Immortal Paladin

Time had long ceased to matter in Meng Po’s world. It was not that time stopped, but rather that it bent to her will. Within this quiet realm beyond the veil, the laws of the Greater Universe faltered, distorted by her intent. Outside eyes, should they peer in, would see only stillness, a world preserved like an insect in amber. But inside, it pulsed with motion, memories, and cultivation.

Bending reality was no difficult feat for a being like her. What proved difficult, however, was concealing her manipulations from the others. There were seven Supreme Beings, each with power equal to her own or worse, with fewer restraints. That was why she couldn’t shelter Da Wei for long. The moment he crossed into the Ascended Soul realm, no matter how quiet the ripple, one of them would feel it.

She sat alone beneath the crooked willow, steam rising from her bowl of soup. With a flick of her wrist, the surface shimmered, the reflection changing to show Da Wei standing amidst the Veil of Mist. He looked up, as if sensing her gaze.

“Someone’s peeping…” Da Wei muttered. “Uuuh… Is that you, Meng Po? Never mind…”

She gave a soft chuckle. “Interesting… It seems he retained more insight than I thought. So that’s the Destiny Seeking Eye’s doing…”

Within the soup’s reflection, a surge of black energy distorted the scene. A skeletal figure emerged, his robes in tatters, but his scythe gleaming with death essence.

“Die, Da Wei!” the skeleton roared.

The Yama King had made his move.

Meng Po sighed as she leaned forward. She had been watching that one for a long time. Once, he had been a young man of staggering potential. Beneath his mortal flaws had bloomed a heart more compassionate than most, perhaps too compassionate. Among all those who bore the title of Yama, he had reminded her of the gentlest of the Ten Kings.

That era had long passed.

The Supreme Beings, in their hunger to preserve dominion, could not abide the return of the Underworld’s strength. When the Ten Kings had been betrayed, Meng Po should have known they wouldn’t have stopped with the Underworld. As the Ten Layers became Nine, the Supreme Beings continued to persist in their ways as they found special mortals with potential snuffed to the ground. That once had been a gentle Yama reflected in the soup was stripped of his name, drowned in corruption, and abandoned in the False Earth to rot in madness.

Her hands had been tied back then. Bound by the accords, her power leashed beneath Heaven’s scrutiny, Meng Po had watched in silence as her world crumbled. Only later, when fate turned its gaze elsewhere, did she steal the shattered soul of the boy and hide him in her mist. She hoped rest would bring healing.

She had been wrong.

It had been hundreds and thousands of years, and it seemed the candidate Yama King was on the edge of losing his sense of self.

Within the soup’s reflection, the corrupted Yama King raised his skeletal arm. Runes blazed along his bone-white spine as a horrific surge of necrotic qi exploded outward. An Immortal Art activated: King of the Underworld.

From the swirling shadows rose his army. Pale riders, shadow-wreathed beasts, and revenants cloaked in voidfire. Each one a powerhouse in its own right. They obeyed his call without hesitation.

“As expected of a talent I’ve coveted for a long time… Unfortunately, he had lost his way…”

Da Wei, with golden light crackling at his feet, darted through their ranks like lightning. His footwork shimmered, a trail of blazing footprints erupting across the void.

“Zealot’s Stride,” Meng Po murmured. “Still relying on that one? It’s an interesting technique, but it’s too flashy…”

The undead pressed harder, boxing him in, forcing him to respond.

Meng Po sipped slowly from her bowl.

“He’s not ready for an Immortal Art,” she mused. “But neither is he weak.”

“I will end you!” the Yama King snarled, and a torrent of death surged forth.

Da Wei weaved through the tide with golden flashes. He didn’t seem to fight with pure dominance, but rather with wit and nerve.

Then, in a blur, Da Wei appeared right before his enemy and grinned. “Hey, buddy, you said you only have half of your soul… You really shouldn’t have told me that.”

The Yama King reacted instantly. Shadows gathered and wraiths pierced through Da Wei’s chest.

“You got careless,” the skeletal monarch said.

But Da Wei only smirked, even as blood misted around him. “Nah. I just wanted to get to know you…” And then, Da Wei plucked a glowing soul from his core. “Divine Possession.”

The soul flew into the Yama King’s body. The skeletal figure tried to strike him down again, but another soul followed, and then another. The scythe fell limp. The rest of the undead army halted mid-charge, as if time itself paused for them alone.

Meng Po stood. Her stool clattered to the floor, forgotten. The surface of her pot rippled with new meaning.

“This is… incredible,” she whispered.

Through the reflection, she heard Da Wei’s voice. “I told you, didn’t I? I just want to understand you…”

He plucked another soul from the asterisk-shaped Dantian that glowed at his core. “Divine Possession.”

The mist gave way. No longer were they in battle. The scenery twisted. Reality peeled like bark from a tree. They were entering the Yama King’s Dao World.

It was a landscape of endless tombstones, a cemetery that stretched beyond imagination. There were no cities, no fields, and no rivers. Just graves. The sun was a dull green orb hanging in the sky, and the moon was a cracked skull that bled spectral light. Undead wandered the terrain, lost in eternal motion.

And then deeper still.

Da Wei’s divine sense sank beneath that facade, past Dao, past Will, and into memory. The mist grew heavier, until it opened like curtains. Meng Po’s soup reflected what came next.

A newborn cried softly in a room filled with warmth. Two smiling, loving parents leaned over him and gave him a name. Or tried to. Meng Po leaned closer. But the name was muted. The sound distorted. A hole existed where it should have been. Even in memory, it could not be spoken. The Supreme Beings’ power was thorough. It was not simply that the world forgot his name… It had been removed from reality entirely.

She watched as the boy grew under his parents’ care. Their wealth was modest, and their hearts generous. The family had no great ambitions, no schemes for power. They were the kind of good people the world punished.

One day, lightning struck. Not metaphorically. A true bolt from the heavens split the night and killed his parents in an instant.

Debtors came. Thieves followed. Kind neighbors turned cold. Friends vanished.

The boy survived. He hardened. He learned to lie, to steal, and to fight. His hands grew cruel, but somewhere behind his eyes, a sliver of innocence refused to die. It flickered quietly, holding onto the memory of warm hands and soft lullabies.

Meng Po lowered her hand and sat again, her gaze fixed on the soup.

“You poor child,” she whispered. “Even now, you can’t be called by name…”

Soon, the boy became a young man, and his story continued…

After being stripped of everything, he wandered until a sect took him in, a seemingly generous act from a seemingly noble order. But that kindness was yet another illusion. They recognized his potential for death arts and gave him a cultivation method, veiled in praise, yet riddled with hidden bindings. At first, he was grateful. At last, someone saw value in him. He studied with fervor. Yet slowly and subtly, the method altered his perception. It dulled his resistance. It shaped his thoughts.

The sect praised his obedience, not his progress.

He did not notice the changes until it was far too late.

His talent for necromancy blossomed rapidly, and within that dark brilliance, fragments of his old self and of sanity returned. But the revival of his mind only revealed his condition more clearly. He looked upon his own hands one night and saw not flesh, but bone. His body had long been transformed into something else and unnatural. A weapon, a living jiangshi, forged to be immune to death itself. His existence had been reforged by cruel hands not just to serve, but to be used.

And that realization broke him.

The brief flicker of sanity was snuffed out in despair. The warmth that once lingered in his soul was buried beneath madness. He stopped caring for right or wrong. Innocence was no shield. Whether friend or foe, he slaughtered all who stood in his way. His hands, once reaching out in search of kindness, now dragged corpses in their wake.

Meng Po stirred the soup, but her eyes were far from calm. “He was never meant to become this,” she whispered to herself.

Unbeknownst to the Yama King, his fall had been planned. Every act of evil, every decision shaped by despair, accumulated karma that weighted down his fate. The Supreme Beings had placed threads upon him long before he could defend himself. Once he died, his soul would have naturally entered the Wheel of Reincarnation, destined for the Hell Path, where torment was eternal and reform impossible.

Meng Po had once believed in her duty zealously. When she first saw the young man’s death recorded, she’d prepared to do her part, to let the karma run its course.

But something intervened.

Instead of passing through the Wheel, his soul was snatched and placed inside the Hollowed World… a Poison Jar sealed away from creation, where ‘failed souls’ were recycled and repurposed through endless reincarnations. There, the Yama King lived again and again, each life more twisted than the last. He was forged not by his own actions, but by design, ripened for future use.

Meng Po had noticed too late.

She sent a fragment of her soul to retrieve him. But by the time her echo reached the Hollowed World, it had already passed into its next iteration. The world had changed, the container reshaped, and the boy she once pitied was cast further away into the False Earth.

Even now, she marveled at it.

A world inside a world. A planet hidden within another. “Such deceit,” she muttered, “even among the heavens.”

The soup shifted once more. The False Earth appeared, familiar to her now. A battlefield marked by shattered structures and terrain. There, in that cruel simulation, the Yama King had worn another face. In that body, he encountered Da Wei for the first time.

She saw the formation trap, its runes flickering in the ruins like dying stars.

An explosion. Then silence. And finally, the duel.

Da Wei had fought the Yama King alone, not with overwhelming power, but with overwhelming will. And against all odds, he had won. In that moment, the corruption fractured, if only for a heartbeat.

Now, the Divine Possession ended. The dreamscape faded, and the souls returned to Da Wei’s Dantian. The soup stilled.

In its reflection stood the Yama King, not the monstrous figure clad in death, but someone cleaner and fairer. Human, even. His skeletal visage vanished, restored by the quiet dignity he used to have in his youth.

“Thank you...” he said, voice trembling.

Meng Po narrowed her eyes, genuinely confused. “What did he even do?”

“I didn’t even know it would work,” Da Wei admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

Shortly after, Da Wei and the Yama King appeared before her.

“He is ready,” Da Wei said.

Meng Po sipped from her ladle and feigned disinterest. “Want soup?”

“No thanks…” Da Wei replied with a sheepish grin.

The Yama King accepted the wooden bowl. He stared into it for a long time, his face unreadable.

“I clung to power, thinking I didn’t need this,” he murmured. “I thought revenge was the only path to make things right… But I think I’m ready to move on.”

Meng Po blinked, her surprise momentarily breaking through the ancient calm. She turned to Da Wei. “What did you do?” she asked.

The Yama King answered for him.

“He made my wish come true.”

He drank. The soup slid down his throat. And then he began to cry, not in grief, but in joy.

Meng Po watched him. She had waved her hand thousands of times, sending countless souls onward without pause. She had never once revealed the Wheel of Reincarnation’s location. The risk of theft by Supreme Beings or arrogant immortals was too great.

But this was different.

For once, she moved with solemn reverence.

From within her Dantian, Meng Po retrieved it: the Wheel of Reincarnation, hidden even from time itself. It emerged slowly, a divine mechanism etched with celestial law. Six spokes rotated, each one humming with karmic resonance. It rose above her, casting radiant light across the silent realm.

The young man who had once been called ‘Yama King’ lifted upward, his figure bathed in that soft glow. He closed his eyes. He said no final words.

The Wheel turned. And he was gone.

Da Wei stood in awe, his voice a whisper.

“That was beautiful…”

Meng Po, after a long silence, nodded. “I know.”

From behind the veil of mist, Hei Mao revealed himself with a shimmer. “We are ready to go.”

Meng Po, however, wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze lingered on Da Wei, studying him as though his face held the answer to a riddle she’d been trying to solve for several lifetimes.

“So how did you do it?” she asked quietly. “He looked like a changed man…”

Da Wei tilted his head, still watching the fading light where the Yama King had been carried away by the Wheel. “It’s my Immortal Art,” he said. “Or at least… a part of it.”

Meng Po’s eyes narrowed, her interest piqued. “Does it have a name?”

“Not yet,” Da Wei replied with a shrug. “It doesn’t even have a name.”

She gave a disappointed hum, but persisted. “Can you tell me more about it?”

“No,” Da Wei answered without hesitation.

Meng Po chuckled softly. “That’s unfortunate. But it’s good to be careful… It seems you’ve ignored my advice entirely and pushed for Perfect Immortal...”

Da Wei provided, ”I am sorry, but I will need every bit of strength I can muster for the fight to come.”

”So, are you ready to go?”

“I am.”

Hei Mao stretched, cracking his knuckles, then nodded toward the mists. “It’s time to go back to the Hollowed World. I will come along.”

“Yes,” Meng Po said simply.

And with a wave of her sleeve, the two vanished in a burst of gentle ripples, like footsteps vanishing on the surface of still water.

Silence returned.

Meng Po stood alone, holding the shrunk Wheel of Reincarnation in one palm. Its divine presence radiated gently, as if still echoing the moment it turned. From within her sleeves, she retrieved something else… an old jar, sealed in talismanic script, corroded and split.

Her brow lifted.

Tiny ants crawled over her hand. The jar, created on the very day she first met Da Wei, had been torn open by the persistent little creatures. What had once been meant to seal corruption now lay broken.

“Would you look at that?” she whispered, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “The ants won… That’s a good omen, don’t you think?”

Behind her, space folded silently. From the distortion stepped a woman with long dark hair, wearing robes of soft gray etched with silver lotus patterns. Her beauty was graceful, refined, and unmistakably ethereal.

Meng Po did not turn. “Xin Yune, my dear… I’ve done my end of the deal.”

“Thank you,” Xin Yune said.

For a fragment of her own soul, Xin Yune had made many demands, each one specific, and each one just as costly. Even now, Meng Po found herself marveling at the weight of emotion that soul had carried.

Xin Yune sat across from her without a word. Meng Po poured soup into a simple wooden bowl and pushed it to her.

“It’s time I go now, I guess…” Xin Yune said, her smile a mixture of calm and nostalgia. “I had a fulfilling life.”

“You don’t have to do it,” Meng Po murmured. “Not if you don’t want to…”

But Xin Yune was resolute. She took the bowl and drank. The flavor was ancient, bitter, sweet, and warm. She drank it all. When she finished, her eyes shimmered. Tears waited at the edge but never fell.

Then she was gone.

In her place sat Meng Po. But no longer the hunched, wrinkled old woman. No longer the bent frame weighed down by countless ages. She was radiant now, silver-haired and graceful, skin smooth as jade, and eyes like moonlight on still water. The goddess she once was, restored.

The world shook.

The skies above her realm trembled as two battered figures stumbled into view. Horse-Face’s long snout was smeared with blood. Ox-Head had gashes across his torso, and his breath was ragged.

“For your information, goddess,” Horse-Face grunted, “that minor god was easy pickings… We never anticipated he could summon others of his kind, though…”

Ox-Head stared at her. “Goddess… you look different.”

But Meng Po didn’t respond. Her gaze was already rising toward the sky.

Seven silhouettes had appeared, towering above the clouds. Their shapes were indistinct, shifting, and half-formed, as though reality itself rejected the burden of defining them. But she knew them.

The Supreme Beings.

They spoke without mouths, their voices echoing from all directions, layered and immutable.

“You broke the Treaty.”

“You concealed an irregular.”

“You interfered with the Judgment of the Six Paths.”

“You have become a liability, Po of Forgetfulness.”

Meng Po’s eyes narrowed. Her realm stirred. Rivers slowed. Mountains trembled. Time, which bowed to her command, briefly resisted the will of the higher heavens. She lifted her hands, and from her palm, quintessence swirled. It was the pure, undeniable power of her peak era.

It was a show of force.

But deep down, she knew it was futile.

Her world, though vast, was one among many. Her power, though deep, had been fragmented for ages. She was not what she used to be, and these seven had always watched from beyond even the Wheel.

She thought, strangely, of Da Wei.

A mortal, once. Now an Ascended Soul, Fate-Touched, bearer of an unnamed Immortal Art. Someone too bold to submit, too stubborn to die, and too kind to let monsters rot in silence. And she thought of Xin Yune. Her memories flickered like lanterns, full of heartbreak, devotion, and sacrifice. And she wondered if it was truly Da Wei’s power… or just Da Wei himself… that made people walk toward impossible things with open hearts.

Meng Po sighed. She looked down at her soup.

“...That Da Wei really got a pull on the ladies,” she muttered.

And though the heavens thundered above her, she chuckled softly into her ladle, as though she had all the time in the world.

She lifted her chin, narrowed her eyes, and laughed louder.

“Come,” she said, raising her ladle like a scepter, “and get some, you supreme idiots!”