The persistent hum, a low thrumming beneath his very bones, proved to be a more effective alarm clock than any rising sun. Theron groaned, pushing himself up from the cold, stone floor. His head pounded, not just from the residual effects of the cheap spirits, but from that insistent vibration that seemed to emanate from the very air itself. It was an itch he couldn't scratch, a silence that wasn't silent. It demanded attention, and Theron, despite his best efforts, was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore.
His stomach, however, demanded more immediate attention. The last jug was empty, and the scraps of dried meat were long gone. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries of inaction, he dragged himself to his feet. The tattered silks rustled, a mournful whisper of former glory. He stumbled out of the great hall, past crumbling archways and overgrown courtyards, until he reached the precarious path that wound down the mountain.
Below, nestled in the valley, lay the ramshackle settlement known as Oakhaven. It was a town born of necessity and stubbornness, a collection of timber shacks and patched-up stone dwellings clinging to the remnants of an older, grander village. The Great War had scarred the land, leaving behind desolate stretches of blighted earth and twisted forests, but Oakhaven, like a persistent weed, had found a way to regrow. Its inhabitants were a motley mix: displaced farmers, opportunistic merchants, and a surprising number of cultivators who, like Theron, seemed to have lost their way, or perhaps, were simply hiding.
The air in Oakhaven was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, stale ale, and the faint, metallic tang of residual Qi. Cultivation was a part of life here, not in the grand, structured academies of old, but in a raw, almost desperate form. You could see it in the hardened hands of the laborers, the wary eyes of the guards, and the occasional, uncontrolled burst of spiritual energy from a frustrated child. The paths, the classes – Warrior, Assassin, Archer, Knight – were still recognized, but their grand titles often felt misplaced in this struggling reality. Most here were barely Fletchlings or Squires, their ambitions tempered by the harshness of a world still reeling.
As Theron ambled into the central square, a group of children, no older than ten, were mimicking a fight, their tiny fists glowing faintly with unrefined Qi. One, a scrawny boy with bright, mischievous eyes, spotted Theron.
"Old Man Theron!" he yelled, pointing a stick that was supposed to be a sword. "Did you finally run out of your 'special water'?"
Theron merely grunted, a sound that could mean anything from agreement to profound disinterest. He paused, his gaze drifting over the children. They were playing at being Ironborn, clashing their sticks with exaggerated grunts, their movements clumsy but earnest. He could see the faint, nascent Qi flowing in their limbs, the raw potential that, once, he might have nurtured.
"You'll never be a Battlelord swinging like that, boy," Theron rasped, his voice gravelly from disuse. He didn't offer advice, merely an observation, devoid of judgment.
The boy, far from being offended, grinned. "What would you know, Old Man? You just sleep all day!"
"Sleeping is an art," Theron replied, his eyes half-closed. "Requires dedication. Discipline. Something you young ones lack."
A ripple of laughter went through the children. They knew Theron. He was the mountain hermit, the perpetually drunk, the man who did nothing. Yet, there was a strange affection for him. He never bothered anyone, never judged, and occasionally, offered a dry, unexpected witticism that made them laugh. He was a constant, unchanging fixture in a world that had changed too much.
As he shuffled towards the ramshackle tavern, a shadow fell over him. Three burly figures, their Qi faintly aggressive, blocked his path. They wore crude leather armor, emblazoned with a snarling wolf's head – the mark of the 'Timber Wolves,' a minor gang that extorted protection money from Oakhaven's struggling merchants. Their leader, a man with a scarred face and the heavy gait of a low-level Ironborn, sneered.
"Well, well, if it isn't the Mountain Hermit," the leader growled, his voice thick with menace. "Heard you were getting a little too comfortable up there, Theron. Maybe it's time you paid your respects to the Timber Wolves."
Theron slowly raised his head, his bleary eyes meeting the thug's. He didn't flinch, didn't show fear, didn't even seem particularly annoyed. He simply looked at the man, then at his companions, as if they were an inconvenient rock in his path.
"Respects?" Theron mumbled, a faint, almost imperceptible hum resonating deeper within him, mirroring the one in the air. "I respect a full jug. Do you have one?"
The leader's sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "What? No! We want… tribute! A share of whatever you scavenge from your mountain!"
Theron sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of profound weariness. "I scavenge dust. And old memories. Not very valuable. Unless you're into that." He paused, then added, "You know, for a Warrior path, your intimidation tactics are rather… uninspired. Where's the Ragehowler fury? The Bloodforged resilience? You just look like you need a nap."
The thugs exchanged uneasy glances. This was Theron. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't even engaged. His utter apathy was a shield, his dry humor a weapon they couldn't counter. They had heard the whispers about him, too – the strange tales of his past, the way even the most powerful cultivators left him alone. He was a puzzle, and bothering him often felt like kicking a very large, very unmoving, and potentially very dangerous rock.
"Just… get out of here, old man," the leader finally grumbled, stepping aside. "Don't cause trouble."
Theron merely nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips that might have been a smile. "Trouble is too much effort," he rasped, and continued his slow, shuffling walk towards the tavern, the hum in his head growing a fraction stronger, as if acknowledging his first, reluctant steps back into the world. The thugs watched him go, a mix of frustration and grudging respect on their faces. He was the drunkard, the forgotten one, but there was something about him that commanded a strange, silent deference, a mystery they couldn't unravel, and a humor that disarmed even their crude aggression.