Immortal Paladin

[POV: Yuen Fu]

What was it like to be a broken toy? Yuen Fu had asked himself that question more times than he could count, yet the answer never changed. His lips were dry and cracked, his stomach gnawed with hunger, and no matter how deeply he tried to reach for his qi, nothing stirred within him. It had been a year since that grotesque display by Zhu Guanting. He watched the family torn apart before his eyes, his own desperate begging falling on deaf ears, and since then, the spark in him had withered. The light remained, faint as a star struggling against dawn, but what filled the void now was anger, sharp and festering.

He killed his handler three times. The first with a concealed shard of iron, the second by strangling with bare hands, and the third with nothing but teeth and rage. Each time, the overseers revived him in one way or another, only to throw him back into the pit. His punishment was always the same: stripped of cultivation, reduced to flesh and bone, forced to fight men as helpless as himself. Slave farmers, weak and terrified, were thrust at him, their bodies little more than shields for the amusement of the crowd. Without qi, he was no more than a human who knew the sword, and though his skill remained peerless, inevitability gnawed at him… broken ribs, torn muscles, concussions that blurred his vision until the world swam red. The crowd loved it. They craved the spectacle of grit, the raw clash of mortal bodies grinding one another down, and demanded him back again and again.

The pain wore at him slowly, like a grindstone stripping away the edges of steel. The Arena’s physicians always patched him together, enough for the next show, their hands steady and detached, like carpenters fixing a tool that was never theirs. But even as his body healed, something inside him crumbled. At some point, he gave up. He stopped fighting, dropped his sword, and let his opponents strike him down. That earned him a different punishment. He was chained in the pits and forced to watch the grotesque plays that Zhu Guanting arranged for those who needed a reminder. Children hacking at each other with dull blades until their little bodies collapsed in exhaustion. Brothers strangling brothers for scraps of bread. Lovers weeping as they drove weapons into one another’s hearts. He could not close his eyes, could not block the screams, and each scene dug deeper into his chest until even anger threatened to rot into despair.

So, when they dragged him back out into the Arena, he performed. He swung his sword not for honor, not for survival, but to entertain. The crowd’s roars became chains louder than iron, binding him to this endless cycle. His body shrank, his skin pale and thin, his once-strong frame now gaunt. A year without proper food had reduced his muscles to wiry cords, his cheeks hollow, and his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Sealed cultivation made recovery impossible; every scar remained, every bruise lingered, and hunger gnawed relentlessly. Yuen Fu, the Sun-Souled, who once shone with warmth and hope, now looked less like a warrior and more like a starved beast clinging to the last thread of existence.

Dream and memory blurred together for Yuen Fu. He saw the arena sands painted red, peasants pressed into battle with nothing but farm tools in their hands. He remembered their frightened faces, the trembling old men clutching rusted hoes, the mothers wielding kitchen knives. He had cut them down, again and again, because the collar at his throat forced him forward, and because hesitation meant his own death.

“Kill him! Kill him!” the crowd had roared. “Thunderbird! Show us your wings!”

Then came the beasts, hulking creatures released from iron cages, their roars echoing against the high walls. Claws ripped flesh, fangs snapped bone, yet Yuen Fu had survived, barely. And then the cultivators, those granted their qi, while his own remained sealed away. They mocked him, flaunted their techniques, and still, somehow, he had endured. One year of this, and it was a miracle he still drew breath.

The dream dissolved into cold shock. A bucket of water splashed over him, jerking him awake. He sputtered, blinking against the sting, as a gruff voice growled above him.

“Wretch,” the handler spat, voice full of venom. “Get moving. Make it count this time. Your reckoning’s almost upon you.”

Yuen Fu’s body ached as he sat up, his lips cracked and dry. He touched the Sun within him, that flickering light, and felt a faint warmth spread across his chest. It gave him no strength, not with the collar choking his cultivation, but it was enough to keep despair at bay.

They stripped him of his filthy rags and washed him in perfumed water, hands delicate where the handler’s had been cruel. Then they clothed him in new robes of gold and yellow, the colors of a champion, though he felt none of the pride such colors should bring. Food was placed before him, a king’s spread of meats and fruits, yet everything tasted like dust in his mouth. Still, he ate, because hunger had long taught him obedience.

Finally, he was led into a chamber draped in silks. Waiting there were women, beautiful and painted, their faces serene but their eyes trembling. One by one, they shed their robes until bare skin glowed under lantern light.

“Everything will be fine,” one whispered, her hands reaching for him.

Yuen Fu froze. His fists clenched around the robe on his shoulders. His throat tightened as disgust rose in him, not for them, but for himself. “Don’t,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “I don’t deserve this. Not after… everything I’ve done.”

The women drew back in alarm, fear breaking across their faces. “Have we displeased you?” one asked, voice shaking.

He shook his head, but the words caught in his throat.

Another woman, her tone almost mechanical, whispered, “We are not being kind. It is our duty.”

Yuen Fu turned away, heart twisting, ready to reject them entirely. But they rushed forward, voices desperate. “Please… if you refuse us, we will be executed. Our families too!” One was already sobbing, her tears hot against his arm as she clung to him.

A sterner woman stepped forward, her tone brittle but firm. “This is tradition. Warriors who survive the arena are rewarded. It is our responsibility, as women of Northshire, to bear the seed of such warriors. That is how our kingdom prospers.”

Another fell to her knees before him, voice breaking. “If we do not conceive, we will die… all of us. You’ve seen what Zhu Guanting is capable of. Please.”

Yuen Fu closed his eyes, trembling. His heart ached at their words. The cruelty of this kingdom ran so deep that even this act, draped in silk and perfume, was another chain, another stage of suffering.

When he finally opened his eyes, the women were already at his side, wiping his brow, guiding him toward the bed with trembling hands. They spoke softly, almost rehearsed, but there was a tenderness hidden beneath their fear.

The night blurred in sweat, tears, and whispers. Yuen Fu did not know how it began, whether it was duty, desperation, or the simple inevitability of his own exhaustion, but when the silks fell and their hands pressed against him, he did not push them away. For so long he had been forced to kill, to bleed, and to endure cruelty beyond reason. Now, in the embrace of trembling women, he let go.

They made love. Not gently, not tenderly, but in a way that felt like surrender and survival at once. Despite his weakened frame, he answered them all, his breath ragged and body frail, yet he pressed on. He had never known such intimacy, and he lost his virginity that night in the arms of not one, but many, who clung to him as if their own lives depended on it. Perhaps they did.

Hours passed in a haze, until the chamber was filled with exhausted sighs and the stillness that followed spent bodies. Yuen Fu lay at the center of them, women draped across him like a sea of warmth. For the first time in a year, he felt not the chill of chains, nor the bite of the arena’s sands, but the embrace of others who shared his suffering in different ways.

As he drifted into sleep, the Sun within him stirred. It spread its light through his broken frame, reaching for every vein and marrow, warming every corner that despair had claimed. Sparks flickered inside his soul, fragile yet radiant. For so long, he had been dimmed, a broken toy. Tonight, even in shame and sorrow, a spark of hope returned.

And for the first time in too long, Yuen Fu felt warm.

Yuen Fu woke to warmth. Soft arms rested over him, the weight of bodies curled against his frail frame. The women stirred one by one, their sleepy voices whispering his name. They rose with care, as if he were something fragile. Gentle hands guided him to the bath, washing him clean of sweat and fatigue. They shaved the rough stubble from his jaw, trimmed the unruly length of his hair, and clothed him once more in golden robes.

When they were done, they formed a line and bowed deeply. “Thank you for your seed,” they said in unison, their voices low and heavy with meaning. “May you prosper in the battlefield, Lord Thunderbird.”

Yuen Fu’s gaze lingered on them only briefly, before the handler pulled him away. He walked in silence, the collar at his throat a constant reminder of chains unseen. They came before a set of towering double doors, gilded with steel engravings of fire and storms.

The handler leaned close, his whisper sharp. “Be respectful before the Northshire Sovereign. Do not test her patience.”

The doors groaned open, and Yuen Fu was ushered into a vast hall. Zhu Guanting stood near the dais, his smile wide, but it was not him who commanded the space. Beside him loomed a giant of a woman, three meters tall, her presence filling the chamber like a blazing furnace.

She was nothing like the shriveled tyrant Yuen Fu had glimpsed a year past. Her skin gleamed like bronze under firelight. Her hair, a tangled bush of curls, framed her face in untamed majesty. Her robes shimmered with embroidered tales of war and triumph, victories stitched into every thread.

Zhu Guanting spread his arms theatrically. “Behold! You stand before the Demon King of Fiery Vapor, Her Majesty Lei Jia! Kneel!”

The name thundered in Yuen Fu’s chest, but his heart did not bow. His lips moved before he could stop himself. “I refuse.”

“Wretch!” Zhu Guanting roared, his voice trembling with fury. “You dare—”

A single gesture from Lei Jia silenced him. Zhu Guanting’s protests boiled at his lips, but another wave of her hand brought silence to all. The air thickened. Yuen Fu gasped as heat crushed into his lungs, his chest burning as if set aflame. He dropped to his knees, clawing for breath as the very air boiled around him.

“That’s better,” Lei Jia said, her voice smooth and dangerous.

Every instinct screamed for Yuen Fu to collapse, yet something inside him blazed. With sheer will, he ground his teeth and pushed himself upright. His vision blurred, his body trembling. “I kneel… to no one but my true liege, the Great Guard!”

The words tore from his throat, and then his strength gave way. He fell forward, face striking the polished stone.

Lei Jia clapped, laughter like rolling thunder. “Incredible. Impressive. This Great Guard must be quite a figure indeed, to inspire such loyalty.”

Zhu Guanting seized the moment, bowing so low his forehead nearly scraped the floor. “Surely, Great Demon King, this so-called Great Guard cannot compare to your majesty.”

Lei Jia’s grin widened. “Oh, Zhu Guanting, you never disappoint. Always groveling, always flattering. But do you know why I called this boy here?” She leaned forward, eyes gleaming like molten metal. “So he could watch you debase yourself before me.”

The crushing pressure lifted. Cool air rushed back into Yuen Fu’s lungs. He gasped, dragging in breath after trembling breath. With unsteady legs, he forced himself to stand again, defiance flickering faintly in his eyes.

Lei Jia rose from her throne, her shadow vast as she gestured toward him. “Come,” she said, her voice like a promise of storms. “Join me, boy. I offer you freedom, power, wealth… and more women than you can ever dream of.”

Yuen Fu stood firm, fury burning in his dimmed eyes, the embers of defiance rekindled by anger. His voice carried across the throne room, sharp and unyielding. “I will not be your toy anymore!”

Zhu Guanting’s face twisted with rage. “Insolent wretch! You dare raise your voice before Her Majesty?”

Lei Jia turned her head slowly, her gaze falling on Zhu Guanting. The air itself shivered under her presence. Her voice dripped with menace. “I thought you told me he was broken.”

Zhu Guanting’s arrogance withered into terror. He collapsed to his knees, bowing frantically. “Forgive me, Demon King! I… I failed to deliver!”

Lei Jia raised a single finger. Zhu Guanting screamed as his throat constricted, breath fleeing his lungs. Boils spread grotesquely across his skin, bursting with steam as he writhed on the marble floor. She did not spare him another glance as her eyes fixed back on Yuen Fu.

Her smile returned, cruel but intrigued. “Your spirit is admirable. Not since the Arena of Pain was first built has a warrior endured so long. You fought without cultivation, yet you wielded strength that made the crowds roar. Even stripped bare, you remind me of the Martial Saints of old, those who reached immortality through sheer Martial Ascension.”

She spread her arms, voice echoing like a vow. “Serve under me, boy. I offer you power over the people you wish to save. With me, you could make a difference in this broken world.”

Yuen Fu drew in a deep, steadying breath. His collar bit into his throat, but he reached inward, past hunger, pain, and chains. A whisper left his lips, quiet but resolute. “Holy Sword.”

Light burst from his soul, transfiguring into a blade that gleamed in his palm, radiant and pure. The air cracked with pressure as divine essence surged. His stance sharpened, his body vibrating with the edge of transcendence.

Half a Step to Martial Ascension.

His voice roared like thunder. “First Form—Heavenly Thundering Smite!”

In a clap of thunder, he vanished, reappearing before Lei Jia with sword drawn. The strike fell like lightning, splitting the air itself.

Lei Jia only smiled, her form dissolving like vapor. His blade passed through empty air. She rematerialized behind him, amusement dancing in her molten eyes. “Impressive, really, but not enough.”

Yuen Fu spun. His wrist flicked, the sword glowing with piercing brilliance. “Second Form—Heavenly Divining Smite!”

The blade cut true, bursting into her eye. Lei Jia staggered, black vapor hissing as bloodless steam hissed from the wound.

Without hesitation, Yuen Fu roared again, flames igniting along his conjured blade. “Third Form—Heavenly Searing Smite!”

Divine fire engulfed his sword, trailing arcs of burning judgment as he swung with everything left in his battered body.

Lei Jia’s smile vanished. Her hand flicked almost lazily, yet the impact was like a mountain’s fist. Yuen Fu’s body snapped through the air, slamming into the ground with a deafening crash. Marble shattered under his weight, cracks spiderwebbing outward.

Pain consumed him, vision swimming. His grip faltered, the Holy Sword flickering to embers before vanishing. Darkness pressed in, yet for a heartbeat he saw something blurry and  fleeting. Home. New Willow. The village that had once been his world.

And then, deep in his soul, a whisper called to him. It was familiar and steady. It was his master’s voice. “You did well. Now… pray to me.”