The day passed by in a blur of tears and laughter. The whole next day flew by as well, filled with yet more claps upon the back and kisses upon the cheek, and cheers from all the young ones I’d taken care of. The night of the second day was another one of tears, softer, filled with stories of the village in the three long years that we’d spent apart, and I soaked up every single moment of it.

  When I woke up the morning of the third day, I laid there on the woolen mattress for a few minutes, staring at the window. Low light filtered inside through simple shutters, tracing lines against the far wall where my mom still slept. Small motes of dust hovered in those rays of light, drifting in and out of sight in response to the gentle pressure of my breath. Above, the simple daub ceiling sat bare and unadorned.

  It did not gleam and shine, jade and silver and mahogany blending together in perfect unison.

  It did not drip and crumble, old brick soaked through by mist and left to rot by uncaring authority.

  It was rustic and primitive in all the ways that the Seven Falls Sect wouldn’t deign to be; it was well-cared for and inviting in all the ways my awful shack had never come close to approaching. It was home, and it brought me such joy as I hadn’t felt in over three years.

  But I could only spend a few minutes lying there before both my body and soul cried out to fulfill their truest purpose in life. I slowly stood, pulling away the simple blanket from me, giving a momentary glance to my mom where she began to stir, before heading outside.

  Isabella was waiting for me in the dawn, holding her scythe in between her legs as she attempted to carve a chunk of wood with it. She pocketed it and stood as I exited, giving me a wry smile as the scythe came to rest over her shoulders. “Same again?”

  I leant down to pick up two buckets that sat beside the door, shaking them at her. “It’s important work, you know.”

  Isabella’s smile became a bit more genuine. “Of course.”

  We began walking along, gravel crunching underfoot as the buckets clunked together in my hand. Unlike the quiet morning of the forests and meadows we’d previously camped in, we weren’t the only ones making noise; in the distance, we could hear as the village slowly rose with the dawn, cocks crowing and ruminants joining in to form their own rolling cacophony. Above the base sounds the calls of men played their own symphony, hauling nets into place for the day’s fishing. Somewhere along those piers, my father would be conducting that orchestra.

  We reached the well in short order, and I exchanged a smile and nod with the young boy, Simon, who’d just finished bringing up some water for his own family. His eyes went wide and round at my approach, and then squeezed shut in a mix of embarrassment and delight as I gently ruffled his hair and sent him on his way. As Simon tottered away with the bucket hefted up in both hands, I went about setting a bucket onto the hook and down into the well.

  Before enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. I thought, listening for the echo as the first bucket splashed down at the bottom of the hole. After enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. I waited a few seconds for the bucket to tip over and fill to the brim, before slowly turning the crank to draw it back up. I could feel the tension in the rope, and the resistance of the crank handle in my hand, and yet to my muscles it felt as effortless as simply moving my arm through the air. It may be the same work, but those wise old cultivators never mentioned that it’s significantly easier after enlightenment.

  “You’re making the brave assumption that wise old cultivators have ever chopped wood or carried water.” Isabella noted, watching as I exchanged the full bucket for the empty one in my hand.

  Well that just feels like a gaping hole in their education. I set the full one down at my side with a slight slosh as the second took its turn to drop downwards, feeling the bucket tug at the rope as it was dragged under the surface of the water below. Can we even trust their supposed wisdom? Who’s verifying their qualifications?

  Isabella snapped her fingers. “That would be the other wise old cultivators.”

  I shook my head sadly. The system’s rigged. We should award them the position based on certain criteria.

  “Being?”

  Oh, that’s easy, I thought, lifting a bucket up in each hand. Chopping wood and carrying water.

  Isabella snorted, and we returned back home with an easy quiet between us, even as the rest of the village finally stretched its arms and crawled out of bed. I nodded good morning to the aunties and uncles that were just pottering out of their houses, either for the next shift of fishing or to launder clothes now that the sun was free of the horizon. They all wished me well, and urged me to accept some small treat or gift from them, which I politely accepted, leaving me juggling an extra basket of baked goods and food alongside the two buckets.

  My mother was waiting for me as I arrived back at the house, and she wrapped me in a tight hug, muttering some absolute nonsense like “silly child, there’s no need to do the work” or “don’t be daft, me and your dad managed just fine without you.” I hugged her back, and ignored her words with an easy grace, setting the water down and passing over the gift basket, before I hefted the old and battered axe and tended to my next duty.

  The sun rose in the sky, and I darted back and forth between all the many tasks that needed doing. I split logs for firewood, quickly abandoning the axe to simply tear the wood apart with my hands. I drove new fence-posts into the soil with an ease that would put minutes of hammering to shame. The only task that did not immediately yield to my strength was milking the goats, though the many years of practice throughout my life came back to me quickly enough.

  Time flew by, and soon enough the sun was directly overhead. I found myself sitting on the slight hill at the top of the pasture, looking out over my home. I took a bite from the small lunch that sat at my side; thick slices of seeded bread with some salted fish and cheese sandwiched between, with a small assortment of fruits to finish it off. The simple fare filled my stomach, and the sun upon my skin left me feeling warm and happy.

  And yet, the smallest anxiety still lingered in my gut. “I should apologise.”

  The girl sitting at my side glanced towards me, before scoffing softly and pointed back down the hill. I followed her gesture, watching the herd that had settled down near the house, as well as the small shape of a lamb moving about on unsteady legs as it chased a girl around. Big Jane’s laughs echoed up as she led her new friend in circles, before getting on all fours and challenging it to a head-butting contest. The lamb happily obliged.

  I felt a smile tug at my face, and I let it stay there for a moment, before I shook my head and faced Death fully. Her scythe laid at her side, and she had brought her legs up to her chest, one arm loosely wrapped around her knees. “Isabella-”

  “No.” I fell quiet as Isabella lifted a hand. “I get it. I do.” Her hand dropped back down to the grass. I watched as her hand ruffled each blade, only pausing to pick up a fallen leaf, its brilliant orange heralding the winter to come. “I really do.” A light breeze tugged at the leaf, and Death let go. We watched as the leaf spiraled away, drifting down the hill. Isabella clutched at her legs a bit tighter. “Anyway, I’d be an asshole to say you have to leave right after I called you an asshole for not sending a gods-damned letter.”

  I shook my head. “It would be understandable.”

  “It’s understandable that you had that inner struggle with your treatment at the Sect, and didn’t want to waste your father’s sacrifice on nothing.” Isabella cracked a smile. “Still makes you an asshole.”

  “Got me there.” I watched as Big Jane gleefully cried out as she lifted up an orange leaf like a grand trophy, and held back a chuckle as she cried again in horror while the lamb ate it out of her hand. “I’ll tell them tonight. About the Sect, about the first six months, and the last two and a half years. All of it. And I’ll tell them that I’m going to have to leave tomorrow, too.” There’s more at stake here than just my pride.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  I could feel Isabella’s gaze on me, watching my face for a few seconds. I could make out her lips forming the beginning of a word, but she never sounded it out. Instead, she reached out and grasped my shoulder, squeezing it slightly. So we sat there for a bit longer, watching as the lamb now trotted away as fast as it could on its little legs as Big Jane roared in fury, chasing after the four-legged creature in a quest for righteous vengeance.

  The day continued, and the sun began its arc down towards the horizon once more. I did all the farm work I could, focusing on all those sorts of tasks which a cultivator could trivialise, and only once I was done did I finally return to the house, where my mom fussed over me with three years worth of love. My dad returned not too much later, hefting a basket carrying the catch of the day, and soon enough the fire inside roared beneath a pot and grill. And as a filling soup simmered and fish crackled and spat, I began to tell my own story.

  By the time I’d finished describing the first six months, my dad had already retrieved a carefully hidden bottle of liquor, pouring us all a cup.

  When I described the cold, awful calculus of my path to survival, of the long years I’d decided were necessary to succeed, my mom wrapped me in a tight hug and didn’t let go.

  The bottle ran dry just as I told them about the end of that path, how my careful shepherding of resources and preservation of strength all fell apart just because I’d bumped into a powerful cultivator.

  I didn’t tell them that I’d died, and I didn’t tell them that I’d gone looking for death a second time, either; a parent should never have to hear those things.

  “I managed to survive, somehow,” I said instead, running my fingers along the coins on my necklace. I held it in both of my hands, and found the simple copper pieces easier to look at than either of my parents’ faces. “After that, I had a chance to talk with Brother Yun again. He’d always been right that there was no point in scraping for survival. He just didn’t want me to learn it the hard way.”

  “Oh, my darling.” My mom’s hug somehow tightened further. “It hurts so much to think of what you went through.”

  In the corner of my vision, I could see my dad fiddle with the bottle in his hands, fingers going white against the glass neck. “Bastards. You did a damn good thing leaving. That Sect deserves nothing more than spit upon their name.”

  “This Brother Yun, he sounds like a good sort though.” My mom looked up, catching my gaze. “So, he encouraged you to leave? Did he take care of that nasty cultivator for you?”

  I squeezed my mom’s shoulder as I thought about what to say next. “Not quite. Brother Yun…he’s more powerful than me, but he couldn’t confront the Sect either. And I wasn’t about to ask the Sect for permission to leave.” Apart from Gareth, I suppose, at the very end.

  “You ran, then.” Despite the words, there wasn’t an ounce of judgement in my dad’s words; just a deep, weary understanding. He set the glass bottle to the side, and shifted around the fire to sit on my other side, wrapping an arm around both myself and my mother. “There’s something to say for struggle, for how it can forge you into something better. But the sorts who would break you would say the same thing.”

  “You did the right thing, Ryan.” My mom leaned further into me, burying her face in the crook of my neck. “You’re home now, my wonderful, brave son.”

  I stared out the window, past the simple shutters to the village beyond. I looked out at the pasture and the hill, where I knew the herd was beginning to settle in for the night, a lamb’s bleats barely audible beneath the chirping of crickets. My mind expanded past the walls of this little one-room house, and gazed upon the village, filled with aunties and uncles and children who hadn’t made a comment on my clothes, and had welcomed me home so readily, so happily.

  “...I can’t stay.”

  I heard a trembling breath run through my mom. I felt a shift as my dad leaned in closer, wrapping us both tighter. “Aye,” my dad muttered thickly. “We figured.”

  My mom stared up at me, eyes slightly wet. “Are you sure, Ryan? These…these monsters, they’re beneath you. You don’t have to, to fight them!”

  “Happiness won’t come from getting even,” my dad agreed. “You deserve more than just righting the wrongs of others.”

  They never expected me to stay. The thought stabbed through me. I could see it in their eyes, their posture, the way the tension that had been present in every one of our conversations had been brought into sharp relief. It was all the more painful knowing that their worries were true, that my return here had only ever meant to be a temporary one.

  But it was what they said afterwards that brought my train of thought to a halt. They think I want to get revenge on the Sect. I coughed. Then I coughed more, my throat clearing from the beginnings of tears, and quickly transforming into a shrill, desperate laugh. “No, that’s not it at all!”

  I tried my best to control myself, even as I felt my parents both pull away slightly, worry beginning to drift across my mom’s face as I searched for the right words through the grim humour of it all. Finally, the righteous, proper words to say struck me like a bolt of lightning from the heavens above. “I met a girl.”

  My mom and dad stared at me, then each other. Eventually, my mom sighed, bringing a hand up to cradle her head. “For Gods’ sakes, Ryan.”

  My dad guffawed, the arm around the both of us pulling away to slap me on the back. “That’s my boy! Tell us about her, then. Was she the Sect leader’s daughter? Some noble, jade beauty-”

  “Billy!” My mom chopped a hand down on my dad’s head, sending him reeling back, still chortling to himself as he laid back on the floor of our home. My mom just sighed, pulling away from my side to shift to face me properly. “Alright. You met her at the Sect. What’s her name? Is she nice? What’s she like? What about her family? Is she a noble? Was she the reason why all of this happened? When can we meet her?”

  The questions kept coming, my dad eventually controlling his laughter to join in. I fended them off as best I could, even as I glanced across the room, where Isabella sat by the door, watching me with amusement. “Well, Ryan?”

  Well indeed. Her expression changed to befuddlement as I pulled away from my seat, crossing the room over to her in a moment. Slight panic crossed her face as I subtly gestured for her to stand as I spun back to face my parents. “Alright, alright! I’m going to need you both to, ah, close your eyes for a moment. Best way to picture her, yeah?” I waited for them both to glance at each other, before they both followed my instructions, closing their eyes. As they did so, I reached to grab Isabella’s hand, and gave her a grin. Ready to meet them?

  “Now!?” Isabella’s eyes had gone wide. “Ryan, I can’t- I’m not- you can’t just tell them I’m Death.”

  Death? Now, why would I be telling them about Death? I squeezed her hand, and took a breath, looking back to my parents, feeling…nervous. “So. Her name is Isabella. Apart from Brother Yun, she’s probably the only friend I made in the three years at the Sect.” I paused. “It might be a bit more serious than friendship. It’s been a confusing few weeks.”

  “Lovely name,” my mom muttered, before her cheeks twisted. “Hmm. You’ve been safe?”

  “Safe, Doreen?” My dad’s brow furrowed. “Wait, Ryan, you haven’t-”

  “Not like that! And keep your eyes closed!” I exhaled through my teeth, ignoring the hot feeling rushing to my face. “Children, the both of you. Would you make comments like that if she were around?” I glanced back at Isabella, whose expression seemed to be caught between mirth and mortification. “Okay, how about this; pretend as if Isabella’s in the room with us right now. How does that sound?”

  “Isabella, you have a lovely name, darling.” My mom instantly embraced my suggestion. “For your mother? Your grandmother?”

  Isabella’s grip tightened around my own hand. “It’s for my grandmother,” she whispered.

  “It was for her grandmother,” I repeated, squeezing her hand back. “I…haven’t asked her much about her family. She’s had some hard times.”

  “I hope you haven’t made her cry,” my mother scolded me. “I raised you better than to make girls cry.”

  “I’ve tried my best not to,” I swore.

  “I hope my son has done well by you, Isabella. You’re welcome here, in our hearts.” My father had pressed his hands together as if he was at a shrine. “So, Ryan, tell us more about her. Is she pretty?”

  “Billy,” my mom hissed. “Well, Ryan? Is she? Are you, Isabella?”

  “Well…” I glanced at Isabella, who looked at both my parents with wet eyes. I ran my thumb along the back of her hand. I’m sorry that you can’t meet them properly.

  Isabella took a shuddering breath. “It’s more than I’ve ever let myself hope for.” She coughed and smiled at me through her tears. “Well? How pretty am I?”

  I took my cue, and turned back to my parents. “She is incredibly pretty. An unbelievable catch. Though maybe she caught me?”

  “Women don’t like too much arrogance,” My mom warned.

  “I meant it literally!” I protested. “She helped me after that fight against the cultivator I bumped into. I was…delirious, and when I saw her standing above me I asked if it hurt-”

  “When she fell from Heaven!” My dad’s head rocked back in laughter, just as my mom’s head fell into her hands.

  “Unbelievable,” she said, ignoring the laughter. “Of all the things to inherit from your father, it had to be that gods-damned flirting. I hope Isabella knows to discourage you if you’re getting too cheeky!”

  I did my best to not flinch as I felt a finger jam into my ribs, instead just squeezing the hand I held again. “I’m sure she already knows.”