Beneath a sky draped in deepest indigo, the war camp slumbered. Flickering torchlight painted dancing shadows across the rough-hewn tents, while squads of grim-faced soldiers, clad in mail and leather, patrolled the perimeter, a bulwark against unseen dangers. Order, stark and unyielding, reigned within the stockade.

Beyond the palisade, the usual cacophony of camp life was muted, replaced by an unsettling stillness. Most of the tents were dark, their hearths cold, save for a handful where flickering lamplight cast elongated silhouettes against the canvas. At the heart of the camp, the command tent blazed with purpose, its entrance guarded by sentinels from a score of allied villages.

Within, the aging General, a man weathered by seasons of war and wisdom, stood hunched over a tattered map. Furrowed brows and narrowed eyes betrayed the turmoil within. He was alone save for the crackling of the beeswax candles that illuminated his grim vigil.

“The Southern King,” he scoffed, his voice a low growl in the silent tent. “Such a title ill-befits him!” He could not explain the deep-seated aversion he felt toward the name, a visceral rejection that resonated in his very bones.

It was as though no mortal man was worthy to bear the mantle of Southern King.

“Indeed? And who, pray tell, *is* worthy?” a voice purred from the shadows behind him, laced with amusement.

The General stilled for a heartbeat, then recovered with practiced ease. He turned to face the speaker – a young man clad in white, his hair the silver of winter frost. A gentle smile played on the newcomer’s lips as he observed the seasoned commander.

“Before I claimed it myself, none were worthy to bear the title of Southern King,” the General declared, his gaze unwavering, his voice steady as the stones of the fortress walls. Without a hint of fear, he settled back into his chair.

“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to a stool opposite him.

Wang Lin’s eyes, sharp and knowing, held a glint of admiration. To face a stranger who materialized within the supposedly secure command tent with such unwavering composure, before the awakening of buried memories, was a rare and admirable feat.

And it was not a practiced facade, but genuine, unshakeable calm.

Wang Lin smiled and took the offered seat.

“Have you wine?” he inquired, his tone casual.

“What army lacks wine?” The General roared with laughter, turning to the tent flap and bellowing, “Ho! Bring wine!”

From beyond the tent came a chorus of respectful replies. Moments later, several burly soldiers entered, their eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Wang Lin. The guards stationed outside the tent went pale as death, their faces betraying their shock.

They had seen no one enter!

“Place the wine and depart,” the General instructed, his voice calm, waving his hand dismissively.

The guards, silent and obedient, placed several earthenware jugs near the General and Wang Lin before retreating, casting nervous glances back at the uninvited guest.

“A deep well of fortitude, General,” Wang Lin remarked, lifting a jug to his lips and taking a long draught.

“If you can slip past my sentries unseen, their intervention would be futile regardless of what is to happen here. Why bother drawing steel at all?” The General responded, matching his guest’s action, and uncorking a jug, and taking a hearty swig.

Wang Lin’s smile deepened, genuine and warm. It had been a long time since he felt such unalloyed joy on this land, a sentiment distinct from the joy of recovering a piece of Li Muwan, or the comfort of Xuan Luo’s presence. It was a feeling of kinship, of recognizing a soul across the ages.

It was a feeling that freed him, and filled him with a profound happiness.

Outside the tent, shadows darted to and fro as the sentries whispered urgent warnings. The measured tread of heavy boots announced the arrival of more soldiers, the captains and commanders drawn by the disturbance. A dense ring of warriors now surrounded the command tent, their faces etched with concern, yet reluctant to breach the General’s privacy. A palpable tension filled the air, so thick it seemed to smother the torches, dimming their flames in the unseen force.

Time slipped by unnoticed as dawn began to break. The soldiers stood vigil through the night, their patience tested by the long hours, but the occasional bursts of laughter emanating from the tent kept them from charging in.

The laughter, however, only deepened their bewilderment.

“Fascinating,” the General mused, setting down an empty jug and reaching for another. “You have traveled to places unheard of! This ‘Shanhai’ you speak of… I have heard whispers of it, but it lies too far beyond our reach. We mortals cannot hope to see its shores.”

“If you wish it, you can,” Wang Lin replied, his eyes fixed on his friend across the table.

“Ah, so the rumors are true. You are a cultivator, Wang?” the General asked, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

Wang Lin nodded, offering no further explanation as he continued to drink.

As the first sliver of light pierced the horizon, banishing the shadows of the night, Wang Lin and the General were still drinking. They had spoken through the night, Wang Lin unburdening himself of the many trials and tribulations he had undergone on Xian’gang Continent. He recounted his adventures in Tianniu Zhou, his battles in Moxie Zhou, and the wonders and horrors of Zucheng. He even spoke of his experiences amongst the Ancient Clan.

Tears welled in his eyes as he recounted finding Li Muwan’s fractured soul. His face clouded with pain as he spoke of repaying his Master with a life.

He spoke and spoke, until he reached the point of leaving the Ancient Clan and returning to the lands of the Immortals.

The General listened with rapt attention, struggling to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the events being described. If even half of what Wang Lin said was true, this man must be a figure of immense significance on Xian’gang Continent.

But why, of all people, would such a man choose to spend a night drinking in his tent, sharing such intimate details? As the General searched his memory, the stranger across from him began to seem familiar, like a long forgotten face in the depths of his mind, now emerging into the light.

As he witnessed Wang Lin’s grief, the General was struck with a matching despair, as if he had witnessed Wang Lin’s tribulations himself.

“I cannot find Li Qianmei,” Wang Lin mumbled, his voice thick with sorrow as he drank again. “Situ, I’ve looked for so long and cannot find her.” Some words, some burdens, he could only share with Situ.

“Situ… Who is this Situ?” The General asked, a complex mix of emotions swirling within him. He had heard the name spoken so many times this night.

Wang Lin set down his empty jug and reached for another. By now, several deliveries of wine had been brought in.
“Situ…” Wang Lin murmured, his gaze drifting to the aged general before him.

“To be a dear friend of yours, this Situ must also tread the path of cultivation,” the general responded, his eyes filled with a dawning wonder as he regarded Wang Lin.

“He is a cultivator, one… who yearns to be a king. If you would hear his tale, it must begin in a place called Vermillion Bird Star, within the Third Grade cultivation nation of Zhao…” A wistful expression settled on Wang Lin’s face as he spoke, his voice low.

The words echoed within the tent, and the general listened in silence, his bewilderment deepening with each passing syllable.

Time ebbed away, and as dawn painted the sky with light, Wang Lin’s voice still wove its story within the tent’s confines.

“Li Qianmei, Situ Nan, Qing Shui… they have all been reborn upon the Immortal Astral Continent… and I have placed a mark upon their souls, the only way to find them.” Wang Lin took a swig of wine, a faint smile gracing his lips as he turned to the general.

Silence descended. Then, a tremor ran through the general’s frame. He gasped, his eyes snapping open.

“I… am I Situ Nan?” he stammered, his voice thick with disbelief.

Wang Lin met his gaze, nodding slowly.

“You are Situ Nan. And I… am Wang Lin.”

“Wang Lin…” the general breathed, and then a sudden, booming laughter erupted from him. It was a laughter that dissolved into tears. He would not have believed such a tale, yet the feeling stirring within his soul, a deep, abiding familiarity with the man before him, coupled with the memories of the Cave World that had been spoken of, compelled him to accept it.

For surely, a celestial cultivator would not stoop to deceive a mere mortal!

“So, I have walked this Immortal Astral Continent through countless cycles of rebirth, and in this current life, I am Si Nan, the Grand Marshal of Wu Xuan Country…” The tears flowed freely amidst the laughter. He believed, and it was the very belief that made the truth so difficult to bear.

“These five hundred thousand soldiers outside the tent, some of their families have followed me since their grandfathers’ time, and when they fell, their fathers took their place, and when they fell, their sons followed me, too.

And now, you tell me I am Situ Nan, a would-be king, and not Si Nan, Grand Marshal of Wu Xuan? What of them?!” At the force of the general’s voice, the tent flap flew open, and soldiers began to surge within, only to be met by a thunderous command that drove them back.

“Rebirth… rebirth… How many ties are forged in each cycle? And I have lived through so many…” The general collapsed back into his chair, regarding Wang Lin with a complex expression, a bitter smile forming on his lips.

“Forgive me… this was my choice long ago, to be reborn upon the Immortal Astral Continent. It has nothing to do with you.”

Wang Lin remained silent, drinking deeply from his wine flask.

“Help me… unlock my memories of the past!” The general drank on, draining three full casks before his eyes were bloodshot and a drunken haze settled over him. He looked at Wang Lin, his voice firm.

As night once again shrouded the land, Wang Lin departed from the military camp, his face etched with contemplation. He paused in the air, gazing back at the Grand Marshal’s tent below. The tent flap was thrown aside, and the general emerged, looking up at him.

“Wang Lin! When I have lived this life to its fullest, when I have become the Southern King, I will find you!” the general roared, his voice filled with a newfound boldness and swagger.

A smile bloomed on Wang Lin’s face, widening into a hearty laugh.

“Situ! When you have wearied of being a king, I will await your arrival. We shall drink again!” Wang Lin turned and transformed into a streak of light, disappearing into the vastness of the world.

“Lads! Assemble the army! First, we’re bringing that damned Southern King outside to me. I’ve had my eye on him for far too long. Who does he think he is, calling himself Southern King!

I’ve made up my mind. *I’m* going to be the Southern King!” The general seemed to have shed years from his face, his laughter ringing out in the night.