Immortal Paladin

The guests did not need to be told twice. Their luxurious robes swept behind them as they rushed out of the hall, the sound of their retreat echoing off the golden pillars of the throne room. Some muttered prayers beneath their breath, others cursed their bad fortune at being present, but none dared look back. Once the last sandal scraped the marble and the doors slammed shut, I turned my attention to the assassin still writhing from my earlier regeneration. He had already betrayed himself by existing, and there was no further need for him to continue breathing. With a thought, I summoned Thunderous Smite, lightning crackling around my arm before I brought my palm down. The air rang like a struck bell, and his head separated cleanly from his shoulders, smoke curling from the cauterized wound. This time, there would be no return.

Alice’s voice broke the silence, sharp and just a little dissatisfied. “You should have let me kill him. That was mine to finish.” Her crimson eyes glimmered faintly, her scythe already dissolving back into shadow.

I shook the sparks from my hand and replied evenly, “It’s fine. Part of the job. I’m not so soft and tender that I can’t punish a man who dared try to take my life. Moreover, it contributes to my character growth.” The words left me calm, measured, as though swatting down an assassin were no different from sweeping dust from a table.

Her lips pressed into a thin line before she asked, “But now that you used resurrection, won’t you risk revealing yourself as Da Wei?”

Her words lingered in the air like smoke, and I was forced into silence for a heartbeat. She had a point. Resurrection was not exactly common, and it was one of the few abilities that had tied me to the name I had abandoned. Still, I doubted the act would bind suspicion to me alone. Xin Yune could do it. Shouquan might have managed it. The many incarnations of the Divine Physician were even more notorious for it. In the grand scheme of things, my trick was just another ripple in an already stormy sea.

I finally answered her with a low chuckle. “If it comes to that, I can always pretend to be the Divine Physician. I think Xin Yune would even approve of it.”

Alice tilted her head and muttered, “From what I understand, the title isn’t one you just take. The Heavenly Temple bestows it, and only them.”

“Epithets don’t work the way the Temple likes to pretend,” I countered. “They’re attached to certain destinies. Sometimes those destinies linger; sometimes they pass to whoever dares reach for them. And like I said, I’m only pretending. The Heavenly Temple would first have to notice my existence before they could do anything about it, and they’re hardly omnipotent. Their word is not law, no matter how much they want the world to think so.”

I let the assassin’s corpse dissolve into motes of light and shoved what remained into my pocket space, the Item Box swallowing the body like a stone into a pond. My hands dusted themselves clean, though there was no dust to begin with. I glanced back at Alice, thinking of the busy work schedule.

“So,” I asked, voice steady, “what’s next on the agenda?”

“There’s the visitation to your parents,” she began, ticking off each item in her head. “Then the paperwork for the city-state. And lastly, your meeting with Da Ji.”

I grimaced, though I kept my tone light. “Let’s go look for Da Ji.”

Her red eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the faintest twitch of her lips betraying her irritation. She knew what I was doing. Alice had long since realized that dragging me to sit and stamp scrolls was as futile as trying to bottle a storm.

Truth was, I would do everything I could to avoid paperwork. Wars, assassins, and divine inheritances? I could wrestle those with both hands tied. But endless ledgers, decrees, taxes, and signatures? That was the sort of torture that stripped the soul from a man. If I could delegate every sheet to someone else without appearing irresponsible, I would. Perhaps, in some distant future, I would. For now, evasion was my favorite tactic.

We didn’t have to search long. The path carried us through the upper terraces of the city, past murals and hanging banners that told stories of victories past. Soon, we arrived before the Shrine of the Great Guard, its marble steps shining under the high sun. And there, looming in silent judgment, was a statue of myself, cast in stone and bronze, larger-than-life, heroic in pose, my sword raised to the heavens as though I had been born to guard the world.

Da Ji waited just beyond the statue’s shadow, her nine tails swaying lazily in the breeze. She arched an eyebrow the moment her eyes fell on me. “You’re late.”

“We took the long way,” I said with exaggerated nonchalance, gesturing toward the sprawl of terraces, statues, and banners we had passed. “Admiring the scenery and everything. You know, soaking in the grandeur of the city.”

Alice betrayed me with a perfectly calm voice. “He was buying time, trying to avoid the mountain of paperwork in his office.”

Da Ji’s golden eyes sparkled with amusement as her lips curved into that fox-like smile. “What is it with your outfit, brother? You look more like a wandering priest than yourself.”

Feigning hurt, I pressed a hand to my chest. “Why, don’t you recognize your big bro?”

She flicked one of her tails with sharp impatience. “We’re twins. ‘Big bro’ or ‘big sis’ doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh, my little sis is so mature now. Talking like that with such confidence. I’m proud.”

Her tails lashed once, and Alice smothered a laugh beside me, though her eyes betrayed her delight at watching us bicker. For all her elegance, Da Ji never truly escaped the sibling dynamic we shared, even if she pretended otherwise.

With a flick of my hand, I dismissed the wooden mask. My face was bare again, my golden hair dimming its glow to a more natural sheen, turning to black. The heavy ceremonial robes melted into familiar green, fabric reshaping into the attire most recognized as mine. “Better?” I asked, spreading my arms.

We entered the Shrine together. Inside, a low lacquered table waited. Alice settled to my right without hesitation, while Da Ji sat across.

The doors slid open with a soft creak, and Jia Yun stepped inside, carrying a polished tray balanced with careful grace. She knelt by the low table, movements precise yet unhurried, and began preparing the tea. Steam rose in delicate curls as she poured, filling each of our cups with practiced elegance. It had been some time since I last saw her, and while her cultivation had suffered greatly after the ordeal she endured, I could already sense the threads of her essence knitting back together. She was recovering, slowly but surely.

I raised my cup, letting the warmth seep into my fingers before speaking. “How are you doing, Jia Yun?”

She paused, her eyes lowering briefly as though she weighed her words. “My lifestyle here is… a bit different from what I was used to in my Sect,” she admitted softly. Then her lips curved into a faint smile. “But I like it better here.”

Da Ji’s tails swayed behind her, her voice calm and matter-of-fact as she added, “I’ve been sharing my essence with her, helping her cultivate. She’ll return to her ideal peak soon enough.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said before glancing around. “And where’s Chen Wei?”

At the mention of his name, Da Ji’s expression sharpened with the unmistakable edge of sisterly reproach. “Ever since you gave him that treasure, the Chibi Perfume, you call it, he’s been going out more often. Care to explain?”

Oh man… I did tell Chen Wei to keep it a secret… Did he snitch?

I hid my sigh behind a sip of tea, but her accusatory look pinned me down regardless. Chen Wei might have the body of a grown man, but his spirit was still that of a child. That treasure was meant to help him reconcile the two, to adjust at his own pace. I’d hate for him to lose the chance at something resembling a proper childhood, one free of the burdens we were all forced to carry. Thankfully, Da Ji didn’t press the matter further. Perhaps she had resigned herself to the fact that I would never quite let go of my leniency toward him.

Without another word, she pushed a scroll across the table toward me. Its lacquered tube gleamed faintly under the shrine’s lantern light. “What do you think?” she asked, her gaze fixed on me with that same unreadable weight she always carried when something important was about to be said.

I had asked Da Ji to create a kind of scripture for the faith of the Great Guard, not quite a bible, but more like a collection of parables. In the beginning, it had been nothing more than a vague, nameless belief, something I shaped to gather faith and use it as fuel for my cultivation and skills. Yet, over time, the people clung to it more fervently than I ever anticipated, until it became a structure they relied upon as much as food or shelter. It had grown into something larger than I intended, and I wasn’t sure if I should be proud of that or wary.

I unrolled the scroll Da Ji had handed me. The script inside flowed in neat brushstrokes, retelling a story that felt both foreign and familiar. It began with a boy, born to a pair of hunters in a small, nameless village, raised in hardship and meager comfort. It told of how that boy, unwilling to accept the outcome of the military conscription order, beat his own father in a fistfight to seize his place. It had been a brutal choice born of desperation. From there, the tale carried me through the moment he met his Guardians, stalwart figures who stood by his side in countless battles, and the way they eventually clashed with the dreaded Heavenly Demon. Reading it was like seeing my own past refracted through another’s eyes, a memory polished and retold to fit a legend.

“It sure got a lot of embellishments in them…” I let the scroll fall slack and turned to Da Ji. “Censor my name from these stories. I don’t want anyone outside New Willow to know who I really am. It’ll be safer for all of us that way.”

Da Ji nodded once, calm and unbothered, as though she had expected that request.

“How many volumes have you written so far?” I asked.

“Thirteen,” she replied smoothly. “What you’re holding is the third.”

“Then what about the first and second?” I pressed.

Before Da Ji could answer, Alice leaned forward, her lips curving slightly as she interjected, “I wrote the first two.” With a flick of her wrist, she pulled two thick tomes from her pocket space and placed them on the table. The first bore the title Lost Paladin, its binding worn with deliberate antiquity. The second was marked Hollowed Paladin, its leather darker and heavier in tone. I skimmed their pages quickly. Lost Paladin recounted my days in the world of Losten, when I still believed LLO was only a game and not a cage for souls. Hollowed Paladin carried me back to this world, the Hollowed World, through the bitter climb of challenges until the moment of my death.

Alice spoke again, her voice calm and steady. “The ones I write are the Legacies. They won’t be published until after you resolve the chaos you left behind with the Summit. As for Da Ji’s work, those are the Chronicles. Together, they’ll form the faith’s foundation.”

Honestly, I didn’t get the need for separating my story into two… er… major parts, but Alice insisted on their advantages. She argued like a scholar, pointing to structure and clarity, while I kept thinking it all felt like carving myself into two different people when I barely wanted one “legendary self” out there in the first place.

Alice leaned back, tapping the spine of one of her tomes. “As a religious figure, your story must spread so the people can learn how great you are. It isn’t about ego, it’s about giving them an example to follow.”

I frowned. “I don’t want to be a god. That’s the last thing I want. Write it in the first person. It’s not meant to be some scripture of worship. These books should serve as a framework… something to lean on, not something they place above themselves.”

Da Ji, sipping her tea slowly, broke her silence. “Brother, you need to deal with that complex of yours. Whether you want it or not, this must happen. You are already the pillar they lean upon. It’s not about what you want anymore…. It’s about what they need.”

Now, I was just pissed. If there was such a thing as the opposite of a god-complex, I was probably suffering from it. To me, the thought of being exalted above others felt suffocating, like chains of praise tightening around my throat.

Da Ji placed the cup down and gave me her calm, steady stare. “These are trying times. What the people need isn’t a god they can kneel to and beg from. They need a hero who can stand in the daylight and make them believe tomorrow is possible. That is you. A super… hero, not merely a deity.”

I shook my head, unwilling to budge on one point. “Can you at least censor my name? I don’t want it floating around for every wandering eye to see. If these stories must exist, then keep me hidden behind a mask of words.”

Alice gave a sly grin, as though she had already considered this. “Then call yourself David in the stories. Write it with symbols unfamiliar to the common tongue. A name hidden in meaning, yet still tied to you. After all, the characters for ‘Da’ and ‘Wei’ already carry ‘Great’ and ‘Guard.’ It wouldn’t be much of a leap.”

We kept finessing the details, dragging the conversation back and forth across the table. I argued over the flourishes Da Ji had woven into the text, insisting she stop with the embellishments. “And for once,” I added, “include yourself in the damn record. You’re my twin sister. If you’re leaving me to shoulder this story, then at least write your part in.”

Da Ji only shook her head. Her expression carried that stubborn certainty I knew all too well. “On a narrative perspective, I am the one recording. That is my role. If I were to step inside as another figure, it would break the intent. These words are meant to spread hope with you as inspiration. Not me. You shine brighter alone.”

Her words annoyed me, but deep down, I knew she believed it.