A bitter, stale smell stabbed at his nose. His vision was dark, and his forehead was pressed against something cold. He slowly pushed himself upright.
“Where is this……?”
A black smear stuck to his forehead spread across his fingertips. On the desk, a single brush lay toppled on its side, black ink bleeding across the paper. He stared at the scene for a long while. It felt strangely familiar. Just looking at the brush and ink made his fingertips itch. He drew in a breath. The memories that had lingered like thick fog began to slowly sort themselves out.
“Ugh—”
His head hurt. A headache that started at the nape of his neck tightened all the way to his temples. But stronger than that was something else—Memory.
He was a talisman scribe. To be precise, a low-ranking talisman scribe who could barely draw a single-stroke talisman. Yesterday, he had tried drawing a two-stroke talisman for the first time. And he had failed. The sensation of his spirit being depleted was still vivid.
Cold blood, fading consciousness, breath coming to a halt—and darkness. He accepted, with surprising calm, the fact that he had died once.
He slowly rose from the chair. His knees tingled, and his hips felt heavy. The area around the desk was a complete mess. An inkstone pooled with ink, dried brushes, stacks of paper.
He slowly looked around the room. A narrow space enclosed on all sides by walls. There was only one window, and no breeze came through. Dust had piled up on the floor mats, and the walls were steeped in the old smell of ink. There was no mirror, but the tangled feel of his hair at his fingertips told him enough.
His clothes were cheap hemp fabric. The cuffs were badly worn. This much wear meant he had used the brush often.
“…A poor one-stroke talisman scribe.”
The voice that came out did not feel unfamiliar. Yet it was strange. Even after experiencing death, his mind was this calm.
Right now, I have come back to life.
There are traces and memories left behind. This body was the flesh once used by a talisman scribe named Li Xin.
Then who am I? Am I Li Xin, revived once more, or merely a shell holding a new soul?
His thoughts did not last long. He was hungry. Not so much an empty stomach as a sharp, hollow ache inside. Li Xin let out a quiet laugh.
“Died and came back, and I’m hungry first.”
Li Xin slowly got up and searched the room. From an old cabinet came ceramic bowls and a chipped wooden spoon, one by one. On the very bottom shelf hung a burlap sack, and when he pulled it out and opened it, grayish-brown roots that looked like potatoes rolled out.
“Not bad.”
Calling it a ‘meal’ was a bit embarrassing, but it was enough to soothe a starving stomach. Li Xin crouched in front of a small brazier in one corner. He lit dry pine twigs and blew softly with pursed lips. The embers did not catch right away. But after blowing several times, a small, fragile flame bloomed.
Soon, a pot was set over the fire. He poured in water and tossed in the roots. As time passed, amid the thick ink smell filling the room, a faint earthy scent and savory aroma mingled in. Crouched in front of the pot, staring at the lid, he looked like a scene pulled from an old memory.
Li Xin carefully lifted the lid, took one out, and put it into his mouth. It was hot. There was no sweetness, no saltiness. Just the taste of filling the belly. But Li Xin nodded as if it were enough.
He did not throw away the remaining water in the pot. He took out a small pouch from the cupboard. Inside, tied with a leather cord, were dried leaves, and when he caught their scent, his gaze trembled slightly.
“Qingming Spirit Grass…”
Fragments of memory bloomed along with the scent of the leaves. A refreshing fragrance that cheap herbal tea could never imitate. It was probably bought with the last of the previous Li Xin’s money.
He floated a few leaves of Qingming Spirit Grass in the remaining water and carefully boiled it. As steam rose and the scent of the leaves drifted over the brazier, his muddled mind scattered like mist. The heat in his forehead seemed to subside a little, and the tightness in his chest eased.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He held a sip of tea in his mouth. It was bitter—but—the moment it went down his throat, a clear, lucid energy struck deep into his chest. His mind cleared. His scattered thoughts began to take direction. He had crossed death and lived.
Then now, what should I do?
He set down the empty teacup and closed his eyes.
The smell of the room, the warm heat, the sound of embers popping. Every sensation told him this was real.
“The first thing I need to do is get used to this body.”
Li Xin muttered as he stood up. The scent of Qingming Spirit Grass still lingered at the tip of his nose. His mind was calm, and his vision was clear.
Sitting down again at the desk, Li Xin poured water into the inkstone and finely ground pitch-black ink. The smell was stale and sharp to the nose, but at this price range, there was no better material. Once the ink was properly mixed, he quietly picked up the brush and spread out a sheet of white paper—Blank paper—the cheapest and most common kind.
On that empty surface, it was now time to inscribe a law. He had already decided in his heart what to draw.
“Strength Talisman (巨力符).”
A low-grade talisman that temporarily granted strength to the user’s muscles. One of the practical basic talismans favored by porters, carpenters, and miners. The Strength Talisman required only a single stroke. But one stroke did not simply mean drawing a line.
A talisman’s power came from engraving a ‘law’ along the path the brush traveled. Li Xin’s fingertips were not merely tools for spreading ink. The talisman scribe’s mental force, spiritual power, and ‘intent’ had to be conveyed onto the paper with the ink.
Li Xin took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then he carefully lowered the brush.
The moment the brush touched the white paper, tension flowed from the nape of his neck down his spine. The ink seeped into the paper. The first sensation was resistance—as if an invisible hand were pulling the brush in the opposite direction.
This was not simple friction of materials. It was the inherent weight of the Strength Talisman, which had to contain the attribute of ‘power.’
Steadying his subtly shaking fingers, he firmly fixed his wrist. Veins bulged on the back of his hand, and his joints creaked. Sweat ran down his forehead. The more force he applied, the more stubbornly the brush resisted, and the paper vibrated, unable to bear the weight.
And then, at that moment—a small cracking sound came from the paper. The tip of the brush flicked upward ever so slightly at the end.
The ink spread. The stroke twisted, and the flow of the talisman was severed.
“…A failure.”
Li Xin set the brush down and quietly stared at the ruined paper. His arm, drained of strength, trembled faintly.
It was my body, yet it still felt unfamiliar.
After catching his breath for a moment, he picked up the brush again. Failure was a common occurrence for a talisman scribe. Even seasoned scribes failed several sheets a day. What mattered was how one got past failure.
With practiced movements, Li Xin pushed the ruined paper aside. As if he had repeated the same process yesterday, and the day before that. And he lifted the brush again.
His mind was clear. The awakening effect of the Qingming Spirit Grass still lingered. Three deep breaths. Loosen the strength in his arm slightly, and bring out flexibility in the wrist. This time, the brush slid slowly and heavily across the paper.
Amid the stale smell of ink, sweat once again beaded on Li Xin’s forehead. A single black line crossing the white page. Li Xin carefully observed the thickness of the line and the paper’s response as he completed the Strength Talisman. The pressure of his fingertips, the tremor of his wrist, the angle at which the bristles were pressed—every action stayed within calculation—and, the moment he curled up the end of the stroke, the paper reacted.
An invisible flow spread thinly. It felt as though the ink line itself were alive. A perfectly connected stroke. The form of the talisman was clear. And at that moment. His vision flashed, and words appeared.
[You have completed a 1-stroke Strength Talisman.]
[Strength has slightly increased.]
“…What?”
Li Xin’s gaze wavered.
What just passed by?
A hallucination? A side effect of Qingming Spirit Grass? The words before his eyes were vivid, far too specific to be a mistake.
Without hesitation, Li Xin took out another blank sheet. He dipped the brush in pitch-black ink and drew the same Strength Talisman again. The form, the flow, exactly the same as before. This time, the ink did not spread. The paper complied, and the stroke connected naturally. When the brush lifted from the surface…
[You have completed a 1-stroke Strength Talisman.]
[Strength has slightly increased.]
It was not a mistake. His elbows and wrists, which usually felt heavy, now felt a bit lighter. A very subtle change—but a talisman scribe’s senses would never miss such subtlety.
“What in the world is this…”
Li Xin let out a deep breath. Had this life, revived after crossing death, begun to follow different laws than before?
To confirm, he decided to draw a Lightness Talisman (輕身符) this time. A talisman that lightened the body and quickened footwork. Compared to the Strength Talisman, it required slightly more delicate control.
Li Xin immediately took out a fine brush set beside him. Its tip was thin and flexible, a tool suited for swift movements. After dipping the brush in ink, Li Xin did not hesitate.
The direction of the stroke curved smoothly, the lines connecting with precision. And the moment the brush tip left the paper.
[You have completed a 1-stroke Lightness Talisman.]
[Footwork has slightly increased.]
“Definitely.”
Li Xin stood up and walked a lap around the room. His knees and ankles responded quickly, stepping more smoothly and nimbly than before. This was not a simple illusion. It truly seemed to be a new life. Li Xin sat back down at the desk, the corners of his lips slowly lifted.
