I think I always knew this moment would come.
It’s been building for a long time; like stormwater pooling beneath the surface, waiting for the right crack to break through.
But I never told anyone. Not even Elder Ming.
Not because I didn’t trust him. Or Lan-Yin. Or Wang Jun. Not because I thought they’d betray me.
It was because I didn’t understand it either.
I barely knew what I was looking at, those first few days after the Interface appeared. A voice in my head. A glowing wall of text. A sense of purpose that didn’t feel like mine but fit too well to ignore. I thought maybe it was a mistake. Or some kind of gift I wasn’t supposed to have. And maybe if I just kept quiet, I could pretend I’d earned it.
The only ones who ever knew were Tianyi and Windy. But even they didn’t grasp what it meant. They accepted it like they accepted the wind or the changing of seasons. To them, the Interface was just… part of life.
I told myself there wasn’t time. That I’d explain later. After the Gauntlet. After Narrow Stone Peak. After the cultists.
But there was always another “after.”
The truth is, I never stopped running. From one threat to the next. From sect politics to bandits to plagues. I never had a moment to breathe.
But maybe I never let myself breathe. Maybe a part of me wanted the chaos, so I’d never have to stop and face what I’d been hiding. Because once I said it out loud, I’d be tethered. To something bigger. Something I couldn’t walk away from.
'And people would realize all that made me special was contained within the Interface.'
But I can’t afford to think that way anymore.
I carry too much knowledge to leave it locked inside my own head. If I die tomorrow, then everything ends with me. Everything the Interface gave me. Everything it could give the world.
So I told him.
I told Elder Ming everything.
How I discovered the Interface after I touched an ancient ruin trying to chase Tianyi through the forest. How it named me Interface Manipulator. How the Interface seemed to align perfectly with whatever I needed, teaching me techniques that filled the exact gaps I had, nudging me toward the people I needed to meet, the ingredients I needed to find.
I told him how it made me faster. Smarter. How it kept me alive through things I shouldn’t have survived.
I told him about the text contained within the walls, how the Heavenly Interface's origins stemmed from the Upper Realm. How it was linked to the Heavenly Demon.
It all came out in a rush.
I didn’t pace myself. Didn’t slow down. I wasn’t trying to make it poetic or even coherent. Every thought, every scrap of theory, every fear I’d shoved down came spilling out like floodwater breaching a cracked dam.
I told him what I thought it meant.
That the Interface wasn’t a tool or even a weapon.
It was a legacy.
Something meant to guide. To uplift. A divine interface designed to help mortals reach their full potential; but something had gone wrong.
And now, that legacy was entrusted to me.
Not because I was worthy. Not because I trained harder or believed more.
But because I was there.
And now I had a responsibility I never asked for but couldn’t turn away from.
By the time I stopped talking, I was out of breath. I hadn’t even realized I’d stood up at some point. My hands were clenched. My throat was dry. My pulse hammered in my ears like I was waiting for judgment.
That’s when the other feeling hit me.
Relief.
Not because it was over, but because it wasn’t hidden anymore. I’d been dragging this weight behind me for months, pretending it was fine. That I could shoulder it alone.
But saying it aloud made it real. Made it shared.
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Even if just for a moment.
But laced under that relief was the anxiety. Twisting through my gut like a dull knife.
Because Elder Ming hadn’t said a word.
He just sat there. Brow furrowed. Eyes sharp as ever. Hands folded loosely in his lap, but with that stillness that always unnerved me more than shouting ever could.
That was the worst part.
The silence.
Because I could live with fear. Or rejection. Or even pity.
But I didn’t know what to do if the one person I trusted most didn’t believe a word I’d said.
Elder Ming didn't speak right away. Just sips his tea. The wind moves through the plum trees behind him, leaves whispering like old regrets.
“So… that’s the weight you’ve been walking with all this time.”
I didn't respond. There was a long beat of silence as I waited for him to continue.
“I thought you were gifted. Lucky, maybe. Smart, surely. But no one climbs as fast as you have without a ladder others can’t see. I knew someone like that, once. Someone who carried something vast and powerful within them.”
He set his cup down with care.
“Let me tell you something you don’t yet know. When I was your age, I thought talent was a promise. That if the heavens gave you something, they’d see you through to the end.”
“The truth? The heavens don’t care. They give and they take. And sometimes, they give too much.”
The wind shifted again, and a few petals fell.
“You don’t owe the world anything for being given power. You only owe what you choose to give. And you decide what that gift becomes.”
I nodded, but the words lingered, echoing through the hollows I hadn’t known were there.
'You only owe what you choose to give.'
I repeated it in my head like a mantra. Over and over. Like I could etch it into the cracks I'd been trying to hold shut.
I’d been so afraid of failing, of not doing everything. Carrying the Interface’s legacy. Protecting the village. Earning every scrap of power I’d been given. Upholding the weight of everyone’s expectations, even the ones they hadn’t said aloud.
But had they ever truly expected me to save them?
Or had I just convinced myself they did?
That if I faltered, the whole thing would collapse. That I had to embody the Interface. That I was the Interface.
But maybe that was the real mistake.
It wasn’t my job to walk its path perfectly. Or to speak for the ones who made it. Or to become the answer to whatever legacy they left behind.
It was my job to walk my Dao. My path.
And if that Dao aligned with theirs?
Then maybe that was enough.
I stayed quiet. Let the thought settle. Let the ache in my chest ease, just slightly.
Then I turned to Elder Ming and said, quietly, “Thank you. For listening.”
His eyes softened.
Then, before I could think better of it, I leaned forward and hugged him.
Not as a disciple to a teacher.
But as a boy to the old man who’d been a grandfather since I lost my parents.
He didn’t flinch. Just patted my back once, then let his hand settle there.
“Are you going to tell the others?” he asked, voice low.
I hesitated. Wang Jun and Lan-Yin came to mind.
“Maybe not yet,” I said. “It’s still too much. And being that vulnerable with more people... it feels harder than it should.”
He gave a slow nod. “Then don’t rush it. You’ve already carried more than your share.”
A beat passed. Then he added, “I’m always here, Kai. Whenever you need to speak.”
I smiled.
“Yeah. I know.”
I rose to my feet, offered a bow I didn’t feel obligated to make, and left the courtyard.
The weight wasn’t gone. But it no longer dragged behind me.
It felt like armor now. Fitted to my skin, instead of shackled to my limbs.
The wind was crisper than before. Sunlight broke through the clouds in pale bands, painting streaks of warmth across rooftops and muddy paths. The aftermath of the rain still lingered; slick puddles reflecting a too-violet hue when the light hit them just right.
I passed through the square. Nodded at a few familiar faces. Some of them waved.
And then I saw him.
Jian Feng stood near the center well, flanked by two disciples who held folded scrolls and satchels of herbal poultices. Around them, half a dozen villagers stood in a loose circle, heads bowed slightly, listening.
Jian Feng didn’t raise his voice. He spoke low, calm, with that military precision of his that made even vague warnings feel like ironclad orders.
“We’re asking everyone to report any fever, dizziness, or difficulty circulating qi,” he said. “Even if it’s minor. Especially if you were out in the rain and heavily exposed.”
He gestured to Jun Tao, who unrolled a cloth filled with small vials; detoxification pills, mild elixirs, salves made from cleansing herbs. Nothing that would scream ‘plague response,’ but enough to start the preventative work.
A younger man from Pingyao who worked the outer fields, raised a hand. “Is it really that serious?”
Jian Feng didn’t lie.
“There are signs,” he said. “Old ones. Passed down through cultivator records. We don’t want to jump to conclusions, but we’d rather act early than late.”
I stood there for a moment, watching as Jia Ren stepped forward to apply a salve to a bruised farmer’s arm, murmuring instructions. The villagers looked tense, but not afraid. They trusted him. Trusted all of them. There wasn’t fear here; just precaution.
While I’d been wrestling with my secret in Elder Ming’s courtyard, Jian Feng and the others had been moving. Quietly. Systematically. Giving people answers, even if they didn’t have the full truth. Buying time without inviting hysteria. All while I was buried within my own mind, too distracted to do what needed to be done.
I felt a flicker of gratitude.
I could’ve helped. Could’ve said something earlier. But I pushed it down.
I would help now.
I’d already started building the cure. The greenhouse was full. The tests were underway. This was how I contributed; not just with warnings, but with solutions.
I passed the well without interrupting and gave Jian Feng a nod as I went.
He glanced over, read something in my expression, and gave a nod in return.
We didn’t need words.
And then, as I passed the greenhouse, I paused.
Inside the translucent frame, the soil shimmered faintly beneath filtered sunlight. The first sprouts had begun to breach the surface; tiny, green, and trembling with life. Some of them already glowed with a faint essence, drinking in the qi of the Spirit Soil like newborns tasting their first breath.
I rested my hand on the doorframe.
Then I turned around and continued my path. I stepped inside my shop.
The door closed behind me with a quiet thump, muffling the world outside. In here, the air was still thick with the scent of drying herbs and simmered tinctures, the shelves stacked with vials, tagged specimens, bundles of root and flower.
Now came the work.
I set my pack on the main table and pulled out the samples I’d gathered after the rain: ealed glass vials filled with water that shimmered faintly violet in the light.
The rain—what I now called the Plague Rain—was still active. Potent. I could feel it even through the glass.
I pulled out the vial containing the Bloodsoul Bloom's essence, a dark red that sloshed around like living blood.
I began the tests.
Simple ones, at first. A drop of the rain onto a slide with a hint of the Bloom’s extract. I expected resistance. Maybe even contamination. But what I got instead—
Devouring.
The Bloodsoul Bloom essence ate the Plague Rain.
Not just neutralized it. Not just blocked it. It consumed it completely, with a hunger that bordered on joy. The moment the two substances touched, the corruption trembled, broke apart, and dissolved.
I froze, watching the reaction unfold. It was too clean. Too decisive.
I repeated the test. Again. Then again, on different concentrations. Same result.
It didn’t make sense.
I thought back to what I’d learned from the first living sample I encountered.
The Bloodsoul Bloom didn’t want to spread. It wanted to feed.
Aggressive absorption of certain types of qi, although rejecting qi of a certain nature. An affinity for blood and death. Resonance with demonic energy. A volatile hunger for external input.
But its nature was selfish. Predatory.
That’s what made it different from the plague. The Plague Rain spread. It wanted to fill, to corrupt, to reshape.
I rubbed my chin, the thoughts churning behind my eyes. This didn’t change how dangerous it was, but it opened a door I hadn’t seen before. If I could extract and contain the absorption property, refine it into a targeted form, it could work not just as a symptom suppressor…
But maybe as a partial cure.
Or at least a counter-agent.
Something to hold back the tide.
I was about to begin another set of tests when a knock echoed at the door.
I blinked. Looked up.
Windy and Tianyi weren’t here. They didn’t knock. They just came in.
I wiped my hands on my sleeve and walked over cautiously.
“Come in,” I called.
The door creaked open.
Ren Zhi stood there.
Blind eyes focused squarely on me.
He smiled.
“Ready for your first lesson?” he asked.
I stared for a beat too long.
Then nodded. Slowly.
Because somewhere beneath the fatigue and the fog of alchemical theory, I knew.
I was ready.