Chapter One: The Che Family Ancestral Hall

The Southern Continent was vast and boundless, known since ancient times as the Divine Land or the Central Earth—a name signifying the heart of the world. Its immensity led later generations to divide it, according to its features, into six great regions: the Central Land, the Eastern Domain, the Southern Frontier, the Northern Desert, the Celestial Mountains, and the Western Wastes.

Immortal cultivation flourished across the Southern Continent. The strong were many, sects and clans innumerable, and they were the true masters of this land, controlling the majority of its people and resources. Yet, for all their power, they were ever at odds, clashing with one another for their own interests, embroiled in unending strife.

The Che Clan was an ancient family of cultivators. Ten thousand years ago, they dominated the Southern Continent, producing generations of formidable experts. They were recognized as one of the Ten Great Clans of the immortal world—a glory unparalleled in their time. Yet, even the mighty Che Clan could not withstand the erosion of time. As the ages passed, they faded into obscurity.

Even the renowned miscellany “Annals of the Southern Continent” records little about them; its sparse words only hint at the clan’s former prosperity, while the details have long vanished from history. Perhaps ten thousand years is too far removed, so distant that even the chronicles are blurred.

In the Southern Frontier, at the southeastern edge, lay Jizhou and the city of Guhe.

Above Guhe’s ancient walls hung a row of black and white battle banners, interwoven like surging tidal waves, unfurling their unique splendor in the wind. Among the many banners, one stood out—a vast white flag bearing a single crimson character, “Che,” written in bold and ancient script, as though stained with blood. It stirred the soul, conjuring images of old: ancient war chariots bearing the Che banners, sweeping the world and dyeing heaven and earth in blood.

The Che Clan, renowned ten millennia past, had withered to the point where they now clung to survival in this remote border city of the Southern Frontier. Though their power had waned, they were not to be underestimated; they remained the true overlords of the region. The current head of the clan was Che Hongshi, famed across Jizhou’s immortal world as a master of the blade, his reputation formidable in these lands.

Night fell on the Southern Frontier, in Guhe City, at the Che Clan estate.

A solitary figure walked slowly through the darkness, coming at length to a grand and imposing ancestral hall. He raised his head, gazing at the plaque suspended above. Though the night was pitch black, his keen eyes clearly discerned the words inscribed with the marks of time: “Che Clan Ancestral Hall.”

This man was Che Hongshi, the present master of the clan. The place was intimately familiar to him; he would visit the ancestral hall periodically, yet lately, he found himself coming more and more often. Che Hongshi had a habit: each time he came, he would stand in a daze, staring at the words “Che Clan Ancestral Hall.” This night was no exception. He stood long in silent contemplation beneath the ink-black sky before finally pushing open the door and entering.

Inside, the hall was shrouded in darkness. He made no move to light a lamp but stood there in silence, unmoving for a long while. The night seemed to grow even quieter, the darkness heavier, pressing down with an almost suffocating weight. Who knows how much time passed before a sudden flash of lightning rent the silence outside, illuminating the ancestral hall in a fleeting blaze.

For an instant, the hall was revealed—countless ancestral tablets crowded the space, and a stern, dignified face of a middle-aged man seemed to emerge from the shadows. As the lightning flashed, the hall was plunged once more into darkness.

Thunder rumbled ever louder, and lightning split the sky with increasing frequency. Within the hall, the middle-aged man’s austere features flickered in and out of view. Suddenly, an inexplicable fervor and excitement kindled in his eyes; unconsciously, he stretched out a withered hand towards the solitary tablet in the first row. Perhaps moved by emotion, his thin frame began to tremble.

Yet, his hand paused midway, hesitated, and slowly withdrew—perhaps out of awe, perhaps fearing such an act would be irreverent. Once again, he stood respectfully before the tablet, but the fanatic gleam in his eyes only deepened. He stared fixedly at the three powerful characters inscribed upon it: “Che Daijun,” a strange smile curling his lips.

According to the “Annals of the Southern Continent,” Che Daijun was the Che Clan’s illustrious ancestor and the founder of its golden age. More than ten thousand years ago, he burst into the world, unrivaled under heaven and earth. Wielding a demon blade, he swept through the Eight Desolate Domains, meeting no equal—a star of that era’s firmament. Yet such a peerless figure vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, a mystery that has long baffled the immortal world.

In the years that followed, legends about Che Daijun abounded. The most detailed account claimed that an ancestor of one storyteller once witnessed Che Daijun atop the summit of Mount Hua, blade in his left arm, gazing into the clear sky, his robes billowing like an immortal.

Then, before the eyes of this witness, Che Daijun suddenly slashed at the sky—a stroke so dazzling it seemed to split the heavens, rendering the sun itself pale. With a tearing sound, the azure sky was rent asunder, revealing a great rift from which blinding light poured forth, the silhouettes of celestial palaces flickering within, the strains of immortal music and the wafting of rare fragrances escaping into the world. In the next instant, Che Daijun dived into the rift like a dragon and vanished forever.

The witness, it was said, returned home in a trance, bewitched by what he had seen. He secluded himself in meditation, and years later, from the rear mountain of his ancestral estate, came the sounds of dragons’ cries and a blaze of light filled the night sky, startling the entire household. When they gathered in fear, the cave behind the estate exploded into fragments, and out strode a white-browed, white-bearded figure wielding a blade—his own ancestor, transformed. Inspired by the vision of Che Daijun shattering the void, he had finally, after years of secluded cultivation, ascended to the realm of Dao Ruin, becoming a grandmaster of the highest order. In remembrance of the event that had changed his fate, he recorded it solemnly in the family annals.

Such tales were told as though they were truth. But a legend is still only a legend. Ten thousand years have passed—who now could seek out the truth, who could possibly know? Still, from the fragmentary records and histories, it is clear that Che Daijun was a most extraordinary figure in the world of cultivation—one whose life was both significant and controversial.

Dawn was breaking. The air was heavy with the fresh, damp scent of earth—invigorating and pure. At this moment, the tightly closed doors of the ancestral hall swung open, and Che Hongshi emerged. Despite a sleepless night, he appeared full of energy, showing no sign of fatigue.

Che Hongshi’s steps seemed unhurried, yet he moved with remarkable speed, passing through the main hall and heading west. After some time, he entered the inner courtyard. Seeing a busy maid, he asked her directly, “Has the young master returned?”

The girl, mid-yawn, was startled into attention at her master’s question and hurried to bow. But before she could answer, a young boy emerged from behind her. The boy appeared somewhat afraid of Che Hongshi, but, hearing the question, had no choice but to reply. He shuffled forward and mumbled, “Father, I was just about to go practice my exercises. What did you want with me?”

The boy was about five years old, dressed in a fitted purple cuirass, with a belt of wild tiger hide at his waist, a shining golden longevity ring at his throat, and a silver hair-cord atop his head. His attire was elegant and bespoke a family’s deep affection. Yet, his childish face bore an absent, vacant look; examined closely, it seemed not so much immature as oddly solemn for his years.

Che Hongshi glanced sideways at the boy, about to say a word or two. But at a second glance, an inexplicable irritation welled up in his heart. He frowned impatiently and snapped, “Fool, do you think I can’t see you?” With a shake of his head, he turned away, not waiting for the maid to speak.

The five-year-old flinched at the harsh rebuke, instinctively shrinking his small shoulders and standing forlornly to the side. Only after Che Hongshi had gone did the boy’s wooden little face betray a hint of hurt. His large eyes brimmed with tears, yet he stubbornly held them back.

His hands twisted together, he stared at his toes, falling into a silent daze. But inside, a defiant voice echoed again and again: “I am a fool, I am a fool…”

The maid beside him sighed softly, her heart aching. Gently, she patted the boy’s shoulder and reminded him, “Young Master Wuyou, the master was asking if the eldest young master has returned.”

The boy seemed to understand, murmuring, “Oh.”

Then he looked up at the maid, hope lighting his small face. “Sister Xiaomei, has big brother come back?”

Xiaomei pondered a moment and replied, “He’s been gone for months—it’s about time he returned.”

At this, the boy’s earlier unhappiness seemed to vanish. He leapt with joy, “Wonderful! Big brother is coming back! Big brother is coming back!”

Xiaomei shook her head in silence, thinking, “He really is a simpleton—no wonder the master dislikes him so. It’s the lady I pity most of all.”