The Unbroken Flow

Fan Quan's eyes shot open, yet he couldn't see. It was dark, too dark. He couldn't spot any remnants of the fire they had made, and when he tried to find out where he is he realised something was holding him down.

His arms and legs seemed to be … tied up? He tried to pull away his arm, but the rope-esque material was holding him thightly. Just when he was about to scream for help, a candle began to shine faintly a few meters away from him.

A Slender, yet beautiful woman with dark eyes, and a long, graceful hair was standing there, her face marked with a smile. That woman was Feng Rui, the woman he had just healed and his family had taken in, before traveling out into the world with her. "You're Awake" she said, her tone almost sounding pitiful.

Fan Quan stared at Feng Rui, his heart pounding in his chest. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on her face, turning her smile into something almost sinister. He struggled against his bindings, the ropes biting into his wrists and ankles, but they didn't budge.

"Why?" he managed to choke out, his voice hoarse. "What are you doing?"

Feng Rui's smile deepened, though her eyes remained unreadable. She knelt down beside him, her movements slow and deliberate. "Fan Quan," she began, her voice soft but laced with something sharp, "did you really think this journey was about you?"

His breath caught in his throat. "What are you talking about?"

She sighed, as if disappointed. "You were always just a piece on the board, a tool to be used. That brush of yours…" Her gaze flicked to his sleeve, where the Silver Phoenix Brush was hidden. "…it's far more valuable than you understand. Did you think it was a coincidence you had it? That you somehow stumbled into this world of cultivation by chance?"

Fan Quan's mind raced. The brush—his connection to cultivation, his sudden surge to the third level of Qi Condensation—it all felt too unreal, too sudden. But her words still hit him like a hammer. "You… used me?" His voice cracked.

Feng Rui chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. "Used is such a crude word. Let's just say I helped guide you to where you were supposed to be. But now, you've served your purpose."

A chill ran down his spine. "Purpose? What purpose?"

Her smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating expression. "The brush," she said simply. "It's not just a tool. It's a key. And you, dear Fan Quan, were just the lock it needed to open."

Before he could ask what she meant, she reached into his sleeve and pulled out the brush. He thrashed against his bindings, desperation clawing at his chest. "Stop! Don't—"

"Shh," she whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "This is bigger than you. Bigger than me. Do you know what this brush can do? What secrets it holds?" She held it up, letting the dim candlelight play across its surface. "You wouldn't understand. But don't worry. I'll make sure its power isn't wasted."

Fan Quan's heart sank as she stood and turned away, the brush now in her grasp. He could feel its energy pulsing faintly, as if it were calling out to him. "Please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Don't do this."

Feng Rui didn't look back. "You'll thank me one day," she said, her tone almost casual. "Well, maybe not. But it doesn't matter. You'll fade, just like everyone else."

She raised the brush, and a sudden wave of energy filled the room, making the air thick and oppressive. The candlelight flickered violently, and Fan Quan felt an unbearable heat building around him. His vision blurred, his chest tightening as if he were being crushed by an invisible force.

"STOP!" he screamed, his voice raw with terror.

But she didn't stop. The brush seemed to respond to her will, its silver bristles glowing with an otherworldly light. Symbols began to form in the air, ancient and incomprehensible, their shapes burning into his mind.

And then it happened.

The room exploded with light, a searing, white-hot flash that blinded him. When the light faded, Fan Quan felt an unbearable emptiness in his chest. Something vital had been taken from him, something he couldn't name. He gasped for air, his body trembling, his mind reeling.

When he blinked his vision back into focus, Feng Rui was gone. So was the brush.

For a moment, silence consumed him. Then, as if in cruel mockery, the sounds of the forest crept back in—the chirping of crickets, the rustle of leaves. But none of it felt real.

Fan Quan's head fell back against the cold ground, his tears spilling freely now. He had lost everything: his family, his home, his sense of purpose. And now, the one thing that had connected him to this new world—the brush—was gone too.

But worse than the loss was the realization that he had been nothing more than a pawn in someone else's game.

Fan Quan had layed there for what felt like an eternity, the crushing weight of betrayal bearing down on him. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest heaving as he fought against the tidal wave of despair threatening to swallow him whole. He wanted to scream, to rage, to demand answers from the uncaring world around him—but he was too weak, too broken.

And yet, deep within him, a spark refused to die.

The brush was gone, stolen by the woman he had trusted. But even as despair clawed at his mind, another feeling began to take root: defiance.

He couldn't let it end like this.

Fan Quan gritted his teeth and pulled against the ropes binding him. At first, they didn't budge, but he didn't stop. Pain flared in his wrists as the rough fibers bit into his skin, but he kept struggling. His muscles burned, his breaths came ragged, but he pushed through the pain, his mind locked on a single thought: I will not be helpless.

With a final, desperate yank, the ropes frayed and snapped. His arms fell free, and he immediately worked on untying his legs, his fingers fumbling but determined. When he was finally free, he sat up, his body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline.

The room was empty now, save for the faint remnants of the energy Feng Rui had unleashed. Symbols glimmered faintly on the ground, slowly fading into the dirt. He stared at them, a mix of anger and fascination roiling in his gut. What had she done? What had the brush revealed?

His eyes darted around, searching for any clue, any trace of her. But there was nothing. She was gone, and with her, the brush.

Fan Quan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He couldn't stay here. If Feng Rui thought she could take everything from him and leave him to rot, she was wrong. He would find her, and he would take back what was his.

As he staggered to his feet, a faint pulse of energy rippled through the air. It was almost imperceptible, but Fan Quan felt it in his very core. It was faint, distant, but unmistakable: the brush.

It was calling to him.

The realization sent a jolt of hope surging through him. Whatever Feng Rui had done, whatever ritual she had performed, the connection between him and the brush hadn't been severed. It was still out there, somewhere, and it was reaching out to him.

Fan Quan closed his eyes, focusing on the faint thread of energy. It was like trying to hold onto a wisp of smoke, but he refused to let go. Slowly, he turned, letting the pull guide him.

He stumbled out of the ruined campsite and into the forest. The trees loomed around him, their branches twisting like claws, but he didn't care. He pressed forward, his steps unsteady but resolute. The connection grew stronger with every step, a faint beacon in the darkness.

As he pushed through the undergrowth, the forest seemed to close in around him. Shadows danced in the corners of his vision, and the air grew colder, heavier. The pull of the brush was leading him deeper, into a part of the forest he had never seen before.

Finally, he broke through the trees and found himself standing at the edge of a steep ravine. The pull was stronger now, almost overwhelming, but it was coming from below.

Fan Quan peered over the edge, his heart pounding. The ravine was shrouded in mist, the bottom hidden from view. The thought of descending into the unknown sent a shiver down his spine, but he didn't hesitate. He couldn't.

Climbing down the ravine was slow, painful and treacherous. The rocks were slick with moss, and more than once, he nearly lost his footing. After a while, he tripped and fell a few meters onto a slight footing where he could barely catch hold. He spat out blood and wanted to scream, But the pull of the brush urged him onward, a constant reminder of why he couldn't stop.

When he finally reached the bottom, he found himself standing in front of a massive stone archway carved into the side of the ravine. Strange symbols, similar to the ones Feng Rui had summoned, were etched into the stone, glowing faintly in the dim light.

The pull of the brush was strongest here, resonating from beyond the archway. Fan Quan took a deep breath, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch the cold stone.

The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the symbols flared to life, and the archway opened, revealing a tunnel that disappeared into darkness.

Fan Quan hesitated for only a moment before stepping through. Whatever lay ahead—whatever trials, dangers, or truths—he would face them.

The brush was his, and he would take it back.

Fan Quan's resolve solidified as he clenched his fists, his heart pounding against his ribcage like a war drum. Every step forward felt like dragging himself through quicksand, but he refused to falter. The spectral figures surrounding him jeered, their forms twisting and writhing in mockery. He ignored them, his eyes locked on the altar where the brush hovered, faintly glowing with its silvery light.

The whispers in the air grew louder, almost deafening now. They pressed into his mind like needles, seeping doubt and fear into his thoughts.

"You are unworthy."

"Turn back while you still can."

"You will lose everything."

Fan Quan bit down on his lip until the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. He forced his thoughts to silence the voices.

The brush pulsed as he drew closer, its light brightening and dimming in rhythm with his heartbeat. Each step toward it was heavier than the last, as though the space between them stretched endlessly. He pushed on, sweat dripping down his face and soaking his clothes.

When he was finally within arm's reach, the air around the altar twisted, and a dark figure emerged from the swirling mist. It was the shape of a man, tall and shrouded in shadow, with eyes that burned like coals.

"You think you can claim this artifact?" the figure said, its voice deep and resonant, vibrating through Fan Quan's very bones. "You have no idea the burden it carries."

Fan Quan met the figure's gaze, his legs trembling but refusing to collapse. "I don't care about burdens," he said through gritted teeth. "That brush is mine. It was given to me, and I will take it back."

The figure chuckled darkly. "Then prove your worth, child."

The shadow surged forward, engulfing Fan Quan. Pain lanced through his body, sharp and unrelenting, as visions flooded his mind. He saw his family—his mother and sister crying out in despair, his father beaten and bloody. He saw his village razed to the ground, the fields turned to ash.

The voice of the shadow echoed in his mind. "This is your fate should you falter. The power you seek will demand sacrifices. Are you ready to bear them?"

Fan Quan clenched his fists. "I won't let that happen. I'll protect them, no matter what it takes."

The shadow hesitated for a moment, then laughed again, the sound harsh and grating. "Bold words. Let us see if you have the strength to match them."

The mist around the altar twisted violently, and suddenly Fan Quan was no longer standing in the strange realm. He found himself in a desolate battlefield, the sky a roiling mass of storm clouds. All around him, figures moved—faceless, featureless warriors wielding weapons that glinted with an unnatural light.

The first one attacked without warning, its blade slicing through the air toward Fan Quan's head. He ducked just in time, his reflexes sharper than he thought possible. Another figure lunged at him, and he twisted away, barely avoiding the strike.

As the onslaught continued, Fan Quan realized that he couldn't rely on instinct alone. He needed to fight back. He reached for the brush, only to find his hand empty.

Panic surged through him as he realized the brush was still on the altar, far out of reach. But before despair could take hold, he remembered Feng Rui's training—the breathing techniques, the focus exercises.

Fan Quan closed his eyes for a brief moment, steadying his breath. He felt the faint flicker of energy within him, the qi that had awakened when he first touched the brush. It was weak, fragile, but it was there.

Drawing on that energy, he raised his hands, forming the stance Feng Rui had taught him. When the next figure attacked, he dodged and countered, a burst of qi surging through his palm and sending the figure flying.

One by one, the warriors fell, dissolving into mist as Fan Quan fought with a combination of desperation and determination. The battlefield blurred around him, the faceless enemies becoming mere obstacles in his single-minded drive toward the altar.

Finally, he stood before it once more, bloodied and exhausted but unbroken. The shadow figure reappeared, its form flickering like a dying flame.

"You have fought well," it said, its voice softer now, almost approving. "But the trials are not over."

The shadow raised its hand, and the brush floated toward it. For a moment, Fan Quan thought it would take the artifact and vanish, but instead, it held the brush out to him.

"This is your burden now," the shadow said. "Use it wisely, or it will consume you."

Fan Quan reached out, his hand trembling as he took the brush. The moment his fingers closed around it, a surge of energy coursed through him, stronger than anything he had felt before. It wasn't painful this time—it was exhilarating, like a fire igniting in his veins.

The shadow began to dissolve, its voice echoing faintly. "Your path has only just begun. Do not falter, Fan Quan."

As the figure faded, so did the strange realm around him. The mist dissipated, the altar crumbled, and the battlefield vanished.

Fan Quan opened his eyes to find himself back in the forest, the brush still clutched tightly in his hand. He sank to his knees, gasping for breath as the weight of what had just happened settled over him.

The brush felt warm, almost alive, as though it were acknowledging his struggle. He knew now that it wasn't just a tool—it was a part of him, a link to a world far beyond his understanding.

Then, he saw her. Ahead of him he saw a girl lying down on her stomach, cloaked head and concealed appearance. Fan Quan carefully tapped her and tried to wake her, but it didn't work, and when he turned around her body, his eyes widened in shock…

Feng Rui, dead.