Immortal Paladin

I stood atop the highest balcony of the royal palace, surrounded by the cooling blood mist of dissolved shadowspawn, their remains strewn across the courtyards and alleys like spilled ink. The scent of ozone lingered in the air from the clash of elemental wills, but the silence that followed was more telling than any battlefield cry. Not a single trace of the enemy remained. I had hunted them down to the last flickering wisp. 

With a quiet breath, I extended my hand and let the quintessence flow. Bones responded first, then tendons, flesh, and finally breath. Resurrection wasn’t a holy act in the realm of the Ascended Soul… Instead, it was a matter of technique and cost. And oh, the cost. I could feel the drain in my core and the depletion of the essence I had cultivated over an eternity. Reviving even a handful of people was a feat, but I had brought back hundreds. I wouldn’t be throwing around Ultimate Skills anytime soon. Still, seeing life return to the eyes of the people, hearing gasps become cries of joy, I couldn’t help but feel something stir in my otherwise calloused heart.

From below, Liu Yana’s voice trembled through the silence, barely more than a breath. “This is impossible… They said you were dead… I had my best diviners look into it, but… You were supposed to be gone… Even the Heavenly Temple acknowledged as much…”

I looked down at her from the edge of the stairs and smiled faintly. “But you don’t really believe that, do you, Your Majesty?”

As I descended, my eyes caught a worn leather-bound book tucked among the scattered offerings and incense. I plucked it gently from the mess, wiping ash from its cover. It bore no title, but the contents were unmistakable. It was her personal reflections. I flipped through a few pages, recognizing a passage written in flowing calligraphy. She had recorded everything. That day at the Summit Hall, the moment I made my stand, the decision that spiraled into catastrophe.

“I found this while bringing back your people,” I said, holding the book aloft. “Seems they’re calling it the Sundering of the Summit now.”

Liu Yana blinked, visibly shaken. “Yes… And the rest of the world is now calling you the Unholy Taint…”

A screech sliced through the moment as a falcon soared down, wings stretched wide, talons barely grazing the wind. Han Lun leapt off the bird mid-air, landing on the balcony beside us with a controlled roll. Dust rose around him as he stood, breathless but grinning.

“It’s happening, Your Majesty!” he said, his voice brimming with disbelief and awe. “He resurrected everyone! Even the falcons!”

Liu Yana turned to me again. “This is… unbelievable…”

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to soften the miracle with nonchalance. “Ehh… I’ve had a few enlightenments since the Summit Hall.”

Her stare hardened, voice rising with restrained fury. “It’s only been twenty years!”

I flinched slightly. That part I had expected to sting. To the rest of the Hollowed World, I had vanished for two decades or so. To me, those twenty years had transformed into a hundred thousand years spent inside Meng Po.

“Well,” I murmured, eyes drifting toward the far dunes. “It’s been twenty years for you… But for me, it’s been… a lot. This might be out of place, but can you take it easy on me?”

Before her next question could come, the shadows at my feet stirred. A familiar ripple spread across the marble floor as Hei Mao emerged from the darkness, brushing dust from his shoulders as if he’d only finished sweeping a room.

“Finally,” he drawled, flicking a finger. “The formations and wards that sealed the city? All deconstructed. Took some finesse… But they are not perfect....”

I stretched my arms behind my head, rolling my shoulders until the bones cracked. I didn’t need to stretch, of course. Ascended Soul cultivators didn’t get sore from sitting, nor did we suffer stiffness from channeling quintessence. But old habits clung to the body like moss to a stone, and after unleashing that much power to resurrect a city’s worth of people, the gesture came automatically.

Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if cultivators at my level were supposed to be able to revive the dead so casually. It felt too easy like the world had bent over backwards to let it happen. Maybe that was just the realm of the Ascended Soul for you. Once you broke through the mortal shell, rules became suggestions, and suggestions were just polite words the world whispered before you tore it apart.

But now that the enemies were gone, the city reborn, and the panic settled, there was one thing I really, really needed.

“A breather,” I muttered aloud, glancing around the balcony. “Yeah. A breather sounds nice. What do you think of tea?”

Liu Yana arched an eyebrow. “Tea?”

“I heard it’s all the rage among royalty,” I said with a smirk. “Like, there’s a whole culture dedicated to it…”

To my surprise, she didn’t call a servant. She simply turned and strode into the palace, her robes whispering across the tiles. Han Lun immediately moved to follow, but she raised a single hand.

“I’ll brew it,” she said without looking back. “Myself.”

Han Lun frowned. “Your Majesty, allow me—”

“I insist,” she cut in firmly. “It’s the least I can do.”

I watched the exchange with amusement as she vanished through a side door. Han Lun lingered for a second, obviously torn between propriety and obedience.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Han Lun,” Liu Yana called from within, “why don’t you check on the vassals? Make sure their minds have returned along with their flesh.”

Han Lun turned to me, then to the door she had disappeared behind. “I understand, Your Majesty…” He gave me a look halfway between resignation and apology.

Hei Mao materialized beside him, his form rippling into being as though peeled from the surrounding shadows. “I’ll come with you,” he offered, voice casual but eyes sharp.

That left Liu Yana and me under the carved eaves of the balcony, where sunlight cut through the fading clouds and cast golden reflections across the newly restored city. It was a ghost town no longer. People were awake now. They were nervous and dazed, but breathing. The torches had been replaced with lanterns, and from below, the clatter of life slowly resumed.

Liu Yana returned a moment later, balancing a tray with practiced grace. Two ceramic cups with steam curling up from within. She knelt and set the tray between us before pouring the tea herself.

“Such a reliable disciple,” she murmured as she handed me a cup. “That kid left of his own accord, so as not to disturb our talk, is he?”

“The kid’s too sensitive for his age. Then again, he might be older than me.”

She gave a soft laugh. “I doubt that.”

“Well, if you count the memories I’ve inherited through Divine Possession, I’m technically ancient. I really should be respected more.”

“You say that while slouching like a boy who got caught skipping court. What even is… Divine Possession?”

“Tch. Cultivation doesn’t fix posture. Don’t mind me…”

The tea was fragrant, carrying the scent of something floral and wild. I took a slow sip. Warmth bloomed down my throat, but the comfort wasn’t from spiritual properties or medicinal qi. No, it was something simpler.

“Jasmine from the outer dunes,” Liu Yana said, taking her own cup. “Harvested only under full moonlight, dried over firewood made from red willow. It’s a stubborn leaf… It becomes bitter if left too long, and sour if pulled too soon. But balanced? It’s perfect.”

“You brewed this yourself?”

“I told you I would.”

I took another sip, more appreciative this time. The taste didn’t affect my cultivation. Of course, it didn’t. Ever since I reached the realm of Perfect Immortal, the concept of lifespan has stopped applying to me. It reminded me of the time I was at the peak of my Paladin Legacy.

Mortal joys were small, fragile, and easily forgotten in the pursuit of greater truths. But moments like these… They reminded me that I once walked with two feet on the ground.

I found myself smiling.

Then Liu Yana spoke again.

“Where have you been?”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“I don’t mean to offend,” she said gently, meeting my gaze, “but where have you been?”

I hesitated.

Where had I been?

The Greater Universe? The Hollowed World’s center? The afterlife? The False Earth? Or worse, inside Meng Po, however wrong that sounded.

I guessed, I should go with simplicity.

“The Greater Universe,” I answered at last.

Her eyes widened. “What is it like?”

Ah. That question. I looked down into my tea, watching the steam curl. The truth was, most people in the Hollowed World had no idea it existed. That was by design. This world was a prison. If your prisoners didn’t know the gates existed, they wouldn’t try to leave. And if they feared the outside more than their own shackles, they’d even guard the cell themselves.

I raised my gaze, voice calm. “Few here know that there’s a whole world beyond these. Fewer still know that realms migrate every few centuries, drawn like leaves into a whirlpool, pulled into the Hollowed World, and sealed. And fewer than that know about the sin that made it all possible.”

Her brows creased. “What sin?”

I leaned back, letting the teacup rest between my palms.

“They call it the Cleanse,” I said.

Liu Yana’s eyes lingered on the distant horizon, where the newly risen sun scattered gold across the quiet dunes. Steam curled above her untouched cup, drifting like incense toward the rafters.

“I heard…” she said as if the words resisted her. “The Final Emperor has been spreading propaganda about the Cleanse. Calling it an ancient lie. Trying to buy time for his empire… delaying the inevitable war clawing at his doorstep.”

Ah. That mess.

“Dangarabbit,” I muttered, rubbing my temple.

I knew it already, of course. I’d been inside her… quite literally, thanks to Divine Possession. I’d seen the whispers pass through the court, the political dances in shadowed corridors, and the flickers of doubt in the nobles’ eyes. The Grand Ascension Empire was bleeding from the inside, its wounds inflamed by rumors I’d caused by wrecking the Summit Hall. And now the Final Emperor, proud, desperate Nongmin, was stuck trying to bandage the chaos with cheap words and thinner alliances.

Poor guy. Always cleaning up after me.

Of course, he’d expose the Cleanse. I sighed and took another sip of tea, letting the bitterness wash over my tongue as I pushed my guilt aside.

“What are your plans now?” I asked, watching her closely.

She didn’t answer at first. Her fingers danced idly over the edge of her cup, elegant but distracted. Then, softly, “If I got the calendar right… it’s only been a couple of years since I… died.”

Her voice trembled faintly on that last word.

“I’m sorry,” she continued. “It’s not easy. Reconciling with resurrection. With how we… perished. You haven’t seen anything like it, Da Wei. The skies… those sleeping stars. A moon that just… vanished.”

But I had seen it. I’d seen it through her eyes, felt it in her bones during Divine Possession. The impossible weight of dread. The silence when the heavens blinked shut. The way the torches flickered like they knew they were dying, too.

“I don’t even have the confidence to rebuild the Promised Dunes,” she admitted. “It feels like the dynasty will die with me. I took pride in being the only kingdom ever born from this desert. The Great Sand gave us nothing, and yet we carved something beautiful from it.”

Her gaze hardened, but I saw the fracture beneath.

“And now? After what happened? I fear we might crawl back into the old ways. Barbarism. The sand tribes are patient. They’ve waited generations for us to fall.”

The air turned heavier. Even the wind seemed to retreat from the balcony.

“What do you think?” I asked.

She didn’t rush to answer. Instead, she looked out at the rooftops, where revived falcons circled the spires like silent guardians. Below them, the people of the Promised Dunes wandered in dazed groups, murmuring prayers or weeping with joy. But joy, like resurrection, was only the beginning. Rebuilding took more than a breath.

“The Promised Dunes thrived because of its mortal population,” Liu Yana said. “Because of the Falconeers, our protectors, our pride. That’s why we were inducted into the Martial Alliance. But in the past few years, the Falconeers have been absent and lost. Without them, so many territories under my rule would’ve perished against the sand tribes. Rebuilding from that? It’s asking the impossible.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

She turned. There was conflict in her eyes. Fear, yes. But also… hope. That dangerous, beautiful hope that broke empires and built legends.

“Save us,” she said.

I stared at her for a moment. Her words didn’t come from pride or desperation. They came from someone who had led too long, who had died and returned and knew exactly what it meant to ask for help.

“I’m not a god,” I said quietly.

“No,” she agreed. “But you’ve already done what no god has.”

I looked down at my palm and called it forth. One of my six souls rose, spinning slowly above my hand like a miniature sun. It shimmered with translucent hues, revealing flashes of everything I was: rage, resolve, sorrow, and faith. It was a part of me, a sliver of my being, carved from countless cycles and thousands of years in exile.

“I will leave to you one of my souls,” I said. “If ever you are in need, I will come. All you have to do is accept me.”

She stepped forward without hesitation, her hand gently closing beneath mine.

“I accept.”

The soul pulsed once. Then, like a drop of water falling into stillness, it sank into her chest and disappeared.

The connection was forged.

I felt it immediately. Not control, never control, but resonance. I could feel a tether across fate, and a vow etched into the bones of the world.

“Let this be my mandate,” I said, voice steady. “That I will watch over the people of the Radiant Crown.”

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of jasmine and sand.

“And in return,” I added, “I only ask… for a little bit of faith.”