Li Yaochen did not sleep.
He lay on his back, eyes fixed on the fractured sky above the Fringe, counting breaths instead of seconds. Each inhale scraped his chest. Each exhale reminded him that he was still alive, and that someone else now knew his name.
That knowledge sat heavier than the pain in his leg.
Names were anchors.
In the lower world, a name tied you to debts, grudges, bloodlines. In places touched by cultivation, a name could become a thread—something that could be pulled.
The cultivator's gaze replayed in his mind. Not curiosity. Not cruelty.
Assessment.
Li Yaochen shifted carefully, wincing as stone bit into his spine. Around him, the Fringe murmured in restless sleep. Somewhere nearby, someone cried quietly. Somewhere else, laughter rang out, sharp and drunk.
Life went on.
It always did.
---
By dawn, word of the collapse had spread.
The tunnel was sealed off with crude markings warning scavengers away, but that only drew more people. Where danger existed, opportunity followed. Rumors of exposed veins, hidden relics, or cultivator oversight traveled faster than fire.
Li Yaochen avoided the crowd.
He moved instead toward the outer stretch of the Fringe, where structures thinned and the land dipped toward the ash fields. Each step sent fire through his leg, but he welcomed the pain. It kept his thoughts grounded.
A hunched figure waved him over.
Old Qian.
The man's back was bent permanently, either from age or from bowing too often to people who deserved neither respect nor mercy. He ran a small stall made of scrap wood and canvas, selling information, odd tools, and half-rotten rations.
"You're breathing," Old Qian said, squinting at him. "That's unexpected."
"So I'm told," Li Yaochen replied, lowering himself onto a crate.
Old Qian leaned closer, voice dropping. "You caused a stir yesterday."
"I lifted rocks."
"You warned people."
Li Yaochen said nothing.
Old Qian studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Careful. Standing out gets you noticed. Not standing out gets you eaten. Balance is difficult."
"I'm learning," Li Yaochen said quietly.
Old Qian reached beneath the stall and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. "Three copper marks. Painkiller paste. Weak, but better than nothing."
Li Yaochen hesitated, then handed over the coins. The paste smelled bitter and metallic. He smeared it over his leg, hissing as heat flared and then dulled to a manageable ache.
"Why help me?" Li Yaochen asked.
Old Qian snorted. "I help people who might live. The dead don't repay favors."
Fair enough.
As Li Yaochen stood to leave, Old Qian added, almost as an afterthought, "Also… a cultivator asked about you."
Li Yaochen's fingers tightened.
"What did he ask?"
"If you were local. If you had family. If you were worth remembering."
"And?" Li Yaochen asked.
Old Qian met his eyes. "I told him the truth. You're nobody."
Relief and unease tangled in Li Yaochen's chest.
Nobody could be invisible.
Nobody could also be disposable.
---
The afternoon dragged.
Li Yaochen worked light tasks—sorting scrap, carrying water, things that wouldn't strain his leg too badly. He kept his head down, his movements unremarkable, his presence forgettable.
It didn't help.
Near dusk, a shadow fell over him.
Li Yaochen looked up slowly.
Two youths stood there, robes marked with a minor sect's sigil. Their posture was loose, confident. The kind of confidence that came from knowing the law bent for them.
"You're Li Yaochen," one said.
It wasn't a question.
Li Yaochen inclined his head slightly. "Yes."
The other smiled. "Senior Brother wishes to see you."
"I'm injured," Li Yaochen replied. "I can't travel far."
The first youth shrugged. "Then limp."
Hands closed around his arms.
Not violently.
Firmly.
As they dragged him through the Fringe, Li Yaochen felt the pressure in his chest stir again. Not warning this time.
Recognition.
As if something deep within him was paying attention.
They stopped before a temporary pavilion erected at the edge of the district. Inside, incense burned low. The cultivator from the collapse sat calmly, sipping tea.
"Li Yaochen," he said, setting the cup down. "You survived Iron River's blade. You sensed a collapse before it happened. And yet you have no cultivation."
He smiled faintly. "Curious."
Li Yaochen lowered his gaze. "I'm just cautious."
"Caution doesn't save people," the cultivator replied. "Something else does."
Silence stretched.
Finally, the man leaned forward. "Tell me, Li Yaochen. If I offered you a chance—"
Li Yaochen's chest tightened painfully.
"—to be remembered," the cultivator finished, "what would you be willing to pay?"
Li Yaochen raised his eyes.
In them was no eagerness.
Only exhaustion.
And something harder.
"I don't have much," he said. "But whatever I have, I already lost once."
The cultivator laughed softly, genuinely amused.
"Good," he said. "People with nothing are the most interesting."
As Li Yaochen was released and shoved back into the dust, one truth burned clear in his mind:
The heavens might have forgotten his name.
But men had begun to speak it.
And that was far more dangerous.