a sect background. When questioned, he'd only smile and say, "I'm just passing time."
That phrase, "just passing time," became his signature.
Despite the ambiguity of his past, Jiang Luo quickly became a well-known figure at the academy—not for brilliance, but for consistency. He always scored in the middle range during spiritual theory exams. In practical sessions, his performance was passable. His spiritual aura, as measured by the academy's formation pillars, registered as "Green Rank," the level of a low-tier cultivator.
Nothing about him was extraordinary. But somehow, everything about him was... memorably ordinary.
Still, it was hard to dislike Jiang Luo. He wasn't arrogant. He wasn't withdrawn. He offered help to those in need and accepted defeat with grace during sparring matches. He had a gentle way of speaking, a habit of watering the academy's neglected herb garden after classes, and a curious love for reading mortal fiction instead of cultivation manuals.
"Why waste time on fantasy," one student had scoffed. "You could be reading about ancient formations."
To which Jiang Luo had smiled, flipping a page lazily and replying, "Sometimes, fantasy holds more truth than cultivation scrolls."
It wasn't wisdom that earned him friends—it was his temperament. While other students burned with ambition, racing toward sect invitations and breakthrough pills, Jiang Luo drifted. He walked home alone every evening, carrying books from the academy library or strange trinkets bought at the town market. No one saw him train, meditate, or cultivate. Even the academy instructors scratched their heads.
"Talented or lazy?" one of them once asked the Head Instructor.
The old man had chuckled. "Neither. He's just Jiang Luo."
Among his peers, Jiang Luo had become a mystery that no one really wanted to solve. He wasn't a threat, nor a rival. Just a pleasant presence, like a summer breeze passing through open windows.
One of his few close acquaintances was Lin Yue, a girl known for her fiery temper and louder-than-life personality. She had sharp eyes, a stronger-than-average spiritual vein, and a deep desire to enter the Mistfall Sect—one of the Azure Wind Continent's five great factions.
She, like many others, often found herself puzzled by Jiang Luo.
"You know," she said one morning as they walked along the mossy path to the academy, "if you actually put effort into cultivation, you'd be stronger than half our class."
Jiang Luo tilted his head. "Why would I need to be stronger than half the class?"
She blinked. "To stand out. To get selected. You can't stay here forever in this small town."
Jiang Luo offered her a serene glance. "Why not?"
Lin Yue groaned. "You're impossible!"
He shrugged, letting the sun filter through the canopy of tall spirit willows above them. "Possibly."
Their conversations were like this often—her full of spark and urgency, him drifting like mist.
Another boy in their class, Zhao Min, was more vocal about his suspicions.
"Jiang Luo is definitely hiding something," he muttered once during lunch break, biting into a steamed bun. "No one stays that calm unless they're either a fool or a monster in disguise."
Lin Yue had chuckled. "Maybe he's both."
"I'm serious! That kid's been in Yunjing for three years. Never advanced past Green Rank. Never shows signs of struggle. His clothes are always clean. His house smells like spirit incense. He's either some young master from a hidden clan or—"
"—Or he just knows how to do laundry and likes incense?" Lin Yue interrupted, rolling her eyes.
But Zhao Min's words weren't entirely without weight. While Jiang Luo had the demeanor of a drifting leaf, something in his presence always felt... unshakable. As if, even when a storm rolled in or when chaos erupted during sparring duels, he stood untouched. Not by skill. Not by technique. Just by sheer tranquility.
There was a moment during the annual academy duel exam, where Jiang Luo had faced off against Xun Wei, the class's top martial cultivator. Xun Wei's strikes were fast and layered, his spiritual energy condensed like lightning bolts. Yet Jiang Luo—lazily holding a wooden practice sword—dodged with just enough movement to not get hit. Not once did he retaliate.
When the duel ended in a draw due to time-out, everyone had looked at Jiang Luo with new eyes.
"Why didn't you strike back?" Xun Wei had asked afterward.
"I was enjoying the breeze," Jiang Luo replied.
The words sounded like mockery, but his tone was too sincere to take offense.
After that, the academy gave up on assessing him. Teachers marked his name on reports, smiled politely during meetings, but no longer tried to evaluate his potential.
Jiang Luo wasn't a genius. He wasn't a threat. He was simply... Jiang Luo.
After afternoon lessons at Yunjing Spiritual Academy, most students rushed out through the red-pillared gate, eager to head toward the training fields or martial dojos on the town's outskirts. Others gathered at the herbal market square, hunting for discounted pills and cultivation-enhancing elixirs. But Jiang Luo took a different route.
He always walked the long way home.
His path curved gently past the Plum Blossom Garden—an old, overgrown park filled with ancient trees and winding stone paths. The petals, even out of season, still fluttered down like snow. It was a place few students visited anymore, mostly forgotten by the newer generation chasing power and prestige.
But to Jiang Luo, it was peaceful.
He sat beneath the largest plum tree every day, a weathered notebook in hand and a brush between his fingers. He wasn't writing cultivation notes or spiritual diagrams. No, he wrote poems. Verses about the clouds, the wind, the silence between bird calls. His script was elegant, each stroke made with intention.
Most people thought Jiang Luo didn't take cultivation seriously.
They were wrong.
He took life seriously. And that, perhaps, was something far rarer in their world.
"Still scribbling nonsense?" came a familiar voice.
He looked up. Lin Yue stood with her arms crossed, a strand of her dark red hair pinned back with a jade clip. Her robes had grass stains on the hem—likely from another round of intense sparring.
"It's not nonsense," Jiang Luo replied calmly, placing his brush down. "I'm documenting the thoughts of the wind."
Lin Yue snorted. "Thoughts of the wind? You sound like a retired elder. Come on, Luo, you're seventeen, not seventy."
He smiled faintly. "That's exactly why I must write. Before I forget what it's like to be seventeen."
She sat beside him, exhaling loudly. "You're the strangest person I've ever met."
"I take that as a compliment."
"You would." She picked up a fallen petal, twirling it between her fingers. "Zhao Min challenged Xun Wei again today. Lost, again. Of course."
Jiang Luo raised an eyebrow. "He hasn't learned yet?"
"Nope. Says he'll never become strong unless he keeps challenging the best." Lin Yue leaned back on her elbows. "I kind of admire that. The whole never-give-up thing. You ever think of doing that?"
"Challenging someone to prove my strength?" Jiang Luo asked.
"Yeah."
He looked at the sky through the lattice of tree branches. "No. I think strength should be silent, like the roots of this tree."
She stared at him. "You say weird things, Jiang Luo."
He nodded. "I know."
They sat there a while, letting the breeze carry the petals around them. In the distance, the academy bell tower chimed once, signaling the hour.
Lin Yue stood up. "You going to that festival tomorrow?"
"Festival?"
"Yeah. Lantern Festival. Spirit Moon's tomorrow night, remember? Everyone's going. Even the teachers are excited. You should come."
Jiang Luo blinked. "Lanterns… That's the one where we write wishes on the paper, isn't it?"
"Yup. Then float them down the river." Lin Yue stretched her arms. "A little cheesy, but fun. Even the mayor's daughter will be there. So, what do you say?"
"I'll consider it," he said, already knowing he would attend.
She grinned. "Good. Don't be late. For once."
Once she was gone, Jiang Luo remained under the tree, picking up his brush again. But instead of writing a poem this time, he sketched. A girl sitting beside him, twirling a petal. He wasn't much of an artist, but the lines flowed naturally.
Sometimes, simplicity held more depth than complexity.
---
The next day, Yunjing transformed.
From dawn, the streets were swept clean, red and gold ribbons hung between rooftops, and hundreds of paper lanterns were carefully arranged around the riverbanks. Children ran between stalls with sticky-sweet treats in hand. Cultivators from nearby villages arrived too, hoping to trade wares or meet potential sect scouts.
By nightfall, the entire town pulsed with warmth and laughter.
Jiang Luo stood at the river's edge, hands tucked behind his back, watching people write wishes on their lanterns. Some asked for power. Others for fortune. A few wished for love.
"What did you write?" Lin Yue appeared at his side, holding her own lantern close to her chest.
Jiang Luo didn't answer immediately.
Finally, he said, "Nothing. I wanted the lantern to carry its own wish."
Lin Yue rolled her eyes. "Only you would say something like that."
"I like the idea of letting it choose."
"You think paper can wish?"
"I think everything carries a little will of its own."
Lin Yue glanced at him sideways. "That's… oddly poetic."
He smiled. "I've been told."
A small boy nearby struggled to light his lantern. Jiang Luo stepped forward, cupping the spark stone with practiced ease, helping the child light it. The lantern lifted gently from the boy's hands, rising into the dark sky, joining dozens—then hundreds—of glowing orbs floating upward like ascending stars.
Someone began to sing. A soft, traditional melody. It wasn't loud, but people stopped to listen. The singer, an elderly woman from the tea shop, sang a lullaby from the old age of cultivators, when spirit beasts roamed the land and the sky was painted with immortal wars.
Jiang Luo's eyes remained on the sky.
He didn't care for power, or for fame, or even for destiny.
What he cared for… was this.
The quiet beauty of fleeting moments. The way petals fell. The curve of ink on parchment. The sound of laughter echoing across a riverbank on a moonlit night.
---
Later that evening, back at his home, Jiang Luo entered his garden as usual. The koi greeted him with gentle ripples. The moon hung low and heavy, casting silver light across his tiled roof.
He lit incense in front of a small stone memorial hidden at the base of an old tree. It was worn, moss-covered. No name inscribed.
He bowed once.
"Another year has passed," he murmured. "They're growing fast."
No reply came, but the wind stirred the leaves above.
He stood in silence for a long while.
Then, with a sigh, he turned and walked toward the back of his house, where a bamboo shelf waited. On it, a single book lay—its pages yellowed, bound in faded gold thread. Its title: Records of the Lost Heaven.
He didn't open it. He simply sat beside it, resting his back against the wall.
And watched the sky.