Immortal Paladin

By the time dusk arrived, we found ourselves on a lake, drifting in a canoe. An old man, hunched yet steady, paddled with a bamboo stick, pushing us gently across the shimmering water. The sun, half-submerged on the horizon, painted the sky in streaks of orange and violet, its reflection stretching across the rippling surface like molten gold.

Xin Yune sat across from me, wrapped in a thick shawl, her once-pristine skin now wrinkled and paper-thin. Her frame, once full of life and energy, had withered, her form frail, almost delicate. She had grown thinner throughout the day, the vibrance in her eyes dimming ever so slightly. It was happening fast. Too fast.

I wanted to complain about how unfair the Emperor was—to have all this knowledge, all this power, and yet let this happen—but I held my tongue. I wasn’t going to ruin these last moments for her.

Instead, I sighed, leaning back slightly. ”How are you feeling?” I asked.

Xin Yune, still gazing at the sunset, smiled faintly. ”Still pretty.”

I let out a small laugh. ”Yeah,” I said, shaking my head. ”But not pretty much alive.”

She turned her head just enough to glare at me, though her expression was more amused than angry. ”Hey,” she snapped, ”don’t kill me off too soon just yet.”

I smirked. ”No promises.”

”If I die, I die,” Xin Yune said as she rested her eyes, her voice light like the breeze gliding over the lake. ”That’s life.”

She opened them again after a moment, staring at the pink and gold sky like she was trying to commit it to memory. Her smile was soft, unfazed by the weight of her words.

”You’d at least let me try to resurrect you if you do end up kicking the bucket, right?” I asked, only half-joking. Honestly, I’d still try even if she rejected my offer.

It was selfish, but…

”Sure,” she answered easily, as though giving me permission to try something I was doomed to fail at. “Don’t blame Nongmin if you failed, though. That would be childish.”

I leaned forward, elbows on knees. ”You must be pretty confident with your son’s precognition, huh?”

She chuckled dryly. ”We should stop referencing His Majesty as my son,” she said, her tone shifting. ”It’s improper.”

”Yeah… your son,” I murmured, trying not to smirk.

”A slip of the tongue,” she waved her hand lazily, as though brushing away something irrelevant. But her eyes lingered a second too long on the setting sun. ”I do miss the little boy in him.”

I tilted my head, watching her for a moment. ”Hey,” I said. ”Are we in love?”

Xin Yune turned her head to me slowly, blinking once, twice, before staring at me like I’d grown a second head.

”You’re an idiot,” she said flatly, then gave a faint huff of a laugh. ”Don’t get carried away.”

I rubbed my chin. ”Just checking.”

She sighed. ”It’s not love. Not that grand or poetic nonsense. It’s just…” She looked up again, watching the clouds take on deeper hues. ”I started to care. You started to care. Sympathize. Feel. That’s it. Don’t dramatize it. Don’t make something big out of it. We care, just because.”

I looked at her sideways. ”So, it’s not falling in love. It’s falling into caring?”

She nodded. ”Caring for a fellow human being. And that’s enough.”

I leaned back again and closed my eyes for a moment, the creaking of the canoe beneath us like a lullaby to the conversation.

”Yeah,” I murmured. ”That’s enough.”

We stepped off the canoe as the old man gave us a solemn nod and pushed off again, disappearing into the growing dusk. I offered my arm to Xin Yune, and she took it without a word. Hers was thinner now, frail almost, and the wrinkles around her eyes told me the end wasn’t far.

I led the way, and we walked slowly, our footsteps quiet against the stone path bordering the lake. We didn’t say anything for a few moments, just listening to the crickets and the ripple of the water.

Then she asked, “Since I shared part of my story, don’t you think it’s your turn?”

I hesitated. I could’ve cheated. I had access to the memories of David_69, but that guy wasn’t me, not really. That identity felt borrowed, artificial, stitched into me like a costume. What felt real, what truly was me, was David from Earth. Earth David. So, I decided to be honest.

“I used to be a teacher,” I said.

She tilted her head slightly, curious. “Ah? You taught disciples?”

“No, not quite… I was an elementary school teacher.”

That gave her pause. “Elementary? A junior Sect, then?”

“Er… not a Sect. Just… young children. I taught music, arts, physical education, and health.”

Her expression brightened in understanding, or at least what she thought was understanding. “A multidisciplinary Sect Master! “Sound arts, image crafts, body cultivation, and medicinal studies. A fourfold mastery. You truly must’ve been a Sect Master. No wonder your aura is strange! The harmonization of disparate schools of thought... fascinating!”

I choked a little on my own spit, trying not to laugh. “That’s… not what I meant.”

She was already too deep in the misunderstanding. “What’s the name of your Sect?” she asked excitedly. “What are your founding principles?”

“Oh dear god,” I muttered.

“God?” She raised a brow, probably assuming I meant some obscure deity. “So it’s a theocratic order! I must say, I’ve never heard of such a composition. You must’ve kept a low profile to avoid clashing with the orthodox branches.”

I sighed in surrender, raising one hand to the heavens in a helpless gesture. “The name of my Sect… is the Department of Education.”

She placed a hand over her mouth, stunned. “So daring. To name your Sect after the concept of education itself! That’s truly ambitious. What are your cultivation principles? Enlightenment through instruction? Strength through childhood discipline?”

I rubbed my temples. “You have no idea how ironic all of that sounds.”

She squeezed my arm affectionately, still chuckling to herself. “You’re a strange one.”

“Says the woman who might die tonight and still made time to bicker about Sect names.”

“True,” she admitted. “But it’s been fun. And in this final chapter, maybe that’s all I wanted.”

We spent fifteen minutes like that—me trying to clarify, and her over-interpreting everything. Every time I said something simple, she layered a dozen assumptions over it like frosting on a disaster cake. Eventually, I just gave up.

In the end, the only thing she really absorbed was that my “Sect” helped mortal children earn the qualifications they needed for a better future. She even praised the structure.

“We have something similar in the Empire,” she said, chewing on a candied hawthorn skewer she must’ve been saving from her Storage Ring as we walked. “A merit-based path, still rare, but growing. Sikao Biaoji was a product of it.”

“That… actually makes me feel better,” I said. “I still don’t like the guy, seems like a weird dude. Okay, this is out of the blue, but hear me out. Just out of curiosity… How much lifespan does a cultivator gain each time they break through? As the Divine Physician, I reckon you know the answer. Books are really stingy when it comes to answers. Hopefully, this wasn’t too confidential of an information you’d rather not share.”

She turned to me then, eyes narrowed with faint suspicion.  Specifically, it was a look of half suspicion, half worry, and a pinch of professional curiosity.

I gave her a knowing smirk. “Just curious. Promise.”

The answer to my question was probably around Class Four or Class Three knowledge, but it didn’t seem to be that big of a deal.

“Mmhm,” she said, unconvinced. Still, she continued, “It varies, of course. Cultivation method, talent, even fate plays a part. But in general, the higher you climb, the longer you live.”

There was something strange in her tone; it was soft and cautious, as if she were measuring her words. I didn’t press. Not yet.

“Do you want to live longer?” she asked. “It’s out of my… personal curiosity. Promise. Just to get this out of the way. I am not judging, since everyone wants to live longer after all, and there was no exception.”

It was a simple question, and she didn’t really need to explain herself. But it knocked something loose in me, especially with how she worded it. I thought about my disciples. No, more like students. About Ren Xun’s lazy jokes. Gu Jie’s brooding face. Lu Gao’s cynical comments. Hei Mao’s ever-stubborn eyes.

“I want time,” I said. “To make things right.”

Xin Yune took a moment to think. Her face, now lined and softened with age, turned contemplative under the shade of the umbrella I still held for us. It was strange, holding an umbrella like this… almost domestic. Almost sweet.

Then she finally spoke. “Every cultivation realm adds years to your lifespan. It’s one of the core blessings of the path, though many forget that’s all it really is—borrowed time.”

I nodded. “So what’s the math like?”

She gave me a tired but patient smile. “For Martial Tempering, the First Realm… you get anywhere between six to ten years more. It’s minor, barely noticeable.”

“Okay…” I tried to do the math in my head, but she continued without waiting.

“Mind Enlightenment, the Second Realm, gives anywhere from ten to a hundred years. The gap’s bigger because some people truly awaken late, and others barely scrape by.”

“Huh. Then I suppose the Third?”

“Will Reinforcement and Spirit Mystery, the Third and Fourth Realms, are more consistent. You gain at least a hundred years, but most cultivators enjoy a lifespan not less than a thousand when they reach this level. It’s when the soul and will begin to manifest tangibly.”

That tracked. I was in Will Reinforcement and, well, the idea of living a thousand years used to feel terrifying. Now it felt… tight. Like it wasn’t nearly enough.

She kept going. “Soul Recognition, Essence Gathering, and Bloodline Refinement—Fifth to Seventh—these are where things get mythical. One to three thousand years of life is common.”

“Three thousand… Each Realm?” I muttered, imagining the sheer time. Entire civilizations rise and fall in less.

“Yes. Each. But,” she said, looking up at me from under her wrinkled brow, “you can still die. Time runs long, not forever.”

“What about the next tiers?”

“Heart Path, World Path, and Endless Path, the Eighth to Tenth… that’s when you begin touching the divine. A hundred to ten thousand years, depending on comprehension. It’s less about power and more about resonance with the world.”

My lips pressed together. “So time itself starts being subjective.”

“Exactly.”

I exhaled slowly. “And the Eleventh Realm?”

Xin Yune smiled faintly. “Perfect Immortal. The moment one steps into that realm… time no longer holds sway. Lifespan becomes an outdated concept. You are no longer walking the river—you’ve become the river.”

That one made me pause. I imagined it. Endless time. A still mind. A perfect state of being.

But I’d already seen people in power. And none of them ever seemed peaceful.

She was quiet after that. Her feet shuffled lightly against the dirt path. Her face had truly begun to age now. She looked like someone’s grandmother. Someone’s teacher. But also still herself, Xin Yune.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“For what?” she asked.

“Thank you for spending your time with me,” I said quietly. “Really. I’m glad I spent my time, when I was most vulnerable, with you. If I had to slum it with the Emperor or bottle it all up, I’d probably do something… regrettable.”

Xin Yune shook her head, her voice soft and dry like worn silk. “No,” she said. “It’s me who’s thankful.”

“Hush now,” I whispered, lifting a single finger and pressing it gently to her lips. ”Let me win this argument, pwetty pwease?”

She raised an eyebrow at that. Amused. Uncertain. But she didn’t pull away.

We were back in the abandoned warehouse, the one with all of Nongmin’s precious, secured hoard. It took her a second to realize. We’d been too deep in conversation—about life and death, love and care, about Sect names that weren’t really Sects and my failures to translate the word ‘elementary’—to notice the journey back.

Then, from the shadows, a familiar figure emerged.

The Emperor.

Nongmin.

I blinked, tilted my head. “Huh,” I said casually, “he really appeared.”

Xin Yune turned to me, eyes narrowing, then back at Nongmin with growing wariness. “What… is happening?” she asked, guarded now, the healer’s warmth in her voice cooling.

I scratched the back of my head. “Well, I had this idea,” I began, “about storming this place with you. Imagine it: what would happen if I came here, with you in tow, intent on raiding the place, grabbing whatever loot I could, screaming at the top of my lungs that I deserved compensation?”

Xin Yune arched a brow, still watching her son. “And… he saw it. Through his Heavenly Eye.”

“Probably,” I shrugged. “In some alternate reality, I convinced you to raid this place with me. We were loud. Chaotic. I was yelling threats into the void—‘If Nongmin doesn’t want me to steal his stuff, he better show up by X time,’ and to make things more interesting, I might’ve said I’d make his mom dance on a pole if he didn’t.”

Xin Yune broke into a sharp cackle. The kind that aged her and made her eyes sparkle all the same. Her laughter echoed around the dusty beams of the warehouse.

“That part was a lie, by the way,” I added quickly.

Nongmin said nothing. He just stood there, arms behind his back, posture rigid, face unreadable.

“Yep,” I concluded, pointing at him. “To surmise, I basically summoned the Emperor here.”

Silence reigned for a heartbeat too long.

Then Xin Yune said, “You’re insane.”

“Only marginally.” And relatively. I’m pretty sane, I think.

She gave a faint chuckle, eyes still locked on her son. “Well, my boy… looks like you’ve been summoned.”

Nongmin’s gaze finally shifted from me to her. And I saw it. That flicker. That twitch. That tiny, fleeting crack in his imperial mask.

He didn’t say anything.

But then again, maybe he didn’t have to.

I had a feeling we were about to talk.

Or fight.

Maybe both.

Nongmin just stood there. Quiet. Stoic. Probably recalculating all his life decisions.

“So yeah,” I said. “To sum it up… I basically summoned the Emperor. Cool trick, right?”

And now? I threw the ball into his court.

I gently squeezed Xin Yune’s hand and raised it, linking our fingers deliberately. I imagined it—intent laced with absurd conviction—that I’d confess my undying love to his mother, ask her hand in marriage, and proclaim myself the next Emperor if Nongmin wouldn’t at least open up to her about how he really felt. I imagined myself making demands in an alternate future.

“If you won’t tell her how you feel,” I thought sharply, aiming the spike of the idea directly into his soul if that was even possible, “then I’ll become your new father. Emperor Da Wei has a nice ring to it, no?”

I internally counted in my head up to ten, and then I would act on what I just imagined.

Nongmin’s left cheek twitched.

Score.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said slowly, his voice tight. “For caring for this worthless son of yours. I’m… sorry. I’m sorry this son of yours cannot find a way to extend your life.”

I probed with my Divine Sense and detected no lies. He meant it.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Xin Yune said, softly. “You’ve given me more than enough.”

I wasn’t done messing with him. I imagined it again—intent sharp and playful—if he still stayed cold, I’d force him to do a chicken dance right here, right now.

He stared straight at me, deadpan.

“I’ll never do a chicken dance,” he said.

Xin Yune blinked. “What’s… a chicken dance?”

Nongmin stiffened. “Just a poor joke from this barbarian.”

“Correction,” I said, placing a hand on my chest, “a Paladin… barbarian? Meh… Never mind that. We’re not here for that.”

Nongmin’s expression shifted just slightly to fatigue, maybe. Maybe something else.

Xin Yune didn’t press. Instead, she stood a little straighter beside me, leaning ever so slightly into my arm.

We were at the edge of something. An ending, maybe, or the last act of a play whose script we’d all long abandoned. But as long as I had the stage, I figured I might as well improvise.

“So what is it gonna be? You know what? I have an idea.”

Nongmin stood still, silent as ever, watching me with his usual impassive gaze. His robes barely shifted despite the open air of the warehouse, his stance as regal and unreadable as ever. But I knew better. Beneath that cold exterior, I had already struck a nerve.

I smirked and raised a hand, crooking a finger toward him. ”Come here.”

I wasn’t polite about it. If anything, my tone was closer to summoning a dog than addressing an Emperor. A lesser man would have drawn his sword on me, thrown me in a dungeon, or worse. And yet, he walked forward, measured, and graceful. Obedient, even.

Surprising.

He could have dismissed me as an insolent fool, as he had done countless times before. But he loved his mother more than he loved his pride. And that, I could respect.

As soon as he stepped within reach, I pulled out a small glass vial from my robes. Chibi Perfume. A ridiculous name for an even more ridiculous effect. Truly a gimmick item. Without hesitation, I uncorked it and sprayed it directly into his face.

Nongmin flinched, blinking rapidly as the mist settled over him.

Xin Yune, standing just beside me, frowned. “Did you just poison my son?”

I turned to her, feigning offense. “What do you take me for? A brute? I wouldn’t poison him in front of his aged mother.”

Her lips pressed together, unimpressed. “So you would poison him behind my back?”

I shrugged. “I make no promises.”

Nongmin’s lips twitched, but he remained silent. That was the thing with him. He rarely spoke unless necessary, but I could see it. That exasperation, that faint annoyance simmering beneath his blank stare as he watched his mother and me exchange barbed words like old friends.

With a small sigh, I turned to Xin Yune. This was the real reason I had summoned the Emperor here.

I stepped closer and raised my hand. The air around us shifted, charged with an unseen energy. I called upon Divine Word: Life.

Golden-green light shimmered at my fingertips before flowing into her, tendrils of light slithering beneath her skin like rivers of vitality. I wasn’t some grand immortal who could cheat true death as defined by this world, but I could fortify life, strengthen what remained, make it brighter, and make it last as much as possible.

Xin Yune inhaled sharply. Wrinkles smoothed, her frail body filled out. The years peeled away, and before me stood the woman I first met, the same one who had scolded me with that sharp tongue of hers, who had challenged me at every turn.

She lifted her hands, staring at them in awe. “You…” She looked up at me, eyes wide. “What did you do?”

I smirked. “Fixed you up.”

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a much smaller problem.

I turned, and there stood Nongmin, except he was no longer the towering, regal Emperor. He was tiny, barely up to my waist, his Imperial robes shrinking to fit his chibi form. A perfect miniature version of himself, complete with furrowed brows and a scowl that looked far less intimidating on a child’s face.

I let out a low whistle. “Well. That worked better than expected.”

Xin Yune, finally registering the sight, blinked. And then… she burst out laughing.

Nongmin—little Nongmin—glared up at me. “What,” he said, voice still as even and composed as ever despite the absurdity of his appearance, “did you do to me?”

I crouched down to his level, grinning. “You’ve been chibified, Your Majesty. Temporary effect. Probably. No guarantees.” I was lying. He’d revert to his original shape.

His eye twitched.

I clapped a hand on his tiny shoulder. “But enough about you. Your mother’s looking great, huh? If I choose to keep her by my side, we could probably do a round and a few more.”

Nongmin coughed, looking terrified.

Xin Yune chuckled, brushing her newly restored hands over her arms, as if still getting used to her rejuvenated form. But her gaze softened as she looked at her son: now small, now vulnerable.

I stood up, brushing the dust off my sleeves. “Listen, kid,” I said, deliberately using the word kid just to rile him up. “I can’t stop the inevitable. I can’t rewrite fate. But I’ll be damned if I let you sit on that throne, drowning in politics, while your mother’s still here.”

Nongmin stiffened.

I grabbed his tiny hand, small enough now that my fingers wrapped entirely around his wrist, and pulled it forward. Then, just as firmly, I grabbed Xin Yune’s hand and pressed them together.

“Go and have fun,” I ordered. “She’s your mother. She doesn’t have much time left. And as her only son, it’s your job to make her happy in her final days.” It was not my job to make her happy.

Nongmin looked up at me, with the same unreadable face. But I knew him well enough by now. He understood.

I patted his head, grinning. “Have a heart, little Emperor.”

For the first time in a long, long while, he didn’t argue.