Immortal Paladin

[POV: Zai Ai]

In the deepest pits where two vast valleys converged, beneath layers of stone so thick that no sunlight dared to reach, burned a forge unlike any other in the Hollowed World. The dragon vein roared endlessly, spewing streams of molten fire across rivulets of obsidian rock. It was within this inferno that Zai Ai had labored, her body and soul tied to the rhythm of hammer and flame.

Time itself had warped in this place. A single year in the outside world stretched into decades within the forge, and she had spent what felt like thousands of years bent over the anvil. Each strike of her hammer drained her vitality, burning her life span like oil before a flame. The once-youthful woman who had walked into this abyss now bore faint streaks of gray threading through her dark hair. To cultivators, a thousand years meant much; to mortals, it was incomprehensible. To Zai Ai, it had been the price of perfection.

At last, she released the hammer. Her hands, calloused and scarred, trembled as she lifted her creation from the anvil. A saber of elegant simplicity gleamed faintly in her grasp, its surface carrying a subtle blue sheen that shimmered like water beneath moonlight. The blade measured three chi and six cun in length (just shy of one hundred and twenty centimeters), yet it weighed no more than a raindrop. Barely a single hao (0.005 grams). The paradox of weightless steel lay cradled in her palm, flawless in balance, terrible in promise.

A soft rain began to fall, seeping even into this buried world, the droplets hissing as they struck the veins of molten rock. Zai Ai raised the saber in one smooth arc, and as she swung it, the raindrops were cleaved and scattered into particles so fine that they vanished altogether. The weapon did not sing like other blades; it whispered, subtle as mist. And within that whisper was a promise of dominion over spirits.

The saber pulsed faintly, alive with the essence of her will, imbued with the power to exorcise offending souls and drive them from the realms of the flesh. Zai Ai traced her burning qi along the flat of the blade, etching two characters into the metal: 雨滴. Her voice echoed against the cavern walls, heavy with exhaustion yet unyielding with pride.

“A fine masterpiece… From this day forth, this saber shall be named—Raindrop.”

Zai Ai had endured more than any mortal or even most cultivators could fathom. To complete the saber, she had sacrificed not only her years but fragments of her sanity, chipped away day by day within the endless roar of the dragon vein’s flames. This forge was known by no name in any record she possessed. To her, it was simply the time-dilating forge, a place where the heavens twisted and mortals broke.

She drew the saber close and, with a measured breath, slipped it into her pocket dimension. Then her eyes turned inward. Her body reeked with exhaustion and neglect. Putrid qi oozed from her pores in faint, sickly trails. It was evidence of the madness she had wrestled with for centuries within this abyss. Her robes, once pristine, had become little more than tattered cloth. Her sleeves were frayed to ribbons, her thighs bare, and even her chest showed where the fabric had long ago surrendered to hammer sparks and heat.

Yet she had endured.

Zai Ai glanced back at the forge’s anvil, the tool that had shared her agony. With reverence, she compressed it into her pocket dimension, its weight and silence vanishing with a flick of will. At last, she looked upward.

Far above, a dim line of light pierced the dark. Dawn had arrived.

She bent her knees, gathered her qi, and in one great leap launched herself to the lip of the pit. Another bound took her across the jagged valley, the fresh air stinging her lungs with freedom.

With a wave of her hand, a small boat shimmered into being beside her. She stepped onto it, the wood creaking faintly as she willed its warp ability to awaken. The runes carved across its hull flared, then sputtered and failed. The boat shook, hovering in place but refusing to obey.

Her face twisted in frustration. “Nongmin!” she cried, her voice echoing across the silent valley. “This has to be your doing! Even from so far away, you still find ways to irk me!”

The boat dimmed, silent as though mocking her rage.

“This… This is unforgivable!”

Every hammer strike she had endured, every drop of lifespan burned, had been for one reason: to save her disciple, Mao Xian, from the abominable spell Da Wei had cast upon him. The boy was no longer himself, his body twisted into a vessel, and she would not and could not allow him to remain under that man’s grasp.

Her thoughts drifted back to the bargain she had struck. Nongmin had demanded that she confess every detail she knew of the Heavenly Temple. She had complied, swallowing her pride, pouring out centuries of knowledge that few alive could match. In return, Nongmin told her where Mao Xian was being held: a pocket dimension, the sacred mountain of Ward, forged by the Old Sage Shouquan himself.

Even with her brilliance, she had not been able to break such a place. The sacred mountain’s formations were unyielding, an art woven by a being whose mastery transcended entire lifetimes of cultivators. She had humbled herself further still, turning to the Heavenly Temple. For a brief span, an unholy alliance had formed with her skills and their battalions of formation experts. Together, they gnawed at the mountain’s defenses, clawing their way past layers of wards and barriers.

For a while, progress seemed possible. Third Realm, Fifth Realm, and even Seventh Realm cultivators managed to breach the outer layers and tread inside after they unraveled so much of the formation. But soon the mountain pushed back. The deeper they went, the slower their advance became, until finally the entire operation stagnated.

Accusations had followed like wolves to a corpse. The Heavenly Temple, suspicious as ever, pointed their fingers at her. They accused her of sabotage, of holding back her true knowledge to delay them. She laughed in their faces, but they didn’t listen. They tried to kill her, blades flashing, and seals forming, but she slipped away. She always slipped away.

That was when she admitted the truth to herself. Even if she reached Mao Xian now, she had no way of undoing the curse Da Wei had wrought. Her pride burned her for the admission, but she turned that pain into resolve. She would forge something new. Something pure. A blade capable of severing bonds not even Da Wei could hold together.

Millennia passed in that abyssal forge until Raindrop was born. And now, finally, she was ready to storm the sacred mountain. To force her way through the last defenses. To face her disciple, no matter how he looked at her.

Her small boat bobbed quietly in the air as she put more qi onto it, her heart steady with determination. She willed the warp array to activate again. The runes along its hull glowed, light pulsing from node to node. She smiled faintly.

“It’s working… It’s working!”

Then the glow sputtered. The light faltered. And with a sound like grinding teeth, the array failed.

Her smile collapsed into fury. “That man!” she snarled, slamming her fist onto the boat’s side. “This reeks of you, Nongmin. This is unacceptable, you still dare to toy with me! This is your technology… You must be the one meddling with it!”

Zai Ai crouched over the hull of the flying skiff, her hands blackened with soot and dust from years inside the time-dilated forge. She worked her fingers along the faint grooves of the warp array, tracing the runes one by one. Each symbol sparked against her qi as she recalled their function. Warping was never a stable craft; even when Nongmin designed it, the array’s layers were temperamental, demanding precision. She ground her teeth as she pressed her qi into the last circuit. The array flared, the air bending around the boat before it steadied. A low hum filled the skiff, signaling that she had finally coaxed it back into operation.

The skiff glided across the sky as she directed it toward the coordinates etched into her memory. But when she arrived at the place she remembered, the sacred mountain of Ward, her heart sank. There was no mountain, not even rubble. The entire landmass had been stripped bare, as though an invisible hand had plucked the peak from existence. Zai Ai floated above the empty horizon, the air still heavy with fragmented qi traces. Whether it had been the Heavenly Temple’s doing or some greater force, she could not say.

With her Tenth Realm cultivation, she was not bound to idleness. For days that blurred into months, she scoured the Hollowed World, her senses stretched to their limit, searching restlessly for even a thread of Mao Xian’s aura. Her pursuit brought her to the borders of the Empire, where she intended to consult Nongmin. Yet when she arrived, her sharp gaze caught the shimmer of a dome surrounding the land. It was subtle, invisible to mortals, but unmistakable to her. The web of sigils locked into place at its edges was something she recognized all too well.

It was a familiar array, the kind the Heavenly Temple used in secret during every Cleanse. A dome meant to trap all who entered, binding them inside without hope of escape. The realization made her grip the skiff’s railing until her knuckles whitened. If the Heavenly Temple was bold enough to cover the Empire itself, then the land was under siege. Whether the Temple would succeed or fail, she could not say, but a strange, treacherous part of her rooted for Nongmin to win. If the Empire fell, so would one of the few pillars still defying the Temple’s absolute reach.

Zai Ai adjusted the skiff, engaging the warp ability again and again as she darted across skies and seas. The Hollowed World was vast beyond comprehension, holding hundreds, perhaps thousands of continents, each one a wilderness of dangers and hidden powers. She drove herself relentlessly, ignoring the strain on her body and mind, convinced her disciple’s trace still lingered somewhere.

Not long after, she gained a lead worth following… The Adventurer’s Guild!

Of course, that made too much sense.

“Why didn’t I think of it!?”

Zai Ai blamed herself, aware that she had been going more and more unhinged lately.

Rage simmered within her, threatening to boil over into slaughter. How dare that ‘being’ take over the fruits of her disciple’s labor? The Adventurer’s Guild was Mao Xian’s creation, built from nothing, carved out with stubborn persistence and brilliance. It was his dream, his banner to rally the lost and the ambitious.

“I will free you, my disciple! Wait for me…”

When Zai Ai reached the archipelago, she learned Mao Xian had departed on an expedition. It had taken little effort for her to track him once she knew where to look. People talked if you pressed the right pressure points, from an intimidated merchant, a drunk captain, to a petty officer eager to make a coin. Zai Ai had no patience for subtlety; she applied her will where it mattered, greased the elbows that needed greasing, and cowed the fools who thought themselves immune to her fury. The threads came together quickly, weaving a clear path to where her disciple had gone.

Her pursuit carried her to a place that made her chest tighten with memory. Below her, cloaked in mists and ruins, lay the Nameless City. It was the very crucible where it all began. She let her skiff float in the clouds, concealing its presence with a weave of formations, then drew out an artifact: a slender, polished tube, its surface engraved with runes. Holding it to her eye, she peered down with startling clarity.

At first glance, the ground swarmed with activity. Adventurers roamed the outskirts, moving in coordinated units, driving back beasts and binding them with chains. Their movements were deliberate and rehearsed. Every action, from how they obscured their trails to how they concealed their camps, spoke of caution and planning. It was clever enough to elude ordinary eyes and make most cultivators turn away, thinking nothing was amiss.

But Zai Ai was not most cultivators. She was a Tenth Realm expert, armed with a thousand years of cunning and artifacts that pierced through deception. What they hid so carefully was to her no more opaque than mist.

Hours turned to days as she kept watch, her eye pressed to the runed tube, following their patterns and tracing their routes. Finally, after so long, the veil parted. She found it: a hidden camp buried in the folds of the land, shielded beneath natural camouflage and a handful of formation arrays. Mediocre by her standard, but enough to fool mortals and lesser cultivators.

Her lips curled into a cold smile. She did not care what game Mao Xian, or rather, the wretch inside him, played here. Whatever schemes the Adventurer’s Guild plotted in the Nameless City meant little to her. What mattered was her disciple. What mattered was exorcising the thing that dared to steal his body and chain his soul.

Zai Ai closed the runed tube and dismissed the skiff into her pocket dimension. The artifact vanished with a shimmer, as did her spyglass. She descended in silence, her figure cutting against the dawn sky, eyes locked on the terrain below. With a single exhale, she summoned Raindrop.

The saber appeared in her hand, its faint blue sheen pulsing with restrained power.

With Raindrop gleaming in her grip and fury blazing in her chest, Zai Ai tore through the layers of pitiful camouflage and shattered the camp’s meager formations like paper screens, her aura crashing down upon bewildered adventurers who scattered before her wrath; she paid them no heed, her gaze fixed on the largest war tent at the camp’s heart, where she burst inside with a single step, saber already in mid-swing as her voice thundered with all the weight of a master’s command and a mother’s anguish. “Give me back my disciple!”