Rain fell like forgotten prayers, soft and unyielding.
The village of Darnell, tucked deep in the southern edge of Valmont's mountain spine, was little more than broken roads, sagging roofs, and the weary breath of survivors. It clung to the edge of the world like a fading memory — too poor for bandits, too remote for nobles, too insignificant for even cultivators to bother with.
The villagers said it had been better once. Before the rains came. Before the wild beasts started roaming closer each year. Before the skies cracked open and Mara died in the rubble of her own home.
Kahel sat beneath the broken eaves of what remained of that house. The wood had gone soft, eaten from the inside by mold. The roof sagged above him, leaking in slow, steady drops. He didn't move. Just watched the water bead on his sleeve, soak through the threadbare fabric, and vanish into his skin.
He was fifteen today.
There was no celebration. No fire. No warmth.
Not that anyone noticed. Not that anyone dared.
Kahel had become something of a shadow in Darnell — too young to be feared, too strange to be helped. The elders whispered that the boy was cursed. That the light in his eyes wasn't natural. That it was the remnant of whatever power had taken his mother's life.
They weren't wrong. Not entirely.
His mother, Mara, had once been a healer. Gentle hands, quiet eyes. She had no spirit root, no qi sense, no cultivation to her name. Just kindness. And in this world, that was dangerous.
The day she died, two cultivators dueled in the skies above Darnell. No warning. No apology. Just a blur of light and thunder, followed by a burning arc that sliced through the hillside and shattered their home.
Kahel remembered her hands pushing him aside. He remembered the sound of stone breaking. The warmth of her blood on his arms. The way her breath caught and then didn't come again.
That was five years ago.
Since then, the boy had spoken little and smiled less.
He reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a small wooden box, worn with age. It was charred black around the edges — fire-kissed, but not destroyed. The latch was half rusted, but he had pried it open months ago.
Inside was a single scroll.
The first time he unrolled it, strange symbols flared across its surface — not written, but burned into the parchment. The letters shimmered faintly, as if remembering fire. The language was unknown, the style crude. But when he touched it, the air thickened.
The scroll pulsed with something deep. Something alive.
Since then, Kahel had returned to it every night. Not out of hope — but out of something harder.
Need.
He didn't understand the scroll. But he felt it.
A week ago, he noticed something strange. When he mimicked the posture etched on the margins of the scroll and followed the breath pattern described within, the world changed. Only slightly — but enough.
The air grew warm around him. His body tingled. His breath stretched farther than it should.
He had stumbled on something no one else in Darnell had.
The beginning.
He rose now, stretching stiff muscles, the box tucked beneath his arm. The rain had thinned, leaving the air heavy with mist. His feet were bare, but the cold didn't bother him anymore. Not like it used to.
He walked north, through the edge of the village, past the rotted gate and the crooked stone trail that wound into the hills. No one called out to him. No one stopped him.
They never did.
At the top of the hill stood a single stone pillar. It was ancient, weathered, half-covered in moss. No one remembered who built it. Some said it marked a grave. Others claimed it was a relic of a long-forgotten sect. The truth was, no one knew — and no one cared.
Except Kahel.
He sat before it now, cross-legged, scroll unrolled in his lap. The symbols flickered faintly in the dim light. He closed his eyes.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale, slowly through the nose.
Again.
The breath slowed. Deepened.
The world dulled around him.
And then he felt it — faint, like a thread tugging at the base of his spine. A warmth that wasn't heat. A motion that wasn't wind.
Qi.
Real, living qi. Not imagined. Not dreamed.
It rose slowly, curling up through his back like smoke. It burned, just slightly — not enough to pain him, but enough to be known. His limbs grew lighter. His thoughts quieter.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
The wind stilled. The world narrowed.
His skin prickled. His bones felt hollow. His heartbeat slowed.
He opened his eyes.
The world looked different.
The grass shimmered. The clouds seemed to bend, just slightly, as if acknowledging his presence.
And the stone pillar — it glowed.
Not bright, not blinding. But the ancient symbols across its surface shimmered faintly, echoing those on the scroll. He didn't know what they meant, but he felt them.
Felt them responding.
He stood, legs unsteady, and looked out across the horizon.
For the first time in his life, the world felt... possible.
The path had begun.
And somewhere, far above, far beyond this minor world — something noticed.