The words landed like ice shards.
The other cultivators paused mid-motion, hands hovering over pouches and rings. A ripple of uneasy glances passed between them—some smirking, others shifting uncomfortably—but none dared contradict him. The man's authority in this raid was clear; his sneer deepened as he stepped closer to Yu Xiao, boots crunching on the blood-flecked marble.
He crouched again, bringing his face level with hers. Close enough that she could smell the faint metallic tang of blood and qi-burn on his breath.
"Look at you," he murmured, almost tenderly. "Eyes mesmerizing dark as night, skin like new snow. And that little spark of something… extra. Our lord has a taste for rare things. You'll make a fine gift—maybe even earn me a reward."
Yu Xiao's stomach lurched. She tried to shrink back, but the hands on her shoulders tightened, bruising.
Bao Wen—still curled on the ground a few paces away—lifted his head at the words. His small face, already pale with pain, drained of what color remained.
"No… Sister…" he whispered, voice cracking. Fresh tears cut tracks through the dirt on his cheeks.
The cultivator glanced at the boy with irritation, as though he were an annoying insect.
"Quiet the whelp," he snapped to one of his men. "Or gag him. I don't want distractions."
A subordinate moved toward Bao Wen, but Yu Xiao's fear finally ignited into something sharper.
"Don't touch him!" The words burst from her before she could stop them—raw, desperate. Her voice trembled, but it carried across the market.
The lead cultivator's sneer faltered for half a second, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. Then it returned, wider and darker.
"Feisty," he said approvingly. "Even better. Our lord likes them with spirit… makes breaking them more entertaining."
He reached out and caught her chin again—this time more gently, almost possessively—tilting her face up to force her to meet his gaze.
"You'll come quietly," he told her, voice dropping to a silken threat. "Or I'll make sure every child here—including your little friend—pays for each second you resist. Understand?"
Yu Xiao's breath hitched. Tears welled, hot and unstoppable, spilling down her cheeks. She hated them—hated the weakness, hated the fear—but she couldn't look away from Bao Wen's terrified eyes.
The boy shook his head frantically, mouthing "No, Sister—run—" even as another cultivator clamped a hand over his mouth.
The man released her chin with a satisfied hum.
"Bind her hands. Lightly. We don't want to mar the merchandise before delivery."
Rough rope—rougher than necessary—looped around her wrists, pulled tight enough to bite into skin. Yu Xiao didn't struggle; she couldn't. Every ounce of strength had drained into terror for the children, for Bao Wen, for herself.
As they hauled her to her feet, she cast one last desperate glance toward the edges of the plaza—toward the bright, sunlit lanes where moments ago children had laughed, and vendors had called out cheerfully.
No one was coming.
The market's liveliness had been swallowed whole.
And in its place stood only silence, sunlight, and the promise of something far worse waiting beyond the valley.
The cultivator gave her a mocking little bow.
"After you, little gift."
He shoved her forward—gently, almost politely—and the procession moved slowly, a grim parade under the unrelenting sun. Yu Xiao walked at the front of the bound captives, wrists chafed raw by rope, each step heavier than the last. The lead cultivator walked beside her, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, the other occasionally brushing her elbow as if to remind her she belonged to them now.
Behind her, the old vendor from the stall—the one with the missing teeth and knowing eyes—shuffled along in the line, his thin frame bent but not broken. His merchant's robes were torn at the sleeve, his small pouch of goods long confiscated, yet something unyielding still burned in his gaze.
He had been silent until now, head lowered like the others, enduring. But when he saw Yu Xiao stumble again—saw the way the cultivator's hand lingered too long on her arm, saw the fresh tears streaking her face—something inside him snapped.
He couldn't restrain himself any longer.
The vendor suddenly straightened, voice cracking through the heavy silence like a whip.
"Don't let yourself be dragged by them!"
The words rang out sharp and clear, carrying far across the market. Several captives flinched; heads turned in shock. Even the cultivators paused, looking toward the source.
His eyes locked on Yu Xiao's, fierce and unblinking despite the fear that must have clawed at him, too.
"It's not what you meant to be!" he shouted, voice trembling with age and fury. "The future lies ahead for you—bright, vast, waiting! If you give in now, heaven itself will not forgive it! Settle your heart, child! Keep away from your weakness! You are more than this moment—do not let them steal what you were born to become!"
For one suspended heartbeat, the entire procession came to a standstill.
Yu Xiao's breath caught. She stared at him—really stared—through the blur of tears. The old vendor, the one who had smiled with missing teeth and offered her a hairpin "because fate rarely sends customers like you," now stood defiant in ropes, shouting words meant only for her.
The lead cultivator's face darkened. He spun toward the vendor, sword half-drawn in a flash of steel.
"Silence that fool," he snarled.
One of the subordinates lunged forward, fist raised to strike the old man down.
But Yu Xiao moved first.
"No—stop!"
Her voice broke the air, louder than she intended, raw with desperation. She twisted against her bonds, stepping between the approaching cultivator and the vendor, body trembling but refusing to yield.
The subordinate halted mid-stride, surprised. The lead cultivator narrowed his eyes at her.
"You dare—"
"Please," Yu Xiao whispered, voice cracking. "He's just an old man. He's… he's done nothing. Hurt me if you want, but leave him alone."
The cultivator stared at her for a long moment—surprised, perhaps even amused. Then he laughed, low and ugly.
"Protective, are we?" He sheathed his sword with exaggerated slowness. "Fine. Let the old fool live… for now. But one more word from him, and I'll carve out his tongue myself."
He jerked his chin at the subordinate.
"Gag him. Properly this time."
The vendor didn't resist as rough cloth was forced between his teeth and tied tightly. But even muffled, his eyes never left Yu Xiao's. Through the gag, he managed one last, fierce nod—silent encouragement, silent faith.
Yu Xiao's tears fell faster now, dripping onto the marble below.
The procession resumed its march toward the shadowed pass.
But something had shifted.
In her chest, beneath the terror and despair, a small, stubborn ember flickered brighter. The vendor's words echoed in her mind, refusing to fade:
The future lies ahead for you.
She raised her chin—just a fraction—enough that the sunlight caught the faint glow in her eyes.
She was still walking forward.
What does he mean? she thought desperately, the question looping over and over as the rope bit deeper into her wrists. I don't understand!
She was no hero. She was no cultivator prodigy. She was Yu Xiao—twenty-two (almost twenty-three), a former creative producer, someone who once cried over missed deadlines and bad client feedback. She didn't have ancient legacies or hidden bloodlines she could summon at will. She didn't even fully understand what her own qi was doing half the time.
And yet…
The vendor had looked at her—really looked—and seen something worth shouting for. Not pity. Not weakness. Something more. He'd risked a beating (maybe worse) to throw those words at her like a lifeline in the dark.
"It's not what you meant to be."
The sentence lodged in her throat like a stone. What did she mean to be? Back in her old world, she'd chased promotions, polished presentations, told herself success was the next campaign, the next approval email. Here… here she was nothing. A stranger in a stolen body, stumbling through a world that wanted to break her or sell her or both.
But the vendor hadn't spoken to a victim. He'd spoken to someone who still had a future.
Her gaze drifted to Bao Wen, who was dragged along a few paces behind her. The boy's head hung low now, shoulders shaking with silent sobs, but every few steps he glanced up to find her—searching, pleading, trusting. Even after everything, he still looked to her like she might know what to do.
That trust hurt more than the ropes.
If I give in… she thought, the vendor's warning replaying again, heaven will not forgive it.
She didn't know what "heaven" meant in this world—whether it was literal skies, some cosmic law, or just the stubborn part of a person that refused to die quietly. But she felt it stirring anyway: small, angry, alive.
Yu Xiao stopped.
Not dramatically. Not with a defiant shout or a surge of hidden power. Just… stopped.
Her bound feet planted on the cold stone path leading into the shadowed pass. The line of captives behind her shuffled to a halt, chains clinking softly in the sudden quiet. The wind whispered through the narrow valley, carrying the faint, distant echo of the market's lost laughter.
The lead cultivator noticed first. He turned, brow furrowing beneath his hood.
"Who said you must stop?" he barked, voice sharp with irritation. "Move!"
Yu Xiao didn't answer. Didn't even look at him.
Her gaze remained fixed straight ahead—toward the dark mouth of the pass where sunlight refused to follow. But her chin was still raised, just that small fraction. The faint silver-blue shimmer in her eyes caught the last slanting rays of daylight, making them gleam like frost on glass.
The cultivators exchanged glances. One laughed nervously; another shifted his grip on his sword.
"I said move," the leader repeated, stepping closer. He raised his hand as if to shove her forward.
But something in her stillness made him hesitate.
Yu Xiao finally spoke—soft, almost to herself, yet clear enough that every captive within earshot heard.
"I… don't want to."
The words were simple. Trembling. But they carried weight.
The cultivator's sneer twisted into something uglier. "You think you have a choice?"
She exhaled slowly, breath fogging in the cooling air.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I know I'm tired of walking where you tell me to."
A ripple passed through the captives. A merchant raised his head. A young mother clutched her child tighter. Even Bao Wen—gagged and bruised—managed to lift his eyes to her face, wide with something between fear and fragile hope.
The leader's patience snapped. He lunged forward, grabbing her bound arms and yanking her toward him.
"You little—"