After closing the stall, the lantern's glow dimmed to a soft amber hush. Lin Yun lingered near the doorway, watching Madam Li wipe the last table with slow, deliberate strokes—as if each motion anchored her to the world.
He hesitated, then spoke quietly.
"I haven't even asked your name yet."
She paused. A faint, weary smile touched her lips.
"Li Yulan," she said softly. "Or Madam Li, if that feels more proper."
They walked together through the narrow alley. The night air carried the scent of cooling earth and distant rain. Behind the noodle stall lay a small courtyard house—worn, humble, but clean. She pointed to a tiny side room with a simple bed and one small window.
"You can stay here."
Lin Yun bowed deeply, expression unchanging.
"Thank you."
That night he slept without fear for the first time in years. The distant crickets sounded almost peaceful.
Morning came early.
Lin Yun rose before dawn. He swept the courtyard, carried water, split firewood—each task performed with quiet precision. When everything was done, curiosity drew him into the town.
People stared. Whispers trailed him. Some averted their eyes; others watched with guarded suspicion.
At the market, he stopped before a candy seller's stall. The old man sat slumped, stirring thin, watery syrup, face etched with defeat.
"Uncle," Lin Yun said evenly, crouching beside him, "you look troubled."
The man sighed heavily. "Sugar prices have tripled. I can't make anything worth selling anymore."
Lin Yun spoke without inflection. "I know a way to make your candy just as sweet… using far less sugar."
The seller's eyes lit up. "Two silver coins! Right now!"
Lin Yun shook his head. "I don't need coins. I only want answers."
The man nodded quickly.
Lin Yun asked, voice low and steady: "What do you know about this world?"
The old man glanced around, then leaned in.
"This is Tianyuan. Three continents. Monster Continent—ruled by spiritual beasts. Immortal Continent—the great sects and true immortals. And this one…" His voice dropped. "The abandoned continent. The slave continent."
Lin Yun's expression remained calm, but something hardened in his eyes.
"Mortals live here," the seller continued, "but sect branches descend like vultures. They capture slaves, test for talent, harvest resources… ship the promising ones upward. The rest of us are left to die."
A cold weight settled inside Lin Yun.
Then, quietly: "And Madam Li… the noodle seller?"
The man froze. Fear flashed across his face.
"Please… don't ask."
"Your secret stays with me."
After a long, painful silence, the man whispered:
"She was still a general in the imperial army—Qi Refining 1st Layer. No sect backing, no noble blood. She rose through the ranks on pure talent, courage, and battlefield command. Mortals feared her name. Armies followed her. Then… her cultivation was shattered. The royal family cast her out. Some say she defied a suicidal order to protect her soldiers. Others swear she was framed to cover a higher betrayal. That scar on her face… came from the day they broke her dantian and left her for dead."
Lin Yun walked back without hurry, face as impassive as stone.
Madam Li was lighting the stove when he returned.
"Where did you go so early?" she asked.
"The market," he replied evenly.
She nodded. "Don't wander far. Help me move the stall."
He lifted the heavy frame effortlessly. She watched him for a moment—something flickering in her gaze.
Business was dead. By noon, not one customer. The stall sat silent under the harsh sun.
Lin Yun spoke, voice level.
"Madam… your noodles are better than anything I've tasted. Why stay here? In a bigger city, you could thrive."
Her hand stilled on the ladle.
"I don't want to leave," she said quietly. "I'm fine here."
"Are you?" He met her eyes. "You barely eat. Your skin grows paler every day. The people here avoid you like you're cursed. Are you lying to me… or to yourself?"
She froze. The ladle trembled.
Silence stretched—thick with years of buried pain.
Then she whispered, voice cracking: "I have nowhere else. No one else."
Lin Yun's expression remained unchanged, but inside he recognized the echo of his own long isolation.
"Follow me."
He led her to a small barber shop at the edge of town. The old barber looked up, surprised.
Lin Yun spoke quietly to him: "Dye her hair. Soft brown. Natural. No shine, no fuss. Make it simple."
The barber nodded and worked carefully. With gentle hands and a few natural dyes, Madam Li's long black hair transformed into warm, understated brown—plain enough to blend in, yet soft and alive.
When it was done, Lin Yun stepped closer.
"Close your eyes."
She hesitated, breath shallow, then obeyed.
He raised his hand. Warm vitality gathered in his palm—pure, gentle light from the Blessed Land. It flowed like quiet sunlight, touching the jagged scar that had marked her for years.
The air shimmered faintly.
When the light faded, he stepped back.
"Open them."
She looked into the cracked mirror.
A breathtaking woman stared back.
Skin flawless. Features delicate yet carrying quiet strength. The scar—gone. Only smooth, luminous grace remained.
So beautiful that the word "peerless" felt inadequate.
Li Yulan's hand flew to her cheek. Trembled violently.
Tears welled—silent at first, then spilling freely.
She touched the mirror, then her face, then turned to him.
Her voice broke completely.
"Why… would you do this for me?"
Lin Yun's gaze stayed steady, distant, almost clinical. No smile. No lingering look at her transformed beauty. No trace of awe or desire.
He spoke quietly, without inflection.
"Because no one should have to carry their pain on their face forever."
The words were simple. Flat. But they carried the weight of someone who had long learned to lock his own emotions away.
She covered her mouth. Shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Years of shame, isolation, and grief poured out—not in dramatic wails, but in quiet, shattering waves.
She wept for the general she had been. For the soldiers who once followed her without question. For the dantian they shattered and the life they stole. For the years of hiding behind a scar that reminded her every day of what was taken.
And now, suddenly, for the overwhelming feeling of being seen—without pity, without expectation, without judgment.
Lin Yun stood motionless, eyes fixed on the wall behind her, giving her space. His face betrayed nothing. Inside, a faint echo of shared loneliness stirred—but he crushed it down, as he had crushed everything else.
Then—
A loud noise shattered the stillness.
The street shook. Dust rose in clouds. Urgent shouts erupted from outside.
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