This world is called Linh Khư - a place once said to be a fracture in the fabric of the cosmos, torn wide open across the void.
The Realm is divided into four continents and a single central region.
To the south lies Jambudvīpa, the most populous land, where immortal dynasties rise like mushrooms after rain. It is a realm where imperial power reigns supreme, eclipsing all.
To the west sprawls Aparagodānī, a domain of cultivator sects and spiritual orders. There, the Eight Grand Schools and Four Great Sects dominate, split between the righteous and the heretical - locked in endless struggle.
In the east is Pūrvavideha, a vast region of countless islands and limitless seas, home to many demi-human races.
And to the north, the wild expanse of Uttarakurudvīpa - a land ruled by monstrous beasts. Their ancient bloodlines stretch back ten thousand years. Immortal beast-gods of unfathomable might shake the eight directions with their roars, forbidding humankind from even approaching.
At the center of it all lies a ruined, forsaken land, stretching for thousands of miles. When there's no tigers around, monkeys roamed as kings. Tribes waged constant war between themselves, clinging to ancient worship and offering sacrifices to the beasts they revere as gods.
Separating the four continents from this central wasteland is a colossal, closed ring of mountains called the Walled Mountain. No mortal can cross it. The only way through is the Mountain Paths, tunnels carved through the base of the range. Any attempt to climb it is met with death, crushed beneath insurmountable pressure.
Beyond the Walled Mountain, in the rim of the central continent, lies a waste land that spans tens of thousands of miles - the Dry Sea.
Those who live in the Dry Sea are known as the Exiled. They are criminals, banished from the four continents and forever sealed away behind the mountains, unable to return.
Some say the tribes of the central region are their descendants.
And at night, in the Dry Sea, one rule reigned above all:
Never leave your home.
To step outside is to die.
For the darkness here ate people alive.
---I am a separator line---
That day, near the shimmering waters of Star Fell Lake, a stranger appeared.
A cripple.
He looked twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. Stood eight feet tall. Once, he might have been a strikingly handsome man. Now, his hair was dry as straw, his skin more yellow than wax, his eyes dim and clouded like a corpse's. His body trembled as if caught in an eternal chill. One hand clutched his chest, pressing against a gaping hole where a heart once beat - a wound long dried. Step by step, he dragged himself forward.
At the village gate sat two figures.
An old man in a wheelchair. An old woman quietly embroidering silk.
The young man staggered to them and, with great effort, rasped a question:
"Can someone without a heart still live?"
The old man stroked his beard and answered:
"The answer you seek isn't with me. But your thread of fate hasn't been cut yet."
The old woman pointed to her mouth and waved her hand, signalling that she was muted.
The young man gave no sign of hearing. He continued into the village.
Neither of them stopped him.
Only then did the old woman lift her needle and write in the air. Her chi was vast and dense, so much so that her writing hovered in the air, refusing to dissipate - as if, unchecked, it could crystalize at any moment.
"Village Chief, are you truly going to let that ill omen walk into our village unchecked?"
The old man replied:
"He carries a darkness heavier than the Walled Mountain itself on his back. Yet it cannot consume him. Just then, I couldn't stop myself from answering his question - like some unseen law compelled me."
"I cannot fathom what he truly is. But, I can see that he means us no harm. Let the others worry about what comes next."
Meanwhile, the crippled young man entered the village.
The first place he came upon was a butcher's stall.
The butcher was a one-armed man in his middle years. Slung across his back was a rotting wooden bow and a single arrow — blunt-tipped, featherless, and barely more than a snapped twig. The bowstring was frayed with age, and the entire weapon looked as if it hadn't been used in years.
Before him lay meat, skin, bone, sinew, offal - each more pungent than the last.
The young man stopped in front of the stall.
"Can someone without a heart still live?" he asked.
The butcher snorted.
"Who ask a stranger questions like that? Riddle me this then. Can someone with one arm shoot a bow?"
His voice was mocking. But behind his sneer, sweat poured down his back, and his curled toes dug hard into his shoes.
The young man turned and walked away, stiff as a marionette.
The butcher collapsed into his seat, panting.
"The chief's being lazy again. How could he let that cursed thing into the village?"
The next shop was a woodcarver's.
Its owner was blind, calmly carving a wooden statue with exquisite detail. His work was masterful - robes flowing like silk, hair like drifting clouds. But none of his statues had faces. Every figure was left blank.
The young man clutched his chest and asked again:
"Can someone without a heart still live?"
The blind man didn't look up.
"To me," he said, "wooden dolls have no hearts either. But that doesn't make them dead."
The young man turned and moved on.
Suddenly, the blind man slipped. His blade grazed his finger. A fearsome slashing force erupted - so sharp it seemed to slice through time itself. A single drop of blood fell to the ground, and space twisted under its weight.
In the distance, the butcher spat. His spit turned into a gust that met the slash head-on, dispersing it. Silence returned.
The third figure the young man encountered was a beggar — or perhaps a conman? It was hard to tell.
He held a bowl in one hand, a pair of dice in the other, and balanced himself with a plain wooden cane beneath his single leg. At his side trotted a tailless puppy, barking furiously as it walked backward.
"Can someone without a heart still live?" the young man asked once more.
The one-legged conman chuckled.
"Brother, ask the dozen maidens on the Beauties Ranking—or the daughters of the leaders of the four great sects. I've stolen all their hearts, and yet they're still alive, aren't they?"
The puppy dropped to the ground, whimpering. A wet patch spread beneath it.
The young man stomped the road ahead with stiff, puppet-like motion.
The beggar and the dog vanished - like smoke whisked away by the wind.
By the time he reappeared, he was back at the village gate.
The beggar stumbled in, panting, bowl raised as if to strike the village chief.
"You arse! What the hell were you thinking, letting that cursed freak walk right in like that? Pay up! Compensation for emotional and physical damages. For both me and mr Onion here. Two hundred thousand, not a coin less!"
"Scram."
The chief flicked a hand, and the con-man went tumbling dozens of feet.
The old woman wrote in the air again:
"How many of you did he met?"
"Including me, three. Butcher and blind guy both answered him. Tsk. Dry Sea's been around hundreds of millennia - are we suddenly getting new rules now?"
"Gather everyone later. We need to see if there are... side effects."
The old man sighed.
The old woman's hand trembled. Her needle danced in a flurry of strokes:
"Could the Dry Sea really have birthed something like that?"
"The Dry Sea isn't of this age. Neither is the Walled Mountain. Who knows what they are capable of. When the great calamity arrives, you'll understand their nature. Until then, tho, asking too much might only hasten its arrival."
As he spoke, the chief struck the sky with a single fist.
Clouds scattered. Storms swept across thirty thousand miles. A shattering sound echoed above.
Then he laughed.
"Well now, perhaps that boy wasn't born of the darkness after all."
He opened his palm. A golden orb shaped like an eyeball lay in his hand.
"This I recognize. Heaven's Eye - artifact of the Cloudspike Sect. What in the realms are those 'relics' at the Holy Land thinking, tracking a heartless exile with this?"
The beggar stroked his chin.
The puppy spoke:
"I smelled the fragrance of the Dao in his chest. A divine scent lingered behind him. Once, he had an extraordinary heart and a set of celestial-meridians of unspeakable power. But someone ripped them out."
"Now now," said the chief. "All of us carry old wounds. If he survives, let's not ask any questions."
The young man arrived at a quaint little house.
Outside, the air brimmed with poetic charm. Inside, the scent of wine sang like melody.
Beside several jars of wine sat a bald man - no arms, no legs.
He bounced across the floor like a leather ball, needing no help. A wooden lip was clenched between his teeth. Occasionally, he pried open a jar and poured himself a drink.
"If you're buying wine, come in. If not, get lost."
The young man didn't respond. He asked again:
"Can someone without a heart still live?"
The man laughed.
"People said someone like me wouldn't live long. But here I am, still drinking the years away."
"That's true," the young man replied—for the first time saying something other than his question.
The brewer shivered. A sudden chill pressed down on him, as if the scythe of death hovered above.
Finally...
The young man stopped at the edge of the village.
He stood before a bamboo stalk and asked:
"Can someone without a heart still live?"
The bamboo rustled, then answered:
"I've seen men survive without their heads. I've seen the heartless set their enemies aflame and reduce the land to ashes. So tell me - can one live without a heart?"
"Yes."
The young man whispered the word, then collapsed.