"Don’t forget!"


    "Even if you die, you can’t forget!"


    …


    A voice both unfamiliar and familiar echoed as if from distant clouds, repeating endlessly until it dissolved into silence.


    Who?


    What shouldn’t I forget?


    Zuo Mo jolted awake, drenched in sweat as usual. His clothes clung to his skin, cold and clammy. Above him, stars twinkled against the ink-black sky. A night breeze chilled him further.


    That dream again.


    He exhaled heavily and lay back down, hoping to salvage a few more hours of rest.


    <hr>


    "Mo! Don’t forget to water my fields! We signed the contract this month—my harvest depends on you!"


    Before Zuo Mo even reached the mountain pass, the shout pierced the air. A wiry, sun-baked man resembling a withered tree stump stood in the field, nearly invisible against the soil.


    Old Black Head—no one remembered his real name—was the oldest outer disciple of the Wukong Sword Sect.


    Wiping sweat from his brow, Zuo Mo replied flatly, "I won’t forget. Yours is tomorrow."


    His gaunt frame swam in the loose outer disciple robes, his face an immovable mask of stern angles. The "Zombie Face," as others called it, had initially driven people away. But over two years, they’d learned his icy exterior hid a reliable, good-natured soul. Now, despite the grim facade, he was the most sought-after ally among outer disciples.


    Old Black Head grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "Good, good! That skill of yours—never seen anyone else pull it off!"


    Zuo Mo’s mastery of the third layer of the Minor Cloud and Rain Technique was unmatched among outer disciples. This humble spell, designed to summon rain for spirit fields, took most disciples days to learn the first layer and years to reach the second. But the third layer required rare insight—a threshold only Zuo Mo had crossed. Its power doubled crop yields, elevating his status from "Zombie Boy" to "Brother Mo."


    With a curt wave, Zuo Mo trudged onward, adjusting the 300-pound sack of spirit grains digging into his bony shoulder. The burlap dwarfed his slender frame as he inched along the mountain path like an ant hauling a crumb.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    <hr>


    By the time he reached the sect gates, his legs trembled. He dumped the sack, collapsing onto the dusty ground with ragged breaths. After resting, he fished out a palm-sized paper crane—crudely folded from straw-yellow paper, its wings scrawled with vermillion talismans.


    Infusing it with spiritual energy, the crane expanded to the size of a goose. Bamboo struts creaked under the sack’s weight as Zuo Mo clambered aboard.


    "Don’t fail me now, Little Yellow," he muttered, patting the crane’s neck.


    The contraption lurched skyward, swaying like a drunkard as it skimmed the ground. Sect rules barred outer disciples from flying, a decree Zuo Mo had cursed daily for two years.


    For five hours, the crane’s groans harmonized with Zuo Mo’s frayed nerves until the floating city of Dongfu materialized through mist. Centuries ago, the immortal Dongfu had cleaved a mountain peak to build this skyborne hub—now one of Tianyue Realm’s thirteen great cities.


    As they neared, laughter trailed them. A skeletal figure on a drunken paper crane was a comical sight. Zuo Mo sat rigid, ignoring the mockery, though his eyes lingered enviously on true mounts: velvet-backed Fire-Beaked Geese, cloud-riding Rui Xiang Platforms, and silver-winged Thunderbolt Gliders.


    A shadow engulfed them—the hull of a Thousand Feathers Blessing Ship, vast as a mountain. Zuo Mo scowled at the extravagance. Luxury is a cultivator’s original sin.


    <hr>


    At Dongfu’s base, Zuo Mo dismounted, wincing at the cracks spiderwebbing Little Yellow’s frame. The crane’s demise meant another costly replacement. He glared at the endless stairs coiling up the floating city, then at his sack.


    "Need help, brother?"


    A shirtless mountain of muscle loomed over him.


    "Price?" Zuo Mo’s eyes darted to other lurking porters.


    "Three first-grade spirit stones."


    "Robbery!" The words clashed with his deadpan delivery. "Two, take it or leave it."


    The porter glanced at competitors and gritted his teeth. "Deal."


    After sealing the pact via jade slip—Zuo Mo’s insurance against theft—the man hoisted the sack like a feather. Halfway up, Zuo Mo’s legs gave out.


    "Body cultivators have it easy," he wheezed as the porter scooped him up.


    "Easy?" The man snorted. "Fifth-layer Qi Refining barely pays. At Foundation Establishment, maybe. Survival’s brutal these days."


    Zuo Mo nodded, recalling the Blessing Ship. "Who owns that monstrosity?"


    "Chiyue Zhenren’s palace. Avoid anyone in white veils—his concubines. Cross them, and you’ll wish for death."


    <hr>


    At the summit, Zuo Mo paid his fee and navigated to a grimy shop flagged with "Spirit Grains." The clerk offered thirty second-grade stones—no haggling.


    Pocketing the coins, Zuo Mo merged into the crowd, hyperaware of greedy eyes. Dongfu’s streets teemed with aerial boutiques floating on clouds, accessible only to elites. Their perfumed gardens and celestial music belonged to another world—one he never fantasized about.


    Survival first. Fantasies later.