Distorted World

Anger

A lone wild goose flew across the horizon, skimming the clouds which appeared even grayer beneath the dim sky. The fading sun set in the west, just like the scene of shops closing down along the street.

Mingxuan stood on a street named Nanting Street; it was well past mid-afternoon (the hour of Shen), and most of the street stalls had already been packed up, with some shops that closed early now cleared out. Passersby brushed shoulders as they went by, some chattering incessantly, some wearing looks of annoyance, others beaming with joy, all so warm and worldly.

In his eyes, their lifespans were but a few decades. Matters ranging from domestic trivialities to grand shifts of dynasties were all ephemeral, fleeting like grains of sand slipping through fingers, hardly worth mentioning. Their vivid and rapidly changing facial expressions felt alien to him; his year's worth of joys and sorrows might not match these people’s mood swings in a single day. Living in different circumstances, he was enveloped by a justified loneliness that belonged to another world. The joys and sorrows of humans and demons did not resonate. For a few moments, he truly wished to snatch the wine from the hunter's hand, indulging in the pleasure of abandon and destruction.

He wandered aimlessly, and before he knew it, he had reached the outskirts of Liuzhou City. A few lonely stars had risen in the sky, adorning the night that was almost but not quite here yet. A cold wind blew, and only then did he realize that this place was desolate and devoid of human presence, its scenery vastly different from the bustling market streets.

　　The scent of freshly turned earth at a grave site reached his nose, and his heightened senses as a demon reminded him that not far ahead lay a cemetery. Under the night sky, the mounds and tombstones were faintly visible.

Before this expanse of graves, where he now stood, only a few incomplete structures lined the road on either side. He noticed one named "Xuanxing Pavilion". With its gilded thresholds and jade balustrades, it rose in layers upon layers, looking extraordinary. It resembled a pearl fallen into an empty lot, or a dazzling star dropped from the night sky.

He had heard countless travelers speak of domestic trifles and worry over a few pieces of silver. Reflecting now, anyone who could erect such a magnificent building as Xuanxing Pavilion in this abandoned land must surely be a person of high rank and wealth. If one could be by their side, perhaps they would no longer have to worry about basic survival.

Lost in thought, Mingxuan slowly paced around Xuanxing Pavilion.

True to its name, it was indeed a place suitable for stargazing. After listening to the mundanities that troubled humans all day, it also stirred within him a sense of "ease." With his magical powers, it took but a few encounters to fully understand their concerns and needs. Having lived for three hundred years as a demon, while he might not be considered exceptionally mature or distinguished, viewing the human world was like observing ants. Human hearts are much like blank sheets of paper, with black ink drawing patterns that are strikingly similar.

　　The night wind was desolate, and the cold crows cried. Just as he tried to sort out his thoughts, from a tavern across the street emerged five or six burly men, their breaths reeking of alcohol and their words wildly unrestrained.

Glancing around and finding no one else, one of them noticed Mingxuan standing beneath Xuanxing Pavilion.

Even through blurred vision, they could see that whether in attire or appearance, Mingxuan exuded an entirely different aura from theirs. Calm but not frail, with an upright posture and handsome features, he stood quietly yet imposingly like a reef that had long stood by the sea. Yet, his clothing and expression revealed a touch of melancholy and embarrassment.

To this group, his reservedness and lack of ostentation were not qualities to be deeply understood; all they saw was the word "weak." In their world, where might made right, weakness was synonymous with being wrong, and today if you weren’t beaten, it would only be tomorrow.

After sizing him up several times and whispering among themselves, they roughly concluded that the man before them looked like a down-on-his-luck noble, posing little threat. Emboldened by alcohol and brimming with pent-up energy, the leader, a burly man with a face full of coarse flesh, strode forward with his gang, coming straight up to Mingxuan.

He recalled how earlier he had faced those incompetent lesser demons who put on a show of bravado, each more aggressive than the last, cursing loudly until they limped away, wounded and wailing. Yet, it was the high-level demon like Wu Zhu, who spoke not a word but stood there with silent oppression, whose single spell left him disoriented even now.

An involuntary, helpless smile crept onto his face.

Naturally, this was taken as a provocation by the other party.

"Hey, you over there! I'm talking to you!" The leader shouted, leading his brothers-in-arms toward Mingxuan.

He remembered facing those blustering lesser demons before, each uglier than the last, shouting and cursing, but ultimately leaving in defeat. Yet it was the likes of Wu Zhu, the top-tier villains who said nothing, merely standing there exerting silent pressure, whose spells left him utterly lost.

He couldn't help but show a bitter smile.

This, naturally, was seen as a challenge by the others.

"So, you dare to come here, to Xuanxing Pavilion? Quite brave, huh, hic, do you know who, who this place belongs to?" A drunken, stuttering henchman pointed at him.

"Whose place?" He was genuinely curious.

The group widened their eyes, exchanging glances and laughing raucously.

"Kid, this is the domain of the local Prefect, Yang Renzhu, Sir Yang. What business do you have to act wild here?" Flush with alcohol, after speaking, one of them threw a punch at Mingxuan’s right shoulder.

　　He slightly dodged, but the sheer physical attack still stung, and anger surged within him. Seizing the drunkard's left shoulder, he threw him to the ground; caught off guard, the man slipped and landed with a thud.

Just as Mingxuan was about to retaliate, another punch struck his chest heavily. It was then that he realized the frailty of this human body. Struggling to muster his magical power for a counterattack, he found that the disparity in brute strength was overwhelmingly against him.

Blows rained down like hailstones, as the five or six drunkards surrounded him, leaving no space for breath. Before this symbol of "weakness," they indulged in the pleasure and power that violence brought. They had won; they were invincible. Their fists, alcohol, and curses echoed with their owners.

After what seemed an eternity, when Mingxuan regained consciousness, they had already dispersed. The surroundings remained dark, the stars heavy and silent. He was covered in injuries, struggling to rise on wobbly legs. Blood and mud smeared his clothes haphazardly, and his once clean face bore new scars.

In the midst of their fury and frenzied punches, he lost consciousness. He had overestimated humans; not only were they trivial, but also cruel and foolish. Not just fleeting lives, they were slaves to hierarchy, sinking themselves into hell.

Mingxuan stood up coldly, ignoring the pain, moving forward like a puppet. His body felt like a half-charged mechanical device, rigid and wasting away. Assessing his injuries, rage burned within him, yet the reality did not exclude the possibility of death here.

Penniless, the little money he had was plundered; wounded all over, with his current strength, walking without rest could lead to fainting or even sudden death; the future was uncertain, he mistrusted human nature but had nowhere else to turn.

For the first time in three hundred years, he felt so vividly the helplessness of being a marionette whose strings were held by fate. This alien world offered him no sympathy, no mercy, no power. Like Wu Zhu’s spell, it cast demons into eternal hell, never teaching them how to find their way back. Darkness led only to more darkness, and at the end of violence lay nothingness, where life’s end was placed, and the vibrant anger extinguished in the silent night sky.

The greatest sorrow is the death of the heart.

With mixed emotions, he coughed up two mouthfuls of blood. Supporting himself, using the last remnants of strength, he staggered toward an unknown distance, devoid of hope. As his physical energy drained, direction became irrelevant.

The black mist in his vision grew thicker, enveloping his sight, and cold sweat soaked his clothes. With great effort, he lifted his eyes one last time to see the sky turning pale with dawn. In the moment before collapsing into unconsciousness, he vaguely heard the sound of trickling water.