The following tale is not fiction – or at least, it is not to be seen as fiction.

  Neither is it fantasy, nor a mere folktale.

  This is the story of a man cursed with the tranquil, spiteful embrace of eternity.

  The tale of a man whose feet have wandered the length and breadth of the known world many times over.

  A man who has not only gathered all the power in the world available to him at his command, but one who has amassed great knowledge and wisdom from his years of travel.

  With time, memory of him has faded, and his identity became a mystery greater than the source of mana.

  But his story remained, in his journals, then in the words spoken in hushed whispers, and finally, in this book.

  Who am I?

  I am no one.

  I do not wish to be known, and I crave no recognition for my work.

  I am but a humble scribe who has dedicated his life to the pursuit of the truth.

  And the truth – as I have found it – is encased within the pages of this book.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Read it not with a heavy heart, nor with a desperation born from the need for excitement.

  Rather, read it as you would walk across the bank of a tranquil river. Read it as you enjoy the smell of petrichor after a morning rain.

  Read it as the whispers of excited birds on a sunny afternoon in an enchanted forest.

  That is the way I would advise you to approach the coming tale.

  For the life of the wandering immortal was a solitary one.

  He lived as he wanted, traveled as he wanted, and rarely interacted with the world other than when appreciating nature.

  But when he did interact with the world, the effects were always felt. All throughout the lands and beyond, into the realm of the gods.

  He was someone whose presence brought great joy to those around him, and great despair to those who dared to earn his anger.

  This is the true story of such a man.

  The biography of the wandering immortal.