Mortal's Journey to Immortality

Jack woke to the smell. It was a thick, wet rot that had seeped into the thatch of his roof months ago and never left. The air in the hut was stagnant, heavy with the humidity of a coming storm. Sweat glued his shirt to his back. Behind him, Thomas breathed. The sound was like a bellows working a forge—loud, ragged, rhythmic. *Hoo-haa. Hoo-haa.* Each exhale shook the wooden frame of their bed. Jack lay still, eyes open in the gloom. He traced the rough weave of his hemp sleeve with his thumb. The fibers were stiff, scratching against his skin. He should have slept. He had to gather firewood tomorrow. His body screamed for rest. But sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, his mind drifted to the image Old Man Zhang had painted last week by the fire. Zhang spoke of a city where people ate steamed buns soft as clouds, not dry, bitter corn cakes. Where you didn’t have to look down when walking past neighbors. Where your face mattered more than your birthplace. Jack closed his eyes tight. The darkness behind his lids was not empty. It was filled with gold coins and wide streets. A greedy heat pulsed in his chest. It wasn’t fear. It was hunger. A sharp, clawing need to escape this hole in the mountain. The resistance sat heavy in his limbs as he pushed himself up. His joints cracked in the silence. Thomas grunted, rolling over, unaware. Jack moved silently to the corner where a small basket held the day’s meager store. He dug through the dry husks and found three shriveled red berries. They were hard, tasteless, but sweet enough for his sister. He pocketed them, feeling their weight against his thigh. A secret bribe. A small anchor to the world outside this misery. By noon the next day, the wood on Jack’s back threatened to snap his spine. The bundle was taller than he was, a chaotic mountain of dry branches that scraped his chin. He trudged through the village gate, ignoring the stares. His legs burned. When he reached their door, the hinges screamed in protest. Inside, the light was dim. But it wasn’t empty. A man sat on their only stool. He was fat, his belly pressing against a suit of shiny, new satin that caught the weak sunlight. A small, waxed mustache curled above his lip. Thomas’s distant uncle from the city. He fanned himself with a fan made of peacock feathers. “Thomas,” the man said, his voice booming in the small space. “Good boy. Bringing in an elder.” Jack dropped the wood. The crash shook dust from the rafters. He stood by the doorway, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. He watched. The man spoke of wine shops. Of steady work. Of *Qi Refining Sect*. The words didn’t mean much to Jack, but the numbers did. One tael of silver a month. Enough to buy rice that wasn’t moldy. Enough to buy dignity. Thomas hesitated. He looked at his calloused hands, then at the floor. “It is… a lot to ask, Uncle.” The man smiled, showing teeth stained with tea. “Think of it, Thomas. Your son won’t be picking weeds forever. He will become a gentleman. A person of substance.” Jack didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His throat was dry as ash. His eyes locked onto the man’s waist. There hung a string of copper coins. They clinked softly as the man shifted, a metallic *ting-ting* that sounded like music. Jack swallowed hard. The sound in his throat was loud enough to hear. He forced himself to stay silent, to nod slightly when Thomas agreed. He was calculating. Weighing the cost of submission against the promise of power. The copper glinted again. He drank the air, tasting metal and opportunity. Hours later, the cart was gone. The road behind their hut was a scar in the dirt, fading into the dust kicked up by the wheels. *Creak. Creak.* The sound faded with the hills. Jack stood in the doorway. His parents were small specks on the horizon now. They didn’t look back. Neither did he. He bit down on his lower lip. Hard. The pain was sharp, bright. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and warm. He let it pool there until it ran over his chin, dripping onto his dusty tunic. It tasted like iron. Like life. His hands curled into fists. Nails dug into palms, breaking the skin. The stinging pain grounded him. It kept the tears from coming. Keep them back. Cry later. Cry alone. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood. He looked at the empty space where the cart had been. A vow formed in the quiet of his chest, cold and hard as stone. *I will make money,* he thought, not with words, but with a tightening in his gut. *I will buy your way out. Both of you.* The hunger returned, sharper now. It wasn’t just about food anymore. It was about control. About never being helpless again. Jack turned back into the dark hut. The wood pile waited. The future loomed. And for the first time, he stepped toward it without looking back at the past. Jack didn’t pull away. He leaned in, just an inch. The old man’s hand rested on Jack’s head. It was heavy. Greasy. The palm felt like a slab of cold wax, slick with sweat and cheap pomade. A sharp, cloying scent hit Jack’s nose—rotten plum wine mixed with powdered rouge that had gone stale in the heat. It coated the back of his throat, thick and suffocating. Jack closed his eyes. He let out a small, soft breath through his nose, tilting his head to press harder against the hand. A good boy. Obedient. Weak. The man’s fingers scratched his scalp, rough nails dragging over the hair, leaving nothing but irritation behind. Jack smiled with his lips downcast, hiding the tightness in his jaw. The scent was worse up close. It smelled of indulgence. Of soft lives lived in dirty beds. It made Jack’s stomach turn, a cold knot tightening under his ribs. *That’s what power looks like?* he thought, not as a question, but as a diagnosis. Soft. Smelly. Dependent on things that rot. He wanted nothing to do with it. Not because it was evil. Because it was pathetic. The hand lifted away. Jack kept his head bowed until the footsteps faded down the dirt path. Only then did he straighten up. He wiped his forehead with his forearm, smearing the sweat and the imagined dust of that man’s vanity off his skin. Inside the hut, Thomas was still unpacking his meager bag. His wife, Sarah, stood by the small iron stove, her back rigid. She turned as Jack entered. Her eyes were red-rimmed, dry from holding back tears for too long. “Jack,” she said. Her voice was thin, stretched tight like an old rope. “You must be good. The elders… they look for troublemakers. If you argue, if you fight…” She stopped. She couldn’t finish the sentence without breaking. Instead, she reached out and straightened his collar, her fingers trembling slightly against the rough fabric of his tunic. “Endure. Silence is gold. Remember that.” “Endure,” Jack repeated. The word felt like a stone in his mouth. Flat. Heavy. Meaningless. He nodded once. A mechanical dip of the head. *Yes, Mother. I will endure.* Thomas clapped him on the shoulder. “Your father believes in you, son. You have a strong spirit. Keep it grounded.” Jack looked at Thomas’s hand on his shoulder. He saw the callouses there, earned from years of breaking rock and digging earth. Earned by submission to a world that demanded nothing but compliance. Jack didn’t shrug him off. He just stood there, letting the weight press down on him, mapping the pressure points on his spine. “Grounded,” Jack said. His voice was steady. Calm. Too calm for a boy of twelve who had just lost his parents’ protection to a distant mountain sect. “I will be grounded.” When they left, the hut felt larger. Colder. The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was pressurized, waiting to burst. Jack walked past them, into the small room he shared with his mother’s old sewing box and a pile of worn blankets. He sat on the edge of the bed frame. He faced the wall. There was a c***k in the plaster there, jagged and deep, running vertically like a scar across the concrete. It had been there since the house was built. A flaw in the foundation that no amount of patching could hide. Rain used to seep through it in the monsoon season, dripping onto the floorboards with a steady *tick-tick-tick* that kept Jack awake for nights on end. He stared at the c***k. His finger extended, hovering inches from the plaster. He didn’t touch it. He just watched his hand tremble slightly, then still. In his mind, he saw his fingertip extend, lengthening into a spike of pure force. One push. That’s all it would take. The wall wouldn’t just break; it would disappear. The mountain itself would bow. No more rain dripping. No more cold drafts in winter. No more old men with greasy hands patting his head like he was a stray dog. Just control. Absolute, terrifying control. He lowered his hand. Flexed his fingers until the joints popped. The hunger was still there, gnawing at his belly, but it had changed shape. It wasn’t just for rice anymore. It was for leverage. For the ability to say *no* and mean it without fear of starvation or beating. He looked at his hands again. Calloused already from carrying wood. Scarred from splitting logs too young. Weak, but hardening. Like iron in a forge. Not soft like wax. Not dependent like wine. Jack closed his eyes. He visualized the spiritual energy not as light, not as magic, but as weight. A dense, heavy current that he could pull into his body and shape into something sharp. Something useful. *Not for righteousness,* he decided. The thought was cold, clear, and devoid of any romantic idealism. *For options.* He opened his eyes. The c***k in the wall remained exactly as it was. He hadn’t moved an inch. But the air in the room felt different. Thinner. Sharper. Like a blade being sharpened against stone. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the loose shutter of the window. *Click-click-click.* It sounded like teeth chattering in the cold. Jack didn’t shiver. He pulled his knees to his chest and sat in the growing dark, listening to the wind, counting the seconds until the door opened for the first time he would go as a disciple. And knowing that every second of endurance was just another link in the chain he would eventually break to pull himself up. The sun dipped below the ridge. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, turning the hut into a cage of gray and black. Jack watched the dust motes dance in the fading light, each one suspended for a moment before falling. He imagined catching one. Freezing it. Using it to choke anyone who looked at him wrong. The thought didn’t frighten him. It felt like homework.