Chapter One – Northward Bound
The man smelled like cheap wine and old secrets.
He sat in the shadowed corner of a crumbling tea house, eyes darting like a rat sniffing for poison. His voice was low, barely above the rustling of dry leaves outside, and his fingers trembled as they accepted the weight of silver coins. Emrys said little. He listened, nodded once, then rose without fanfare.
By the time the broker glanced up again, the swordsman was already gone—just the memory of a dark cloak slipping out the door.
Outside, the air was brittle with the promise of frost. Autumn had bled its last, and the northern wind came down from the mountains sharp as a blade. Emrys stood in the road, cloak drawn tight, one hand resting on the hilt of the long, unadorned sword strapped to the belt on his waist. His breath fogged the air as he looked toward the snow-dusted peaks.
That was where he had to go.
The northern mountains—a land of biting wind, forgotten temples, and the half-remembered bones of an empire long dead. It was said a Martial Master had taken root there, a hermit who'd reached the Fifth Pillar: Bone Refinement, and now lived beyond the reach of kings and kingdoms. Whether the man was real or rumor hardly mattered. The path forward had been silent for too long. Even the faintest whisper was worth chasing.
Emrys stepped onto the road, boots crunching over the last fallen leaves of the year. His journey had begun again.
He had not always been a cultivator.
A hundred years ago, he had been no more than a boy—barefoot, calloused, and angry. Life in the village had been little more than labor. Break your back in the fields, bow your head to the tax collector, die young and forgotten. Emrys had seen the hollowness in his father's eyes, the quiet resignation in his mother's hands, and something in him had broken. He'd left at fifteen, without a coin or a plan.
If Master Kaelen hadn't found him… he would've died on the road. Starved. Robbed. Cut down by some bored bandit.
But Kaelen had taken him in—a grizzled old swordsman, weary-eyed and sharp-tongued, already past his prime but still carrying the fire of the Fourth Pillar. The old man had taught him to stand straight, to breathe with his whole body, to strike without hesitation. He'd taught him the first four refinements—Strength, Flesh, Muscle, and finally, Tendon.
He taught Emrys to endure.
But Kaelen was no master. A Martial Knight at his peak, yes, but the fire had started to flicker. His body began to fail before he could find the next step. He died as many cultivators did—not in battle, but in silence, in his sleep, with the sword resting beside him.
That had been twenty years ago.
Since then, Emrys had walked alone. Dozens of villages. Countless duels. Seasons without end. Each day refining what little he had left to polish. The Fourth Pillar was strong—his tendons could snap a tree root in two, his strikes were fast enough to split a shadow—but it was not enough.
He needed to advance.
He would advance.
Snow began to fall, light and quiet. The wind howled down from the north like a voice crying from the peaks. Emrys did not flinch. His stride did not slow. His breath steamed out in calm rhythm as he pressed forward, the sword across his back humming softly with each step.
The mountains waited.
And so did the next Pillar.