The man pressed a hand over his heart, feeling the metal shard and the slow pulse beneath. Those who once sealed him have become gods, emperors, and sect masters... He did not know why that thought came so clearly now, but hearing of a sect triggered an instinctual wariness. Sects, emperors, gods... The powerful of this world. Once, he had counted himself among them, or above them. Now, he was forgotten, an echo moving in the shadows. If he revealed himself recklessly, would they sense what he truly was? Would the cultivators of Jade Hollow Sect detect the fragment of a dangerous soul and see him as a threat? The idea of being sealed away again, or destroyed before he understood himself, sent a chill down his spine.
He slowly emerged from hiding and continued along the path, keeping a sharper ear out for others. As he walked, he repeated the names in his mind: Jade Hollow Sect, an unfamiliar name. And the bit about "old demons awakening" in these woods. Was his presence enough to qualify as an awakening demon? Or was there something else slumbering here? The horror of the idea that he might not be the only lost thing in this forest gave him pause. Perhaps he should distance himself from this place swiftly, in case some malevolent entity did rouse.
After another mile, the woods began to thin. He came to the edge of the forest, where the path met a grassy hill. Beyond, in a shallow valley, lay a small village. Thin columns of smoke rose from chimneys, and the distant barking of a dog carried on the breeze. It was a humble place, a scattering of cottages with thatched roofs, fields of grain, and an dirt road winding through it. He could see figures moving about: farmers tending to morning chores, children chasing a stray chicken, the glint of sunlight on a metal tool. An almost painful homesickness washed over him. Such an ordinary scene, yet it felt like a world he had lost. Had he ever lived in a village like that, as a normal man? Or was his life always one of cultivation and war and divine swords? He could not recall ever being so simple... and a part of him mourned that loss of simplicity.
Clutching a nearby tree for support, he realized he was trembling, from nerves and from sheer exhaustion. The long walk and the earlier exertion of power had taxed his newborn body. Hunger was returning, stronger now. If he was to continue, he'd need food, clothes, perhaps shelter for a time. That meant interacting with people. The prospect made his mouth go dry.
What if I say the wrong thing? he worried. What language do I even speak?
The farmers' dialect had transformed in his ears, but could he speak it? He opened his mouth and tried to make a sound. At first, only a hoarse croak came out. He swallowed and tried again, quietly: "Hello."The word left his lips, accented strangely. It was the first word he had spoken aloud in this new life. It hung in the air, and he found it almost foreign to hear his own voice. It was low, rough-edged, as if echoing from a deep well. Would that frighten villagers? Possibly. He practiced a smile, but found the motion awkward. His facial muscles were unused to smiling. The result felt more like a grimace, so he stopped. Perhaps silence and a polite bow would serve better if he encountered someone.
He surveyed the village outskirts. A few beaten paths led between the fields to the houses. Scarecrows stood sentry in the fields, their ragged clothes fluttering. Clothes... yes, he desperately needed something to wear before approaching. His eyes landed on an old scarecrow in a fallow field, dressed in a faded blue farmer's tunic and straw hat. The tunic was patched and frayed but certainly better than nothing. Guilt pricked him at the thought of taking even this, but he reasoned the scarecrow wouldn't mind. Moving quickly, he trotted over to it. Every step in the open felt like a hundred eyes might be watching, though he saw no one nearby. With whispered apologies to the absent farmer, he removed the scarecrow's tunic and simple cloth trousers, fortunately, the scarecrow had a full set. A moth fluttered out of the straw stuffing as he disturbed it. The clothes smelled of dust and sun. He donned them hurriedly; the tunic was a bit short on his tall frame, the trousers wide but tied with a rope belt worked well enough. The straw hat he left, as it was too tattered. Instead, he picked up a discarded strip of cloth and tied back his long black hair.
Thus attired in humble rags, he felt somewhat more confident to face people. He now resembled a vagabond or poor traveler, a far cry from whatever he had been, but an identity nonetheless. He practiced a few more words under his breath as he walked toward the village proper.
Thank you. Water. Food. His tongue stumbled on the syllables at first, mixing an archaic accent with the new. But by the time he reached the first fence, he could manage a reasonable greeting in the local tongue.