Far from the echoes of ancient war, on a quiet, insignificant world named Xianyu, there lay a simple village, nestled in the cradle of endless mountains. The villagers called it Qinghe—a place so small, so removed from the bustling cities and grand sects, that few maps even bothered to mark its name.
The village was surrounded by a thick sea of pine forests that whispered when the wind passed, their dark green canopies stretching endlessly until they met the jagged cliffs of the distant peaks. In spring, wildflowers bloomed along the rocky paths, their colors soft against the worn gray stones. Streams of clear, cold water snaked through the village, their gentle trickling the ever-present music of daily life.
Qinghe was peaceful, ordinary, and untouched by the great storms of the outside world. The villagers farmed, fished, and passed stories by firelight—stories of cultivators, immortal sects, and forgotten wars, tales that drifted through the air like fading embers. Yet no cultivators ever came here. No sects sent their envoys. To the people of Qinghe, the grand world was but a distant dream.
Among them lived a boy named Chen Yu.
Orphaned when he was still a child, Chen Yu was raised by his aging grandmother, a soft-spoken woman who sold herbs to passing traders once every few seasons. Their home was a small wooden house perched near the edge of the village, where the trees grew dense and the mist lingered in the mornings.
Chen Yu was quiet, curious, and restless.
While the other children trained with wooden sticks or chased one another through the fields, Chen Yu would often wander alone into the forests, climbing rocks and tracing forgotten animal paths. He spent hours watching the sky, as if waiting for something—or someone—that would never come.
The villagers said he was odd, that his head was filled with fantasies. Some pitied him, others simply ignored him. Even Chen Yu's grandmother would sometimes sigh, though her wrinkled hands would still gently ruffle his hair at night as she told him the old stories—tales of ancient powers, mighty cultivators, and heroes whose names had long been swallowed by time.
And though he said nothing, Chen Yu always believed those stories were not just stories. Somewhere deep inside, he felt them calling to him.
The days in Qinghe Village passed without much change. Chen Yu spent his mornings gathering herbs for his grandmother and his afternoons sitting by the old riverbank, staring at the sky with a distant look in his eyes. The village elders often shook their heads, calling him aimless, but Chen Yu felt it deep in his bones—this small village could not hold him forever.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountain peaks, painting the sky in gold and violet, something inside him stirred.
A pull.
A whisper.
It came not from the village, nor from anyone he knew, but from beyond the familiar forest paths he had walked a hundred times. His feet moved without thought, carrying him farther and farther into the woods, past the streams, beyond the old hunting trails, to a place no villager dared to tread.
A place he had never seen before.
The trees here were ancient, their roots twisted over stone and bone. A faint mist clung to the ground. Beneath the shadows, he found a crumbling stone archway, half-buried by time and creeping vines.
His heart pounded.
For reasons he could not explain, Chen Yu stepped forward, leaving behind the life he had known.