Mo Chen listened.

  The wind howled like a restless spirit, pressing against the broken temple, whispering through the cracks in the stone like a long-forgotten prayer. It was cold, relentless, weaving through the decaying corridors of the Temple of the Northern Sky as if searching for something.

  Someone.

  It was a sound he had long grown used to. A voice from the past, persistent and unyielding, filling the empty spaces where memories still lingered, like the faintest hum beneath a song long silenced.

  A world lost in its own sorrow.

  He stood at the temple’s edge, his gaze lost in the bitter expanse of the Northern Sky, where the jagged spires of the 归墟山脉 (Mountains of the Returning Void) clawed at the heavens. The mountains were as ancient as the earth itself, their peaks shrouded in mist and clouds, their forms unforgiving, sharp, endless. Below, a chasm of shifting clouds churned like the bruises of a fading sunset, blue-grey, ink-dark, restless.

  A reflection of the path he had once walked.

  For centuries, this temple had stood defiant against time, a lone sentinel on the highest peak. Once, the Northern Sky had been a place of enlightenment, where cultivators sought wisdom beneath the stars. The wind had carried the whispers of the gods, and the temple’s halls had been filled with prayer, the scent of incense, the glow of celestial fire.

  Now, the wind was only a cold herald of an ending world.

  Even stone, however stubborn, could not withstand eternity. The once-glorious pillars, carved with stories of the heavens, now lay cracked, their intricate designs half-swallowed by decay. The golden murals that had once adorned the walls, depictions of celestial deities and forgotten legends, had faded into ghostly remnants, their colors no more than echoes of what had been.

  What remained was a hollow shell.

  A ruin.

  Just like him.

  The Temple of the Northern Sky had not always been a place of silence.

  Long ago, it had been a sanctuary, a resting ground for sages who studied the celestial arts, a bridge between heaven and earth. Here, beneath the luminous sky, scholars had traced the movements of the stars, seeking answers to questions the world had long forgotten to ask.

  Mo Chen had once stood among them.

  His name had been known, whispered in awe across the lands. He had been one of the temple’s greatest disciples, a cultivator whose path had nearly touched the heavens. Power, wisdom, he had possessed both in boundless measure. He had stood at the threshold of immortality, destined for greatness.

  That had been another lifetime ago.

  Before time itself had become his enemy. Before the weight of eternity had eroded his soul.

  Now, nothing remained.

  The centuries had stripped him of his purpose, piece by piece, until all that was left was a shadow. He had outlived everything, his sect, his friends, even his enemies. Everything except the aching weight of existence itself.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  What was the purpose of life when the world had moved on without him?

  When all that remained were ruins of memories, wispy and elusive at the edges of his mind?

  Mo Chen had tried to leave. To fade into the forgotten pages of time. But death, it seemed, had no mercy for those who had stepped beyond mortality.

  No peace would come.

  Not even in the embrace of oblivion.

  A distant flash of lightning split the sky, silver light flickering against the temple’s crumbling walls. For the briefest moment, the faded murals seemed to awaken, their ghostly outlines trembling against the stone before vanishing once more into darkness.

  Mo Chen stepped through the temple doors, his movements fluid, soundless. He was a presence that did not disturb the air, a shadow that belonged to no place, no time.

  The hall was suspended in an uneasy limbo, caught between the golden flicker of a dying candle and the cold, pale light of the storm outside.

  The wind pressed against the temple’s cracked walls, whispering through the stone like a lingering breath of the past.

  It almost sounded like it spoke the names of those long gone.

  Mo Chen did not flinch.

  There was little else to do now but wait.

  For the storm to pass.

  For the light to fade.

  The storm outside was familiar.

  It had always been there.

  The world had changed, its once-pristine beauty ravaged by time and forgotten promises. But the storms remained the same. They still reached this place, still howled through the ruins.

  Still carried echoes of what once was.

  Mo Chen exhaled, the mist of his breath curling in the frigid air. Though the cold no longer touched him, he could still feel it, somewhere in the remnants of his being, in the hollow space where something once lived.

  Something stirred within him.

  Not longing. That was an illusion shattered long ago.

  Not regret. Regret was for those foolish enough to believe the past could be changed.

  It was something quieter.

  Colder.

  A fragment of himself that still clung to the remnants of a life he could never reclaim.

  His gaze drifted over the scattered scrolls and books that lay abandoned on the temple floor.

  Some had been placed with care.

  Others left where they had fallen, their bindings faded and torn.

  They held the records of a long-lost knowledge, histories, philosophies, celestial theories, the writings of sages who no longer walked this earth. He had read them all, countless times.

  And yet, their meanings had grown distant, just like everything else.

  Knowledge no longer served him.

  Power no longer called to him.

  Even time itself had ceased to matter.

  What was left for an immortal who no longer sought the heavens, yet could not fall to the earth?

  What purpose was there for a man who had outlived his own reason to live?

  A gust of wind forced its way through the temple’s fractured walls, extinguishing one of the remaining candles.

  The flame sputtered out, its last ember curling into the shadows.

  Mo Chen watched as the final flicker vanished into the darkness.

  There was no need to relight it.

  The storm was the only thing that had ever stayed constant.

  And in the end, even the wind would fade.

  As all things did.

  Author’s Note:

  Thank you for reading Chapter 1 of When the Heavens Turned Away! ???

  what do you think of Mo Chen so far? Feel free to drop a comment, favorite the story, or follow along for more!

  Patreon (link in my profile). See you in the next chapter!