Chapter 3: The Town That Wears Gray

  The sun had not yet leaned fully west when Khun Ming finally straightened his back and decided that clearing dirt and moving furniture for half a day was enough settling for someone who had technically died earlier that morning.

  He wiped his hands on the side of his robe, paused, and then looked down at the fabric with mild alarm.

  "Don't start wiping dirt on high-quality cloth on the first day," he muttered, brushing it off more carefully. "That's irresponsible."

  The robe remained clean, almost annoyingly so. Dust did not cling easily. When he flicked his sleeve, loose soil fell away as if it did not wish to remain.

  He narrowed his eyes at it.

  "You are extremely convenient for a robe," he said slowly while studying the sleeve as if it might confess something. "And experience has taught me that whenever something in life is extremely convenient, there is usually a hidden cost attached somewhere that reveals itself later."

  Still, he adjusted the robe properly, tightened the waist tie, and stepped away from the cottage.

  "If there really is a town about thirty minutes down this slope like the path suggests," he said thoughtfully to himself, "then the sensible thing to do would be to go look at what people are wearing and what they are selling before I begin forming completely confident opinions about a place I have technically never visited."

  He took one last look around the cliff, mentally marking the position of the waterfall, the stream, the tree line, and the sharp drop behind the cottage.

  "Let's also remember that falling off a cliff would be an extremely embarrassing way to end the first day of a second life," he told himself quietly. "So the current goal is very simple: walk downhill like a normal careful person and avoid doing anything heroic."

  Then he began walking downhill.

  The path was not paved, but it was not wild either. Grass had been pressed down in certain areas, and the soil bore signs of foot traffic. Not heavy traffic, but enough to suggest regular use. The air grew slightly warmer as he descended, and the smell of salt diminished gradually, replaced by earth and faint smoke.

  He walked at a steady pace, not rushing. His legs felt lighter than they should have. He noticed that after ten minutes, he was not even mildly out of breath.

  He slowed deliberately.

  "No showing off to no one," he muttered. "Walk like a normal person."

  By the time he reached what appeared to be a road— packed earth wide enough for carts— the sun had shifted just enough to cast longer shadows from the trees.

  He turned right, as he had estimated earlier, and followed the road.

  After another few minutes, he began to hear voices.

  Not shouting. Just ordinary conversation. The kind of layered sound that comes from a place where people have chores and small arguments and nothing dramatic happening.

  The town came into view gradually.

  Stone and timber buildings clustered around a main road wide enough for carts. Smoke rose from chimneys. Nothing dramatic. Just orderly habitation.

  The first thing he noticed was the color.

  Or rather, the absence of it.

  Gray.

  Light gray robes. Dark gray tunics. Brown-gray trousers. Faded, undyed cloth patched with slightly different shades of the same.

  No one wore anything that attempted brightness.

  He slowed.

  "Did the entire town hold a meeting and collectively decide that gray was the only acceptable color," he murmured quietly, looking from one robe to another. "Because that would explain things, but it would also be a very strange meeting."

  He walked into what appeared to be the main textile shop ... a proper building with a wooden sign and a sliding front door. Bolts of cloth were stacked neatly along interior shelves. A counter separated merchandise from customer space.

  Behind the counter stood a middle-aged merchant, sleeves rolled, calculating something on a wooden abacus.

  Khun Ming stepped inside.

  The merchant glanced up briefly, then again more carefully at his robe.

  "Looking for cloth?" the merchant asked.

  "Yes," Khun Ming replied politely while stepping closer to the shelves. "I would like to see the cloth you carry and see what kind of plant fibers you are using."

  The merchant gestured toward the shelves.

  "Standard plant fiber. Durable. Affordable."

  Khun Ming picked up a bolt.

  Rough weave. Undyed. Serviceable.

  "What plant are these fibers coming from exactly?" he asked while lifting the bolt slightly. "Cotton, hemp, linen, bamboo, lotus… something in that direction?"

  The merchant paused.

  "…Plant."

  "Yes, but cotton? Hemp? Linen? Bamboo? Lotus?"

  The merchant blinked slowly.

  "…Standard blend."

  Khun Ming nodded as if that clarified everything.

  "Do you carry dyed cloth?"

  The merchant's fingers paused on the abacus.

  "You mean colored cloth?"

  "Yes."

  The merchant lowered his voice slightly, though there was no one else in the shop.

  "We carry authorized pigment garments."

  He stepped behind a partition and returned with three folded robes.

  Deep blue. Dark red. Muted green.

  They stood out sharply against the gray interior.

  Khun Ming examined the blue first.

  Even tone. Slight mineral sheen. The texture of the cloth was normal, but the color sat on it… differently.

  He brushed it between thumb and forefinger.

  "It feels… stiff," he said mildly.

  "It is stabilized by alchemical refinement," the merchant replied. "Extracted from spiritual stones by certified Pigment Guild masters."

  "Spiritual stones."

  "Yes."

  "You mean rocks."

  The merchant did not blink.

  "Yes. Rocks."

  Khun Ming nodded slowly.

  "Does it fade?"

  "No."

  "Does it breathe?"

  The merchant frowned slightly.

  "It functions as cloth."

  "…That was not my question."

  Silence.

  Khun Ming stepped back.

  "And the price?"

  The merchant named a number.

  Khun Ming coughed.

  "That is for one robe."

  "Yes."

  He glanced at the gray bolts again.

  "And unauthorized color extraction?"

  The merchant's gaze sharpened.

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  "Prohibited. Only licensed guild alchemists may extract pigment. Violation results in confiscation and penalties."

  "Confiscation of what?"

  "Materials. Tools. Sometimes property."

  Khun Ming nodded thoughtfully.

  "Color is controlled."

  "Yes."

  He placed the dyed robe back carefully.

  "I will take undyed cloth. Two bolts. And yarn."

  The merchant calculated quickly.

  Khun Ming paid in silver.

  As the merchant wrapped the cloth, Khun Ming added:

  "Do you have rusted iron?"

  The merchant frowned.

  "Why?"

  "For experimentation."

  The merchant studied him briefly, then produced a small bundle of discarded iron nails.

  "Scrap."

  "Good."

  He purchased a small iron pot as well.

  When he left the shop, he did not look back at the dyed garments.

  As he paid, he noticed a few cultivator-looking individuals standing near a tea shop. Their robes, unlike the common gray, bore subtle patterns and deeper tones, though still muted.

  One of them wore a narrow strip of blue at the collar, similar in shade to the robe he had touched earlier.

  They glanced at him briefly, then returned to their conversation.

  He did not sense anything threatening, only an air of quiet confidence that made ordinary townspeople step slightly aside when they passed.

  "Guild members," he guessed.

  He did not linger.

  After purchasing dried grains, a few vegetables, and a small packet of salt, he began walking back toward the road.

  As he reached the edge of town, he paused and looked back once more.

  Gray everywhere. Controlled color. Expensive pigment. He shifted the bundle under his arm.

  "…We'll see," he muttered.

  The climb back uphill felt easier than the descent had.

  Halfway up, he heard a rustle in the brush to his left.

  He slowed.

  From behind a cluster of low shrubs stepped a large dog.

  Golden coat, slightly darker along the back, broad chest, strong legs, and eyes that were both alert and almost absurdly friendly.

  It looked well-fed. Clean, mostly, aside from a bit of mud on one paw.

  The dog stopped a few paces away and looked at him.

  They stared at each other.

  Khun Ming shifted his bundle to his other arm.

  "…You live around here?" he asked.

  The dog tilted its head.

  "That's not a yes or no question, is it," he added.

  The dog took two slow steps forward and sniffed the air.

  Khun Ming crouched slightly, keeping his movements slow.

  "You don't look wild," he said. "Too shiny. Someone brushed you at some point."

  The dog blinked.

  "Are you lost?" he asked.

  The dog wagged its tail once.

  "That's not helpful."

  He extended his hand cautiously.

  The dog leaned forward and sniffed his fingers, then licked them.

  Khun Ming chuckled.

  "Alright. That's friendly enough."

  He straightened again.

  "If you belong to someone, they're probably worried," he said, glancing around.

  There was no one on the path.

  He looked back at the dog.

  "…You hungry?"

  The dog's ears perked slightly.

  "That's always a yes."

  He adjusted his bundle again.

  "I'm heading up there," he said, gesturing toward the cliff. "If you're following, that's your decision. I'm not carrying you."

  He resumed walking.

  After three steps, he heard paws behind him.

  He did not turn.

  "…I said it's your decision," he called back.

  The dog kept pace, neither too close nor too far, as they climbed together toward the cottage, the sun still comfortably above the horizon, the day far from over, and Khun Ming entirely unaware that he had just brought home something that most realms would have bowed to without question.

  Khun Ming did not look back again after he heard the steady rhythm of paws behind him, because if the dog decided to follow then that was its own business, and if it changed its mind halfway up the slope then that was also its own business, and he had no intention of negotiating with an animal that clearly did not intend to explain itself.

  By the time the cliff came back into view, the sunlight had softened slightly, turning the edges of the forest less sharp and more forgiving, and the waterfall sounded louder in the late afternoon quiet.

  He shifted the bundle in his arms and walked up the last stretch toward the cottage.

  The dog stopped a few steps behind him and looked up at the structure as if evaluating it.

  Khun Ming turned and followed its gaze.

  "Well," he said, slightly out of breath but pretending he was not, "it's not impressive, but it's functional."

  The dog sniffed the air, then trotted ahead of him and circled the open space in front of the cottage, tail wagging at a steady, measured pace.

  "You're inspecting already?" Khun Ming asked. "That's fast."

  He set the bundle down on the table inside, then stepped back out with the axe and the wooden planks he had cut earlier.

  The dog watched him.

  "I need to make something," Khun Ming said, as if the dog had asked.

  He selected one of the flatter planks and placed it across two smaller logs, steadying it with one foot. He picked up a small knife from inside and began carving carefully into the wood.

  The dog came closer and sat down, head tilted.

  "Yes, I know, I should measure first," Khun Ming muttered. "I'll center it properly."

  He scratched a faint line across the surface and began carving letters.

  A-T-E-L-I-E-R

  He paused.

  The dog leaned forward slightly.

  "What?" Khun Ming asked. "Spelling wrong?"

  The dog blinked.

  "Don't judge."

  He continued carving.

  V-I-M-U-T-T-I

  He leaned back and examined the result.

  The letters were not perfectly uniform, but they were readable.

  He wiped the wood surface with his sleeve, then frowned and used a small cloth instead.

  "Can't be lazy," he said quietly.

  The dog stood up and walked closer, sniffing the board.

  "Yes," Khun Ming said, lifting it carefully. "Atelier Vimutti. That was my workshop's name before. Feels… appropriate."

  He carried the board to the entrance of the courtyard area, which was marked loosely by two upright posts and a simple wooden crossbeam, and climbed onto a small stool to attach it properly.

  "Hold still," he muttered to the post, as if it might move.

  He positioned the board carefully against the wooden crossbeam at the entrance of the courtyard and adjusted it twice because it leaned slightly to the left the first time and he did not want the name of his workshop hanging crooked on its first day.

  "Hold still," he muttered to the post, as if the wood might object.

  He raised the hammer and drove the first nail in.

  Tap.

  He checked alignment again.

  Tap. Tap.

  The final nail sank in with a dull, solid sound.

  The board settled.

  ATELIER VIMUTTI.

  The letters were not perfectly even, but they were clear. The wood grain ran through the carved strokes in a way that made them look grounded, not decorative.

  Khun Ming stepped down from the stool and leaned back slightly, squinting up at it.

  "…Good enough," he said. "I'll oil it later so it doesn't crack."

  He dusted his hands together once.

  That was the exact moment the sky split.

  Not metaphorically.

  Physically.

  Across the entire Earth Realm, the air shuddered as if something had struck it from beneath. Clouds tore apart without wind, scattering in spirals that should not have formed. The horizon bent subtly, not collapsing but flexing, as though the world itself had inhaled too sharply.

  Every current of spiritual Qi— from the faintest thread inside a village well to the densest vortex sealed inside a sacred mountain— convulsed.

  It did not explode outward.

  It folded inward first.

  Then expanded.

  Then folded again.

  The sea along distant shores rose in uneven pulses. River currents reversed for a single breath. Birds dropped mid-flight, not dead, just stunned by the sudden compression of something they could not see.

  In sect after sect, ancient bells, which only ring when something is about to happen, began ringing.

  Not struck by hands. Not touched by wind.

  They rang by themselves.

  Deep bronze bells in orthodox halls.

  Black iron bells in demonic strongholds.

  Small ceremonial bells hanging beneath temple eaves.

  Massive war bells suspended above fortress gates.

  All of them.

  At once.

  The sound rolled across continents in overlapping waves.

  Ten minutes.

  Uninterrupted.

  In cultivation chambers carved into mountainsides, elders who had been in seclusion for hundreds— some for thousands— of years opened their eyes at the same instant.

  "What happened?"

  "Did the Heavenly Gate open?"

  "No..... this is lower."

  "Lower?"

  "It came from below."

  In distant regions, several great patriarchs shot into the sky without speaking, their robes whipping violently as they attempted to trace the origin of the tremor.

  They extended their senses.

  Nothing clear.

  The ripple had no directional tail.

  It was everywhere and nowhere.

  In the Heavenly Realm far above, immortals seated on floating platforms felt their immortal foundations tremble faintly, not in collapse, but in recognition.

  One high-level immortal, whose name had not been spoken aloud in three eras, lowered his tea cup mid-sip.

  "…Who named it?" he murmured.

  Beside him, another immortal frowned.

  "Find it."

  Across all spirit-stone vaults in all registered Pigment Guild facilities, crystals reacted violently.

  Colors flared.

  Blues deepened, then flickered.

  Reds dimmed and pulsed.

  Greens fractured into uneven shades before stabilizing.

  Several mid-tier alchemists stumbled backward from their refining tables as pigment stones emitted sudden surges of unstable light.

  "What did you do?" one shouted at his apprentice.

  "I didn't touch anything!"

  "Stabilize it!"

  "Why are the stones responding like this?!"

  Across the realms, cultivators froze mid-breath.

  Some fell to one knee instinctively.

  Some gripped their weapons.

  Some simply stared at the sky as it shimmered like heated glass.

  All the bells rang.

  None stopped.

  Not for ten full minutes.

  Back on the cliff, Khun Ming blinked once.

  He scratched his ear.

  "…Did the weather just change?" he asked casually.

  The large golden-coated dog behind him had dropped to its belly the instant the board settled, muscles trembling, eyes wide, not in fear but in overwhelming awe as an immense, ancient pressure washed through it.

  Its cultivation— at Heavenly Immortal Stage— shuddered violently. Not damaged. Not threatened. But dwarfed.

  It pressed its forehead against the ground instinctively.

  Khun Ming turned halfway.

  "…You okay?"

  The dog did not respond.

  He glanced up at the sky.

  The clouds did look strange. Twisted slightly.

  "Huh," he muttered. "Maybe there's a storm somewhere."

  Inside the cottage, the Seven Jewels Sword began to hum.

  The blade vibrated against the wooden wall with a low resonance that no mortal ear could detect.

  Within the sealed space of the sword, all seven mythical creatures reacted at once.

  Inside the cottage, the Seven Jewels Sword vibrated softly against the wall.

  Qinglong lifted his head first.

  "…It has been declared."

  Kun Peng's vast presence stirred like distant tides.

  "Small," he rumbled quietly. "Yet absolute."

  Xuanwu remained still, ancient eyes opening.

  Phoenix's flames flared briefly, then compressed into dignified calm.

  Goumang leaned forward with subtle interest.

  "Growth," she murmured.

  The Nine-Tailed Fox narrowed her eyes.

  "…He named it without intent."

  Baihu exhaled once.

  "…Naturally."

  None of them attempted to break their seals.

  None interfered.

  They observed.

  Outside, Khun Ming adjusted the hem of his robe and looked at the signboard again.

  "Maybe I should've carved deeper," he murmured. "Letters might fade in rain."

  The bells continued ringing across the realms.

  Cultivators scrambled from meditation chambers. Emergency assemblies were called in sect halls. Transmission talismans ignited mid-air as messages were sent across regions.

  "What triggered it?"

  "Is this a heavenly omen?"

  "No lightning descended."

  "Then what was named?"

  "No source detected!"

  "Search every major formation!"

  Across the Pigment Guild headquarters in a distant capital, a senior alchemy master stared at a spirit-stone vat whose colors were still fluctuating unevenly.

  "Trace it," he ordered.

  "We can't," the apprentice whispered. "There's no directional pull."

  Above the Earth Realm, in the Heavenly Realm's layered skies, immortal observers extended divine sense downward, sweeping mountain ranges, oceans, hidden caves, ancient ruins.

  Nothing.

  The ripple had no signature.

  It had not originated from a technique, a tribulation, or an artifact discharge.

  It had originated from a name.

  Ten minutes.

  Then—

  Silence.

  The bells stopped.

  All at once.

  The sky smoothed.

  The clouds drifted normally.

  Spirit-stones stabilized.

  Cultivators remained frozen where they stood.

  Breathing slowly.

  Processing.

  Khun Ming stretched his shoulders once.

  "…Strange," he said, glancing at the horizon. "Pressure in my ears like when you climb too fast."

  He crouched down and patted the dog gently.

  "You sure you're not cold?"

  The dog lifted its head slowly, eyes still wide.

  Khun Ming smiled faintly.

  "It's just a name," he said. "You're overreacting."

  He stood and walked back toward the cottage, entirely unaware that sect archives were already being opened, ancient records compared, forbidden scrolls consulted, and high-level masters dispatched quietly across continents to investigate an event none of them could explain.

  Behind him, the signboard hung quietly above the entrance.

  ATELIER VIMUTTI.

  And somewhere far above, an immortal who had once believed himself close to understanding the foundation of cultivation felt, for the first time in centuries, uncertain.

  Chapter 3 complete.