Chapter 24: Path Of Springwaters
The mansion of the Void Family stood on the trembling edge of chaos. Once a fortress of legacy and law, its great stone halls now buzzed with nervous energy. Courtiers murmured behind heavy curtains. Disciples lined the corridors, backs straight, jaws clenched, fingers twitching on sword hilts. Even the ancestral walls seemed to pulse with unease, as though the building itself could sense that something vital had been lost.
At the very heart of this unraveling kingdom, my father slumped on his black obsidian throne. Once, it had elevated him. Now, it buried him. The throne loomed like a monument to failure, cold and unyielding beneath the weight of a man who had lost more than he could bear.
"My boy… where could you possibly be?" he muttered, voice frayed by exhaustion, one hand pressed to his temple, elbow slack on the carved armrest. His eyes didn't move—locked into the nothingness ahead, as if staring long enough might summon an answer from the void itself.
"As if he knew… as if he knew he'd be gone," he whispered again, voice barely a breath. "He left us something beyond imagination…"
He exhaled, long and slow, and the breath felt like it carried lifetimes. His grief didn't scream. It hung—a thick, invisible fog that blanketed the room, clinging to his shoulders, his soul. He didn't cry. He didn't move. But sorrow clung to him like mist on ancient mountains.
Elsewhere in the mansion, in a sanctuary of soft light and distant lullabies, my mother sat in the nursery.
Violet lanterns swayed above her, their glow filtered through the leafy boughs of a willow tree grown indoors, its branches whispering lullabies to a child too young to understand loss. But she understood it all too well.
She cradled my newborn sister in her arms, holding her with a desperation that didn't show in her grip—but in her eyes. Eyes fixed on the infant's sleeping face, terrified that even blinking might make her vanish, the way I had.
Her lips trembled, though no sound escaped them. Her expression—once the embodiment of poise—was now sculpted in pain. She looked like a woman who had cried until she forgot how to make tears fall.
But her arms remained strong.
She didn't look away. Not once.
The child in her arms was her anchor. Her oath. Her only shield against the abyss. But even as she rocked the newborn, not a single day passed when her gaze didn't flick toward the window, lips moving in silent prayer.
Come back to me.
And every night… I didn't.
The Void Family was splintering. They had once glimpsed their salvation in me—a bright future rekindled from centuries of pride and power. I had been the flame that would relight the ancient torches.
But then the flame vanished. And with it, their momentum.
Some lost faith.
But not all.
Old Man Thomas remained.
For days, the sky belonged to him. He stood upon its edge—cloaked in storm clouds, arms crossed behind his back, eyes like twin suns surveying the land. His qi flowed endlessly, thick as gravity, keeping enemies at bay with pressure alone.
"The light was seized right before our eyes," he muttered, wind howling around him, voice like distant thunder cracking across the mountains. "But this time… never again."
There was no plea in his tone. Only vengeance. Cold and measured.
And then the storm moved.
It wasn't long before his patience bore fruit. Spies—royal snakes—had slithered too close.
One wore a dog mask. He didn't even scream. Thomas raised a hand, and the masked man ceased to exist—erased with less effort than flicking dust off an old book.
The other spy hovered in place, suspended by invisible threads of qi, body limp, eyes trembling in their sockets. He would live—long enough to spill secrets.
Thomas turned his pain into discipline. Into justice. Into blade-sharp purpose.
If peace could not be protected by prayer, then it would be enforced with wrath.
Then, one amber-lit afternoon, with shadows stretching long over the stone courtyard, a boy approached.
Seventeen. Muscles taut beneath rough travel clothes. Wild black hair tangled by wind. A bottle of booze in one hand, uncertainty in his step.
It was Pyo.
He walked as though each step might trigger an earthquake only he could survive, but determined. His expression was a storm of conflict. And when he arrived before Old Man Thomas, he held out the bottle like an offering.
Thomas took it. Sniffed. Took a sip.
"What's wrong, boy? Speak," he barked, his voice gruff but laced with something older than authority—concern.
Pyo lifted the bottle, swallowed deep, then lowered it again. He didn't speak for a long breath.
"Hmph…" he finally exhaled. "Master Thomas. Ever since Damon's disappearance… I've felt empty. Like something vital was stolen. My soul feels hollow. Like only he could fill it."
The bottle slipped from Thomas's fingers.
Shattered.
"What is it you want?" His voice dropped, brittle and tense.
Pyo bowed, low and respectful. His voice came steady—but heavy, each word like a falling stone.
"Please forgive me. You've shown me more kindness than I deserve. But… I am leaving the Void Family."
Thomas's stare hardened. His silence cut through the air like steel.
"Stupid child!" he roared, hurling the remaining booze across the courtyard. Glass exploded against stone. "What do you mean by this betrayal?!"
But Pyo didn't flinch. Still bowed, he continued.
"I am going to search for him," he said softly. "My path is by his side. But this is not goodbye. I swear it—I shall return, with the Prince."
Then he looked up. Tears streaked his cheeks, carving lines through the dust. His lips trembled—but his eyes burned with purpose.
"Just get out," Thomas snapped.
Pyo blinked. "What?"
"I said—Leave!" Thomas thundered. His voice echoed, shaking roof tiles loose from the mansion.
And Pyo moved.
A spear of lightning burst to life in his palm, and he launched into the sky like a thunderbolt breaking from earth. Not even the gatekeepers could follow him with their eyes.
Silence returned.
And Thomas stood alone.
Then—he smiled.
"Damon…" he said with quiet awe. "You've been blessed with a marvelous friend."
He reached into his core. Power flared.
And he rocketed into the heavens, tearing through the mansion roof in a cyclone of force, laughter roaring from his throat.
"If the young ones aren't slacking off… why the hell should I?"
He soared—high and higher—until even the sky bent to watch. If only they knew… how much joy I felt.
Far from there, tucked within the womb of untamed wilderness, I sat before the mouth of a hidden cave.
Stillness reigned.
Cross-legged, I breathed. In and out. My mind stilled, body anchored, spirit unfurling. The sounds of nature surrounded me—the waterfall's roar like distant war drums, birdsong weaving through mist, and the wind threading the leaves like fingers through silk.
The energy here was pure. Like springwater untouched by man. It poured into me, soothing the aches of battle, coaxing my body into healing. The shadowed trees bowed in reverence. The stones hummed softly beneath me.
I drank it in.
Like a starving man at a banquet.
And deep within my being… something stirred.
The bloodline I had consumed—the foreign presence inside me—began to thrum. It wanted to become part of me. It yearned to belong.
"Master…" came the voice in my mind. Soft. Delicate. Reverent.
Vivi.
The Willow Tree of Imagination.
"May I consume this bloodline? It is unworthy of your grace… it is little more than filth. Barely noble rank."
There was a sharpness in her disgust—but a softness in the way she waited for permission.
I didn't open my eyes.
"If you can consume it, go ahead," I said with measured calm. "But leave the shadow attribute. I need it."
Her presence shimmered like silk unraveling in the wind. "As you command," she replied.
I felt her go to work, siphoning the essence like a careful gardener plucking rot from the roots.
Meanwhile, I stayed rooted. Breathing. Letting the remnants of battle drain from me like poison from a wound.
Slowly, sensation crept back into my right arm. I felt the nerves knit, the muscle harden. The energy roots realigned the limb. No pain remained—only warmth, like fire held safely in the palm.
My core stabilized. My reserves filled.
But something gnawed at the edge of my thoughts.
"Vivi," I asked silently. "Is there a way to increase my energy reserves?"
"Yes, Master," she answered instantly. "There are two ways. First—consume the core of a Void Core expert. Second… devour the core of a demonic beast."
I nodded, unshaken.
"Ah. I see." My voice was light. "That's a lot easier than I thought."
Then—my nose twitched.
"Ugh. I smell like a dead skunk."
I stood and stripped off my robe. My muscles flexed beneath the light, old scars crisscrossed with new ones.
I walked beneath the waterfall without pause.
It hit me like a blade—sharp, fast, ice-cold—but I stood steady, bare feet on stone, face to the sky, letting the water crash down my shoulders and back, running down to my thighs, my knees, my toes.
I smiled.
I shivered—not from cold, but from joy.
Then I dove into the lake.
Submerged, I drifted. The water embraced me. The pressure was calming, the world above muffled into nothing. No enemies. No titles. No ghosts.
I swam.
And for a moment…
I was just Damon.
A soul in motion.
Or was I?