Then, he looked back at the number on the left.
"Ten."
Wuji took a slow breath. "Ten," he murmured again, his eyes snapping toward the other children of similar age. He examined the numbers above their heads, one by one. But none of them had a question mark.
The realization struck him at once. "A spirit root," he thought. "Yes, it has to be a spirit root. Only that could explain it. Only a spirit root gives someone the chance to step onto the path of cultivation."
Beside him, Wang Da watched in confusion. From his perspective, it looked as though Wuji were staring at the children as if they were priceless jade.
"If I'm right," Wuji thought, his gaze lingering on the boy, "he won't stay in the village long after the testing." He paused. "But if he does..." his eyes darkened slightly. "Then that mark means something else entirely."
Another thought followed, slower and more dangerous. "If it is truly a spirit root," he wondered, "wouldn't I be able to identify potential cultivators without the cumbersome spirit root sensing ceremony?"
The idea took shape before he could stop it. If he could identify spirit roots this way, then future cultivators were never truly hidden. The younger they were, the weaker they would be and they would be easier to deal with and easier to bury.
The idea formed fully in his mind before he realized it had done so.
Wuji stiffened, then cut the thought off immediately, his breath catching in his throat as unease crept up his spine. He had never thought of harming anyone, let alone children. Not in this life nor the one before it.
The idea of turning his gaze toward children filled him with quiet revulsion, yet the temptation was there, quiet and insidious.
The promise of stolen lifespan was beginning to erode something inside him, and Wuji realized, perhaps too late, that the Heaven Burial path would not only demand strength, but would steadily test how much of his humanity he was willing to lose.
Calming his fraying mind, he turned his gaze to the chickens pecking idly at the ground.
[Lifespan: 4/8]
[Lifespan: 3/15]
[Lifespan: 6/20]
His gaze lingered on the final number: Twenty.
The number hovered above a large, glossy hen. Its feathers were full, and its movements were languid. Compared to the others' flickering bronze numbers, this hen's lifespan burned with a deeper and denser light.
"Twenty years," he mused, a cold glint surfacing in his eyes. "Enough to squeeze something useful from it."
He turned and approached the owner, a woman squatting before her hut with her hands busy with chores. When she looked up and saw him clearly, she startled.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed, lurching to her feet. "What happened to you? Why do you look like a corpse?"
"Don't worry about it," Wuji replied dismissively as he returned his focus to the hen. "How much for that one?"
The woman followed his gaze, then frowned. "Too bad for you, Old Ye. We're not selling. That hen has been like family to us for nine years now."
Wuji almost smiled at the exaggerated address. "A hen as family?" he said mildly. "I've known your husband since he was a young boy. He'd never let a fat chicken stroll around the yard untouched for that long."
"Tch. And what if he wouldn't?" she snapped. "Who cares what he thinks? I like the hen. If I say it's not for sale, then it's not."
Before Wuji could respond, Wang Da spoke up, earnest as ever. "Master, it's just a hen, can't you buy another one to nourish yourself? There's no real difference."
The woman's fingers twitched. Wuji noticed the movement and chuckled softly. "You're right," he said, nodding. "I was being rigid. I just thought a large hen might help me recover faster. Ah, well. Old habits." He waved a hand dismissively. "At least it saves me the silver."
He turned away but watched her from the corner of his eye.
At the mention of silver, her posture changed and her gaze fixed on his sleeve, as she swallowed. "Wait," she called out.
Wuji stopped and turned back.
"There's no need to spoil a good relationship over a mere chicken," she said, her voice now quick and practical. "Especially one that might die any day now." Her earlier pride was gone, replaced by naked greed.
Wuji met her gaze calmly. Floating faintly above her head were the numbers in bronze.
[Lifespan: 39/45]
"If only she knew that the mere chicken might outlive her," he thought, though he didn't care. He simply reached into his pouch, drew out two silver coins, and let them clink softly in his palm.
"I'll take that one," he said, pointing to the large hen. Then, his finger shifted slightly to the left. "And those two as well."
The woman froze. "What?" she snapped. "Don't get greedy. I agreed to one, not three. Do you think I'll let you underpay me?"
Wuji snorted. "For two silver, I could go to the city and buy a dozen," he said as he turned to leave without another word.
"Aiya!" she cried, hurrying after him. "So short-tempered! Can't you take a joke?" She forced a smile. "Fine. Take them, but no more changes."
She thrust out her hand, afraid he would actually walk away.
Wuji placed the coins in her palm without ceremony. Behind him, Wang Da stared. Two silver coins, for three chickens.
"Something must have happened to Master while he was unconscious," Wang Da thought, watching Wuji with unease. "That has to be it. Something's definitely changed."
"Stop gawking," Wuji said without turning around. "Help me carry them."
Wang Da hurried forward. He grabbed the squawking birds, and feathers flew as they panicked. Their frantic noise cut through the children's laughter, and the kids stopped playing to watch him struggle with the flapping, jerking bundles.
Wuji walked ahead unhurriedly as the future victims fluttered helplessly in Wang Da's arms behind him.
When they returned, Wang Da shoved the chickens into Wuji's room and slammed the door, muffling their squawks. He grimaced at the feathers already scattering across the bare floor, but the mess hardly mattered since Wuji owned so little.
"Go prepare three graves," Wuji said, already turning toward the workshop.
Wang Da froze. "I thought we weren't burying anyone today. What happened? What about the chickens?"
"I have plans for them," Wuji replied without looking back. "Now hurry."
Still confused, Wang Da hesitated for a moment before heading out.
Inside the workshop, Wuji walked over to a shelf and took down a folded letter. He stared at it, his fingers tightening around the paper.
Then, he stepped closer to the candle. The flame licked the edge of the letter and Wuji watched silently as the last words he had written to his sons curled, blackened, and turned to ash.
Only then did he turn to the Heaven Burial Coffin, which loomed over the workshop, oppressive and immovable.
Carrying it across villages, or worse, into the wilderness, would be impossible in his condition. If he ever decided to leave this village, that is.
"Perhaps I'll need a cart," he thought. "Or a way to shrink it...to store it like a true spirit weapon." The idea lingered, but he knew it was impossible for now.
He sat on top of the coffin and waited. Candlelight crawled along the engraved words on the side of the coffin, stretching and shrinking with each flicker. His attention drifted back to the panel. Slowly and deliberately, he began to sort through the principles and limits of the power he now carried.
The Heaven Burial Coffin—the true source of his strength—could only be used once.
This "use" was not merely activation. From the moment their bond formed, he knew that, after each burial, the coffin would vanish entirely from the material world, sinking into an unknown dimension beyond his current understanding.
This knowledge came without explanation—only certainty and there, in that place beyond reach, the coffin did more than steal lifespan.
It devoured memories.
Not fragments, not echoes, it devoured complete lives—combat instincts, mastered techniques, hard-earned experience, and the quiet habits that define a person.
In essence, it could strip a being down to its identity and digest it whole.
The thought made his scalp prickle.
Fortunately—or perhaps cruelly—this process was not immediate. The coffin needed time to finish its digestion, during which Wuji would be left without it.
He would have to endure that vulnerability, knowing what treasure was being refined beyond his reach, and prepare himself for the dangers that would return with it.
Bringing the coffin back would be even worse.
To recall it from that unknown dimension, he would need to construct a returning formation bound by strict and unforgiving conditions. The first condition was blood. His own blood was the most effective, cleanly resonating with the coffin. However, other blood could be substituted if its quantity and quality were sufficient.
The second condition made his jaw tighten.
Lifespan.
It was a sacrifice measured not in pain or effort, but in years permanently carved from his hard-earned stolen years. At least the cost was not fixed; it scaled with how long the coffin remained beyond the material world. Still, the principle itself infuriated him.
Power, it seemed, was never borrowed, it was always prepaid.
The complexity of its usage left his forehead throbbing with a dull, persistent headache. Yet the reward was tempting enough to silence his hesitation and headache. Power rarely came cheaply, and at least this one paid fairly.
Besides, the Heaven Burial Coffin was not his only option. He could still use ordinary coffins, though the difference lay in efficiency.
The amount of lifespan harvested on ordinary coffin depended on two things: the target and the ritual. The more meticulous and extravagant the burial, the higher the return. Rare incense, proper formations, and refined offerings, each detail mattered. If the buried being was powerful, the gains increased accordingly.
It seemed that the Heaven Burial Coffin respected burial ceremony.
Two hours passed as he slowly absorbed the knowledge pressed into his mind, committing every rule and restriction to memory. Only then did the workshop door creak open.
Wang Da stumbled inside.
His robe was streaked with dirt, his hair was disheveled, and he was breathing unevenly. He dragged himself to a stool and collapsed onto it with a groan; his chest rose and fell sharply.
"That was... too exhausting," he muttered.
At that moment, Wuji stood up, grabbed a knife from the shelf, and walked past Wang Da without saying a word.
Wang Da watched him leave and his exhaustion vanished as a single thought surfaced: "Chicken meat." Saliva pooled in his mouth. It had been so long since he'd tasted meat and tonight felt hopeful.
But that hope shattered with the first frantic squawk outside. He jumped to his feet and rushed outside. The sight that greeted him stopped him cold.
Wuji was slaughtering the chickens with efficient, merciless precision. Blood soaked into the dirt, and feathers caught in the evening breeze. For a man who had never wielded a sword, his movements were steady and practiced.
His eyes held a strange, unsettling focus for someone who was supposedly forgetting his own name at his age.
There was no hunger in his gaze, only anticipation as if he were witnessing something long overdue.
Wang Da swallowed hard, then hurried forward to help. Within minutes, the yard reeked of blood, and feathers drifted aimlessly into the darkening sky.
"I'll go boil some water," Wang Da said quickly. He was eager to help, but more than that, he wanted to eat and sleep as soon as possible.
"Wait." Wuji's voice stopped him cold.
Wang Da turned around.
"Who said we were going to cook them?"
The words hit Wang Da like a slap. His face twisted in confusion. "Then what are we doing with them?"
Wuji wiped the blade clean with a rag, his expression calm. "We're going to bury them."
The color drained from Wang Da's face. "Bury...chickens?" he stammered. "How? Why?"