Wielding the Sword to Defeat Immortals

This was a desolate village: its population withered, houses in ruin, and the path before each hovel littered with the cast-offs of those who had fled. A chill wind drifted through, causing the door of one thatched hut to clap restlessly, as though a resentful spirit were voicing silent grievances. The place seemed forgotten by the world; even sunlight, falling upon it, brought no warmth, merely observing quietly all that unfolded.

The sun was sinking. As the village edged toward another night of uncanny mystery, a child appeared at the entrance, walking slowly. His gait was unsteady, as if drunk, his steps faltering—not from intoxication, but from exhaustion, which, at a distance, mimicked drunkenness.

The child’s expression was wary. From the way he moved from the village entrance, it was clear he had traveled concealed in the withered underbrush, his small, thin frame and tattered, earth-toned clothes blending him into the landscape like a moving patch of mud. Even if someone noticed, by the time they looked closer, he was already gone—and in any case, who would bother to waste attention on a child so like a little beggar?

Even after entering the village, the child did not relax his guard. He avoided the main road, slipping instead into a narrow alley on the left, winding left and right until he stopped before a ramshackle hut. There, he carefully observed the doorway, confirming nothing had changed since he left. Only then did his face ease, revealing a faint, relieved smile.

Yet he did not enter immediately; instead, he continued another hund