Sunlight crept slowly through the narrow gaps in the bamboo walls of the hut, carrying with it a golden hue—warm, yet fragile. Morning dew clung to the tips of fresh leaves, as though the world was still holding its breath. In the midst of that stillness, Zhen slowly opened his eyes.
For a moment, he looked around, unsure of where he was. But the strangest thing was how light his body felt—too light. As if the burden that had once chained his limbs had quietly vanished.
He tilted his head up, and saw Rusty pouring water into a stone cup. Zhen watched the man's fingers—calm, graceful in their movement.
"You're awake," Rusty said. "Sooner than I expected." He placed the stone cup on a small table.
The small square table, made of teak wood, stood at the corner of the bed Zhen was lying on.
Zhen tried to sit up, but his muscles still felt unfamiliar. "What did you do to me?" His voice was hoarse, but laced with a cautious undertone.
Rusty offered the cup. "Saved you—from yourself."
Zhen stared at the cup for a moment before taking it with a slightly trembling hand. A sip of the water slid down his throat, leaving behind a hint of leaves and a strange warmth blooming in his belly.
Rusty gazed at the young man for a long moment, then stood up, took a robe from a wooden rack, and handed it to Zhen.
"The world won't wait for you to understand everything," he said, walking toward the kitchen. "But you'll need to start with the first step."
Zhen looked at the black robe, adorned with white dragon embroidery on its back. "Besides, my old robe was torn and ruined when I fell," he muttered, taking a deep breath as he slipped into the new one.
Rusty peeked out from behind the kitchen partition and saw Zhen already wearing the robe. He stepped out carrying a large tray filled with bread and a warm herbal brew, inviting Zhen to join him for breakfast.
Watching Rusty gesture for him to follow, Zhen stepped out of the hut. Then, quietly, he walked toward the flower garden beside the shelter.
Zhen was awestruck by Healer Rusty's flower garden. A myriad of blossoms bloomed in vivid colors, their petals gently kissed by bees that hovered and landed on the stamens. In the garden stood five wooden chairs, each carved with a different symbol on the backrest, arranged in a circle around a large round table made from the same wood. An ornate carving of a dragon biting into a pomegranate graced the center of the table.
"Have a seat. Don't mind the symbols—I carved them out of boredom," Rusty said, settling into a swing as he chewed on a piece of dry bread.
Zhen did as he was told, taking the chair closest to the swing. He began his breakfast, which tasted better than expected. It was, after all, the first bread he'd ever eaten.
Rusty ended his little moment on the swing and turned his gaze toward the patches of sunlight streaming through the leaves, falling upon the herb-drying racks.
After a modest breakfast—two pieces of dry bread and a bitter root brew—Zhen suddenly remembered something.
"How much Goldi do I owe you?" he asked quietly, watching Rusty as he laid out herbs under the sun.
Rusty paused. "All the Goldi you have."
Zhen turned to him sharply. "What do you mean?"
But Rusty only gave a faint smile, his eyes still on the herbs. "You traded your life for a chance. That's expensive. Honestly, it's far too cheap if it's only all your Goldi."
[System has approved.]
[Goldi has been transferred to Healer Rusty.]
[Current Goldi balance: 0]
[No missions available.]
Zhen stared at the system message. His balance now showed zero. He sat in silence, trying to gather his thoughts.
"No more missions from the system?" He lowered his gaze. He had checked again—there was no transparent screen appearing in front of him, no quest list, no indicators.
Only a single line remained: [Awaiting Soul Recovery.]
"What should I do now?" he asked at last.
Rusty finally turned to face him, meeting his eyes directly. "If you don't have a plan, it's best you head to Hija City."
Zhen frowned. "For what?"
Rusty approached the table and pressed down on the carved pomegranate gripped in the dragon's mouth. To Zhen's surprise, a hidden compartment beneath the wood slid open. From it, Rusty retrieved a rolled parchment and held it out. "Become a sword instructor."
Zhen accepted the parchment, which turned out to be a form stamped with the city's emblem. "I'm not a teacher... not even an instructor," he muttered.
Rusty merely smiled at that, his eyes narrowing slightly as if holding back a laugh.
"You're not an Official Blood Hunter either. And yet you have a system—one that lets you hunt and earn Goldi. That means you can learn to become anything. Hija City will teach you many things."
Zhen's gaze drifted toward the clustered, bright clouds beyond the treetops. "Actually… I don't need Goldi. I can fast. I—"
Rusty cut him off. "But the world doesn't feed those who live off the wind. If you want to survive, you must offer something in return. If not blood—then knowledge."
Zhen fell silent for a long time. He was trying to figure out the best path forward—one that would allow him to endure.
'Should I just listen to him?' he thought. 'If I think it through… it does make sense. Then so be it—I'll do whatever it takes to survive and learn in this fleeting world.'
But before Zhen could open his mouth to say he agreed to the idea of applying to be a sword instructor, the healer had already pressed the dragon's head carved into the table. Another hidden compartment opened.
Rusty pulled out a collection of engraving tools, small bottles of magical ink, and neatly rolled leather parchment. He took a long bronze needle and dipped it into the black ink—hot and viscous, with faint blue sparks flickering at the surface. The ink had been mixed with charcoal ground from coconut shells, freshly taken using tongs from his large tray.
"Your left wrist," he said, his tone edged with command.
Zhen pushed up the sleeve of his robe to expose his left arm, obeying without resistance. He sat still as Rusty gently held his wrist.
"You'll need to hold still for a moment."
The bronze needle touched his skin. At first, its tip felt cold on the surface. But as it pierced slowly deeper, a growing heat began to meld with the flesh beneath.
Rusty etched an ancient emblem: a sword blade encased in a radiant circle, like a rising sun. Between the edges of the blade, he inscribed a single symbol from the Sky Hermits' language—one that could only be translated as: "The Forgotten Successor."
"This symbol isn't just decoration," Rusty said as he wiped the sweat beading on Zhen's skin. "True swordsmanship isn't passed down through blood—but through self-awareness."
He smiled with satisfaction as the ink shimmered for a brief moment, then seeped deep into Zhen's skin. The mark now looked as though it had always been there, something he was born with.
"It's done." Rusty picked up a feather quill. Then, in swift strokes, he wrote across the back of the parchment. His handwriting was elegant, flowing with an air of authority: Zhen,The sole student of Rusty Feran—swordsman and spirit healer of the Green Village. Trained directly in the Way of the Natural Blade. Unaffiliated with any academy. Deemed worthy to participate in the Sword Instructor Selection of the Western Clan Academy.
'Western Clan Academy?' Zhen blinked, realization dawning on him. This healer… was testing his very life.