When the rains fell down
And everyone else feasted
I alone hungered
----
The Misfortune of Birth
Zhong Han 1
Year 235
There was a home on the edge of the village, surrounded by rice paddies and marginal grazing fields.
The family that lived there had lost their cattle and pigs a long time ago and had not the hands or energy to raise too many chickens, so they rented it out to other families in the village. It was like many other homes in the south, walls of clay and a roof of thatch, and they lived well enough and peacefully enough under the protection of this immortal or that palace.
Truthfully, the villagers here had long given up on remembering who ruled them. They visited rarely, and none of their youth ever possessed a talent for Cultivation. With no such prospects, why would they bother with the world of immortals?
In this home lived an old woman, her son, and his wife. Only three, and one of them old, there were many things to do and few hands to do them with. The son spent his days on the fields and the old woman was feeble in her dotage, so all the work left was left to the wife. But they lived together peacefully, at least, in busy days. And what time they had to themselves, the son and his wife tried for a child, to build their family and, in time, ease the father's burdens.
When the door opened, however, one overcast day, the man who emerged from it was not the son. He was a doctor, and he left with his head bowed in disgrace. Like the five doctors and three alchemists and seven wise women who had come before, he had been unable to help this family of three.
For several months prior, the wife had borne fruit. The day that the madness rained from above in red, the day that Heaven spoke to all upon the Earth, proclaiming peace and justice to all men and beasts, their son had been born. It had been a good omen, some said.
It should have been a good omen.
Their son had been born strangely pale and his skin remained so in the coming months. He was sickly, with a poor constitution, and his mother and grandmother worked tirelessly to tend his every need. He barely ate, barely drank. Three months in he was as small as a newborn. And now, five months old, the child was struggling to live indeed.
The son, his father, had sought out every means, every doctor, every bit of hope he could manage. He offered everything, his life, his labours, to give his child a chance. And each time, he was met with the same answer, by different doctors and different wise women.
The boy was dying. Bit by bit, struggle by struggle. He had a strong will indeed, but not the body to go with it. He would die and there was nothing to be done.
Still, the father looked. Still, the mother and grandmother cared for him. They would not give up on the boy. They could not. To lose this child would be too much.
So they struggled, just as the boy did. And though it was tradition not to name a child before their first year, to make sure they would at least be given the chance to grow, his mother had christened the boy with a name. A promise that he would live, to him and to his family.
The boy's name was Zhong Han. And from the day he was born, he had been fed the lie that he would do great things.
----
Surrounded by lies
A child of destiny cries
Where is my greatness
----
Year 240
Zhong Han had been alone for a long time. His family had been whittled down. Now it was just him and his grandmother.
His mother had killed herself four years ago out of shame. Shame that she had begotten such a weak child? Shame that she could not care for him any longer? Shame that her life would only continue to get harder? He did not care. His father died shortly after she did, killed by bandits seeking blood while he looked for yet more doctors.
All that he had left was his grandmother, and all she had left was him. Pitiful, in a way.
Now five years old, Zhong Han was still small like a newborn, weak like a gnat. Living was a daily struggle. Oh, how he struggled to live. Even eating was painful.
Still, he struggled. Because he had been promised greatness.
His grandmother struggled too. With no one to tend to her, she had to make a living as a spinster, leasing off more and more of a farm that was impossible to tend to. Stiffed and exploited for every coin and cent, it was the only way she could afford to live. And to look after Zhong Han, she had to do more than that.
So she worked in her dotage, an old woman in her sixties looking after a child of five with her labour despite aching bones and failing eyesight, a thousand little pains compounding against toil enough to bury younger, heartier men and women. Still she worked, still she struggled, still she worked for the sake of her grandson.
Because she had no one left. And he had no one left, either.
And each time she fed him, she told him stories, taught him words, even if he never said them back. She told him the tales of the land and the Plains that she could tell, regale him with legends of the Immortals that governed the Plains they lived in. She told him all about Heaven, all about the day of his birth, of the auspicious sign that had to be. That Heaven would not proclaim justice and fairness to all men and beasts, just to saddle them with such pitiful fates.
His birth was a blessing, his life was a blessing. He was born to do great things. Why else would he be born on such a day?
No one would ever know if she told these stories and believed these tales for his sake, or for her own.
It was a wretched life. It was certainly better than the alternative, of course, and a child that knew nothing else knew not how wretched his life was. But unknown to him, the seed of hate and bitter resentment was forming within him, fed on his grandmother's desperation and guilt and regret just as he was fed on his grandmother's porridge and fruit.
This day, the day of his fifth birthday, Zhong Han cried. A day when most children would be running around, enjoying youth and playing with friends, able to run and jump and skip and cry and laugh. Not slump in a cot, still the size of a toddler, unable to speak or live as one should.
All he can do is cry. Lamenting the lot he was given, though not in so many words.
----
Meat, rice and veggies
A spread fit for twenty kings
I couldn't eat any
----
When Zhong Han turned five, an old man came to his village. He was a kind old man and he arrived like a whisper in the wind, unheard by the villagers until he had already walked amongst them. With him he brought many gifts, offering a kind word, a trinket, a snack to all he met. He offered them but the tiniest slips of his attention, but those he graced all felt slightly giddy after meeting him, like they had come across someone truly great. A geezer of greatness, some might recount at a later time.
When he happened upon the old woman's home, however, he gave much, much more than an ounce of time. He met the old lady briefly, but when she spoke of her grandson, that piqued his interest. And when he came to their home, Zhong Han caught his eye immediately.
For most, the old man was noteworthy for things beyond physical description. His demeanour, perhaps. His bearing. His easy smile. His keen eyes, ever aware even if they looked on other things. But the young child Zhong Han saw none of these things, for how could he possibly know of them?
The first he noticed of the old man were his fingernails. They were unlike any he had ever seen in his life. They were a stark, viridescent green. And when the old man picked him up into his hands, Zhong Han did not cry. He did not feel secure, not quite, not in any concept he could elaborate on.
The old man held him up, his eyes alight with a pinprick of interest. All it took was a glance and a thought before he lowered Zhong Han into a cradle once more. A single flick against the side of his finger, a buzz like a quickly murmured phrase, and the old man inserted his bleeding finger into Zhong Han's mouth. Zhong Han, child, suckled.
It was majestic. For the first time in his life, Zhong Han ate his fill eagerly, without retching even once. The blood tasted like nothing he could place. It was delicious.
While Zhong Han ate his fill, the old man turned to his grandmother. The old woman smiled for the first time in years, tears falling freely from her eyes, mouth wide open with shock - but a distinctly happy form of surprise, not the other.
The old man smiled back at her and said words Zhong Han did not understand. The old woman agreed readily. Soon the old man left, the cut on his finger healed the moment he plucked it out of Zhong Han's mouth, vanishing without a trace but for the words he gave the old woman and the meal that nourished Zhong Han for the first time in his life.
For days after, the child licked his lips, remembering the taste.
That was the first time Zhong Han knew hunger. It would not be the last. Hunger, from that day on, would remain a constant companion.
With this, he could seek out his greatness that was promised to him. He could make the lie true.
Zhong Han would never be robbed again.
----
Grandmother fed me
The red broth of the green plains
Finally a taste
----
The years continued. Zhong Han grew quickly ever since, fed on his grandmother's porridge and given appetite by the old man's meal. At the age of six, he said his first word. By the age of seven, he took his first step. By the time he was ten, Zhong Han was grown as old as a boy his age should be. Still sickly, still weak, he was at least able to live a live resembling normal life now. He could at least walk around, do the dishes, grow some vegetables, and help his grandmother with odds and ends. He could at least be a person. He could at least
hunger.
His grandmother shared with him more tales and details as he became healthy enough to understand them, even as she grew weaker and weaker with each passing day. Age was taking her faster and faster and soon Zhong Han would be left alone. So the old woman sought to teach him everything he needed to live before she no longer did. Soon he would have nothing left but himself and she would have her final rest, so she worked to ensure that her death would be peaceful, not worrisome.
She wanted at least this much for him. He was owed at least this much from her.
The day that Zhong Han turned fifteen, his grandmother's old body finally gave out. She was withered and worn, cheeks sallow and skin hanging loosely off old bones like ragged cloth. Her hair was thin and stringy, white and mottled. Her eyes were sunken and she had not had the strength to get out of bed for more than an hour or so near the end. Dutifully, she had prepared one last bowl of porridge for him before she laid down for the last time.
"Han'er," she called out to him, her voice quavering and weak. It was barely a whisper, almost impossible to hear over the crackling of the fireplace. Still, Zhong Han made his way over to her. He had been prepared for this for a long time already. "Han'er, it's time. You'll have to look after yourself now."
Zhong Han nodded. "I'm here,
ah ma."
She spoke and he listened. She spoke for the next thirty minutes and Zhong Han did not blink once, not even when his eyes watered and stung. She told him of how the old man who had come to visit when he turned five taught her the recipe that would help him grow; a simple recipe, only needing the infusion of some blood from her. She lamented that his father was not around, for his blood would have been better for it, but alas, all she could offer was the withered vitality of an old woman.
The old man told her that this would strengthen Zhong Han at the cost of her own lifespan. She had agreed to it readily, wanting nothing more than to help her grandson. And he had told her of other things, too; but she had promised only to share this knowledge with Zhong Han if he wanted more to this.
"Do you want more, Han'er?" The old woman croaked out. She was on her last legs now. Death would claim her soon. "Do you… Do you want more than this? Do you… Do you remember what I've always said about you?"
Zhong Han nodded. He did not cry, though his eyes watered. He was laser focused on her words. "You said that I was blessed. That I would be destined for greatness."
"Yes… Yes, very good. Good boy, Han'er. If you seek greatness still, then I will tell you. It will be a difficult path, but he… But he said it would be worth it."
Zhong Han nodded again. His hands balled into fists; he could hardly contain his excitement. "I do. I will be great."
"Yes… Then I will tell you. The old man's name."
Zhong Han leaned in closer, ready to claim his birthright. His future.
"He is an immortal… Under him, you may learn. You may become a Cultivator… An immortal, like him. His name… His name is… Sun Diaxing…"
With a final sigh, a wheezing exhale, the old woman expired. She died, the ghost of a smile on her face, her throat filling up with more blood as the final curse placed on her took effect, claiming her remaining lifespan and turning it into Blood Qi. A willing sacrifice; rare in these parts, in these days.
For several long minutes, Zhong Han knelt beside the cooling corpse of his grandmother. Then, as mourning ended, he bit into her throat and drank deeply of the blood that pooled there. As he swallowed, he felt empowered, vitality flushing his veins, giving him strength, giving him clarity.
Only then did he stand up, blinking for the first time in many minutes, blood trailing from the corners of his mouth. He wiped them with his hands, then licked them clean.
It tasted nice. A fine meal. The best he has ever had. The porridge his grandmother gave him paled in comparison.
A tear fell from the corner of his eye. Zhong Han laughed. He will eat well from now on, too.
"Thank you, grandmother. When I achieve greatness, I will remember you."
He began packing up the things he might need on his journey immediately. His grandmother, he left in her bed.
After all, she was just skin and bones. No one would miss her but him.
----
Cattle surrounds me
Strong and fat, they will taste good
I feast from now on
----
The hunger pangs struck again a day later, to Zhong Han's frustration. Ignorance truly was bliss. Now that he knew what an actual meal tasted like, his body wanted more, craved more. If he was to travel in pursuit of the Old Man, of Sun Diaxing, he would need another meal… No, another dozen, even.
When night fell, he entered the village's heart, seeking out proper prey. He was still weak and movement was still clumsy compared to most, but in the dark, in this sleepy village, no one would pay him mind. He slinked through the darkness, easily ignored as a weak child, before entering the first home he recognised. Safe, obscure, no one would miss this person or family. It would be a fine enough meal. For now.
He entered, ducking through wicker doors and entering into peat walls. Laying on a mat of straw and fibres was but one man, a farmer not unlike who his father must have been like. In his hands he held a knife, and he held it in two hands over the sleeping man's throat.
Squatting over him, anticipating a meal, Zhong Han's mouth began to water. Drool fell upon the man's chest - and he slept shirtless, despite the chill of spring. The man awoke, groggy and uncertain, until he saw the gangly child with a knife looming over him.
The man shouted, but Han's knife already fell. The blade grazed against the throat and blood began to pour out, filling his throat. The farmer clutched at his throat with one hand and lunged with the other, a wide sweeping slap. Han thudded on the ground, cheek stinging. He was weak and small, he wouldn't be able to beat another man in an actual fight. Not least a man who spent his days toiling on the fields, with a body suited to that life.
The man gurgled as he stumbled onto a knee, trying to stem the blood flowing out of the wound. Zhong Han struck again then as he threw himself at the farmer, knife forgotten. They crumpled onto the ground in a pile, but it was Zhong Han's hands that wrapped around the farmer's neck. He was weak, but he squeezed, while the farmer only flailed.
Even weak hands could snuff out a life when fueled by desperation and hunger.
It would not be a minute before the farmer expired. Manic, flooded with adrenaline, Zhong Han tried to lap up the blood that spilled out of his throat. He bit into the flesh, wanting a meal, but it was too solid. He could not chew, could not swallow. Instead, he contented himself with the blood, the nutrients, the vital fluids essential to all who lived and breathed.
His hands remained firmly clasped around the farmer's neck. They warmed and warmed until they were hot, shocking Zhong Han enough to release his hands. He fell back onto his butt, a gasp trapped in his throat as the farmer's body sat up.
There was no knowledge in the farmer's eyes, not even base clarity. He -
it simply stared into space, the blood flow reducing to a trickle, then to nothing.
Experimentally, Zhong Han waved a hand. The man did nothing, but there was something
strange just beyond, something missing that he was failing to engage. He concentrated, eyes clenched shut as he
focused, before waving a hand again. This time the farmer responded, standing up and at attention.
In the moonlight, Zhong Han noticed that the pallor of the farmer's skin had turned just a bit paler. And Zhong Han realised that his hunger was still dissipating.
He realised what he had done. He had claimed the man's body and now controlled it, and even now it still fed him. The euphoria, the adrenaline, the shock and the fear, all of it had mixed within the young man's body, and he could no longer contain it.
He laughed madly, gladly, realising his powers had come to him. He now commanded otherworldly talents. Greatness truly was waiting for him now.
He was finally ready to seize it.
He ordered the man - no, the puppet to ransack his own home in the dead of night and the puppet did so dutifully. The wound on its neck was still there, but it no longer bled, so Zhong Han simply had the puppet cover it up with some furs.
It would not be long before they emerged from the hut, a pack on the puppet's back carrying everything of value.
----
They lied my whole life
Nothing is ever given
I claim it myself
----
In the morning, he and his puppet will be gone. Their disappearances will be written off as freak disappearances and monster attacks. The village will fear, they will beg passing immortals for help. These events will eventually be forgotten except only as stories, and soon after not even that. This village will forget that the boy and the man ever lived among them - if they survive even that long.
They do not matter anymore. Only he matters now.
His name is -
was Zhong Han. It, like so many things that his family fed him, will be discarded, consumed in his rise. All his life, he was fed the lie of greatness, of promise, of
potential.
Today, he will begin the journey that turns that lie into greatness.
And today… From now on, he Hungers.
[Final Wordcount: 3610 Words]
