There’s no such thing as a true Immortal.

  Kain struggled with that reality as he watched his dying lover rest. Even on her deathbed, Rena looked like a healthy woman. Her smooth skin and flowing brunette hair were radiant, and her lips were soft and gentle. She was so full of life—a cruel juxtaposition with the truth.

  “Kain…” she whispered as she rolled awake. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here.” He squeezed her hand from the chair beside the bed.

  She smiled. “Oh…”

  “Can you not sleep?”

  “No… All I do is sleep. It becomes tiresome.”

  He smiled distantly. “I can only imagine.”

  Rena rolled again to face him. She couldn’t see him, but she seemed to enjoy his voice, and that made him feel good. “Will you tell me a story?” she asked.

  “Of course. Is there a certain type you would like to hear?”

  She paused and answered hesitantly. “Will you tell me about the Mortal Plane?”

  Kain released his hand from hers, laced his fingers, and looked at the floor.

  “I know you seem hesitant, but… It’s just… I want to know everything about you, and I feel like there’s a sad pit where the Mortal Plane is.”

  Kain rested his forearms against his knees and contemplated it. He felt it would be cruel to tell her, but he loathed to deny her anything. So he nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Her face lit up with a shine that immediately made it worth it.

  “Is there anything you would like to hear about in particular?”

  She shook her head.

  “How about I tell you about the stolen doka?”

  “What's a doka?”

  “It's an instrument. I was desperate for any instrument when I first bought one. I had just gotten myself into… a bit of trouble with a nearby sect and decided to lay low and earn money as a musician.”

  Her lips curved into a bemused smirk. “You needed to lay low, so you picked up an instrument?”

  He smiled cheekily and looked away. “How was I supposed to know how Mortals would react?”

  She giggled. “Show off.”

  “I can’t deny that. Well… here’s what happened.”

  He told the story in vivid detail, and soon his sickly wife was laughing and snorting and then coughing, always coughing, no matter the time or place or narrative. He helped her drink water, and she accepted.

  “Sorry for ruining the story,” she said, wheezing after.

  “You didn't. I'm actually relieved. Now get some rest. We'll finish the story another time.”

  “I wish…” she said as he opened the door. “I could’ve been there.”

  He paused and reflected on her words and said, “I cannot bring you there. But… I can let you hear a doka. Would you like to?”

  Rena snuggled into her covers and smiled. “I’d love that.”

  Kain opened a spatial rift with his fingers, creating a portal to another part of the planet. From it, he pulled out a beautiful instrument made of polished wood. It was similar to a violin, but it felt rustic and powerful with six meaty strings that reverberated with grand vibrations. This instrument wasn’t designed for gentle solos over rising ensembles—it was an instrument to be played in public, an instrument to steal the audience’s attention and bring the area to life. It was a crude instrument. A blunt instrument. A loving instrument. It was hardly something to play in a small room on an empty planet to a dying lover, and yet—he felt that the only way to transport her there, to let her blind eyes see the Mortal Plane, he would need to capture the atmosphere. So he tuned the instrument and rosined the bow and closed his eyes and played.

  The song started slow, a beautiful minor melody to capture his feelings and sorrow and love, taking her on a journey of a life of bloodshed, peace, and mourning. It wasn't one of the folk songs he would play at the Salted Grouse tavern in the Mortal Plane, or the requiems he played for fallen comrades in the Celestial. He had played the Halka for many reasons during his second trip through the three planes, but this one was different. He captured the present, letting the Mortal instrument tell the story of his Immortal pain.

  Rena slowly drifted off with a teary smile as he finished the final note with a vibrato. He then stored the instrument, brushed her hair aside, and whispered, “I love you,” before exiting the room to greet the guest who appeared during the song.

  The man was sitting at the table, quite patiently. He was quite the intriguing individual to see in the Immortal Plane. He wore an adventurer cap with claws and feathers from divine beasts and a wastelander coat that complemented the long brown hair he wore untied over his shoulders. This was a look reserved for Mortal mercenaries — not Celestial Gods or Immortals. Yet Kain knew many eccentrics through his two trips through the three planes, so he didn’t question it.

  “Thank you for letting me finish with my lover,” Kain said. “Now, unless you wish to keep her hostage, I know a galaxy where we can fight unhindered.”

  “Hoh?” The man turned to him with amused eyes. “Why do you think that I’m here to fight you?”

  “Because messengers are weak to prove that they're messengers—and in my two lives, I’ve never met anyone as strong as you.”

  The man smiled and leaned back. “That’s a flawed viewpoint.”

  “Humor me.”

  “It’s flawed because where I’m from—I’m the weakest.”

  Kain’s world flipped upside down. He studied the man’s cultivation through Divine Eyes, a technique that allowed him to see Qi, and couldn't believe that this man was the weakest anywhere. He had a thousand meridian body like he did, and his breathing was as beautiful and intricate as Kain’s—and Kain was widely respected as the strongest in the Immortal Plane.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  And that wasn't all.

  There were four colors of Qi Kain knew of—Elemental Qi to manipulate the elements. Soul Qi to cleanse the body, preventing aging and disease. Spirit Qi for mental augmentation and attacks. And Immortal Qi for sealing. These four forms of energies lit up in Divine Eyes, white, gold, green, and black, respectively—and all Immortals used all four.

  But this man had a fifth type of Qi, a beautiful teal, moving in streams within his body—cycling from his crystal blue dantian.

  That Qi terrified Kain. It was as deep and suppressive as the time he first breathed Immortal Qi—and twice as unknown. And there’s nothing more cold and rare and unsettling to an Immortal than something they haven't seen before.

  “Where are you from?” Kain asked.

  “Ah, I suppose I should just introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Halkan. Simply Halkan. And to answer your question, I am from the Primordial Expanse, though your people may find it more apt to call it the Primordial Plane, to match your nomenclature.”

  Kain activated his Divine Eyes on the galaxy. It spanned through the solar system and then beyond, capturing tens of thousands of stars and planets.

  “If you’re searching for a gate, you won't find one,” Halkan said. “After all, we're the ones who open them.”

  Kain knew of three alternative universes in the world of cultivation—The Moral, Celestial, and Immortal planes—separated by portals. If there were a higher power, they created this system to separate those who couldn't cultivate from entities who could bend supermassive black holes to destroy galaxies. Or, if Halkan’s assertion was true—separate false deities from true gods.

  Kain spared Halkan another glance and strode across the kitchen. “Would you like some tea? I picked some elina leaves from my garden this morning.”

  “If you’d be so kind,” Halkan said.

  Kain plucked fresh leaves from a bag, and they wilted and dried at the touch. He dropped them into a mortar and ground them with a pestle by hand. Such an action was unnecessary, but once someone can do anything with their mind, it's the little actions that give their life soul.

  He finished and served Halkan a cup.

  “Tell me,” Kain said as he sat. “What brings a Primordial to my door?”

  Halkan cradled his cup, tapped it twice with his index reflectively, and then reached into his breast pocket, retrieving a tiny red vial that he lifted to the window’s light.

  “This.”

  “What is this?” Kain asked dryly.

  “It's the blood of the Origin. To explain what that is, allow me to ask you a question. Do you know why those with bloodlines are plagued by sickness and complications?”

  He glanced at Rena’s bedroom.

  Kain’s face didn't shift. “No.”

  Halkan leaned in. “It's because the blood is not their own.”

  Kain narrowed his eyes dangerously.

  “Don't misunderstand,” Halkan said. “They are born with the blood, but it's not human blood. The bloodlines that so many families are so proud of, the hereditary advantages that make them immune to heat or allow them to stir the oceans, come from primordial beasts who shared their power with humans long ago. And no matter how many aeons pass, or how often that blood is passed to lower generations, it's still beast blood, and the human body cannot handle it. That's why they get sick.”

  Halkan lifted the vial with his thumb and index finger. “But this blood is different.”

  Kain studied it with renewed interest.

  “This blood comes from the Origin, the divine beast that shared its blood with humankind to give us the ability to cultivate. One drop of the Origin will clear your lover’s bloodline and replace it with a pure line fit for gods. Once her body settles, she'll be able to live forever.”

  Kain looked from the vial to his reflection in the teacup to ensure he still had the cold, jagged heart it took to get to the Immortal Plane.

  “That's an elaborate story,” he said.

  “It's the truth.” Halkan lifted his hand. “By order of the heavenly and primordial tribunes…” The spectrum of Qis in the room swirled around his body as he spoke. “I, Halkan, swear that I am speaking the truth of the Primordial Expanse, the Origin, my identity, this vial, and its effects.”

  Halkan turned his palm to show Kain the two runes that glowed on the back of his hand.

  Any question of Halkan’s identity died right then and there. If he had lied, he would be dead. That said, it didn't prove the Origin was real—it just proved that Halkan recounted what he was told about it. That was the weakness of truth pacts—it only requires people to speak the truth as they perceive it. Still, it was far better than nothing.

  Despite that, Kain’s expression didn't brighten—if anything, it darkened.

  No one brings what another desires unless they seek something in exchange—and the greater the gift, the more serious the ask. For something of this magnitude, it would likely shake the heavens.

  “What is your price?” Kain asked.

  Halkan smirked. “For perhaps the first time in your life, a resource of this caliber has come to you at no serious cost to yourself. You just so happen to have something only you have, and my goddess wants it…” he lifted the vial, “this much. And that thing is your story.”

  Kain lifted his eyebrow.

  “I'm sure this sounds like slang with hidden meanings, but I assure you it's not. She wants what your lover has spent decades yearning for—the story of your second life.”

  Kain cradled his teacup. “Why?”

  Halkan palmed the vial. “My goddess is something of a songstress,” he said. “She watches people and immortalizes their lives into her songs. But over the years, she has grown weary of sullen tragedies. So she barely took notice of your rise to power until you threw it all away for what can only be considered…” He looked at Rena’s bedroom. “Avarice.”

  He paused and then ran his free finger over the rim of his cup.

  “And even then, it was only for the irony. The strange thing, she tells me, is that your ‘love story,’ which can be crudely summarized as a selfish man destroying his enemy in the most petty way imaginable, has the makings of a bonafide fairytale. With the right propaganda, you can spin a story of a hero who saves the princess from an isolated tower, falls in love with her innocence, and then fights her evil father to marry her. Take out the revenge, seduction, and violence, and it's generally accurate… at least to the people who hate her father.”

  Kain didn't smile.

  “Of course, it's far from a fairytale, but it's the closest thing you'll get in real life. Unfortunately, it had a terrible ending. The villain won, the princess was locked away, and the hero died a gruesome death. It was an unsatisfying travesty. And yet…“

  He stopped tracing his finger on the rim of the cup.

  “You were given a second chance at life. And now we can turn what is certain to be another tragedy…” He picked up the vial from his palm. “Into a comedy.”

  Kain stared at the vial. “You only want the story of my life?”

  “Your second life,” Halkan said. “And she wants it spoken to denizens of the Mortal Plane, as she will be releasing her song there, in hopes the legend will reach the upper plane.”

  “I need no explanation of her desires,” Kain said. “If she wishes my story in exchange for saving my lover’s life, I will accept. Though, I would like a pact that necessitates her health. I will not give my lover anything you've been told will heal her—if you're confident of its healing effects, you will make a pact that it will heal her, at the threat of your life.”

  Halkan smiled. “I came here under such a condition, yes.”

  Kain found it difficult to believe an Immortal—or beyond—would sacrifice themselves for a story, so he nodded. “Sign it with a pact.”

  Halkan smiled and lifted his hands. “By order of the heavenly and primordial tribunes…”

  Kain raised his hand. “By order of the heavenly and primordial tribunes…”

  The two created a pact. Once it was completed, golden threads of soul Qi spun around their hearts like frosted wire. If either broke the pact, their cultivation organs would explode, and those threads around their hearts would constrict. Both were incurable.

  Once they finished, Kain drank his tea. “Should I start where my last life ended or where my new life began?”

  “Ah, let's skip the melodrama,” Halkan said as he reheated his tea with a finger twirl. “Let's just get right into it. What was it like to die a gruesome death as the strongest Immortal only to be reborn as the weakest cultivator in the Mortal Plane?”

  Kain thought about where to start his story—and then he began.