The tavern smelled of cheap wine and roasted meat. The bustle filled the air: waiters weaving between tables with trays full, liquor jugs clinking, and voices intertwining in a cacophony of exaggerated stories and forced laughter.
In a corner, a veteran mercenary with a scar running across his face spoke in a low voice. Around him, several faces listened attentively, drawn in by the conspiratorial tone of his words.
"I swear on my mother," he said, dragging out the words, "those guys killed cultivators... without using Qi. With mortal strength!"
A young merchant, wearing a brocaded robe and a skeptical look, raised his gaze from his cup.
"What? Without Qi? Mortals? Then how did they beat them?"
The veteran snapped his fingers with a crooked smile. "With weapons," he replied, raising his arm as if wielding an invisible one.
"All you heard was bang, bang... and they fell. It wasn't spiritual energy, it wasn't techniques. It was like... thunder in their hands."
Some let out an incredulous laugh, but others fell silent, attentive.
"And what are these crazy people called?" asked an old drunk, his voice thick with wine.
"Astralis," said the mercenary, and the name seemed to freeze the air for a second. "They say they are mortals, like us. That anyone can join if they're willing to work. That they're building a place for regular people."
"A sect without cultivators?" murmured one. "And they defeated real cultivators?"
"They don't call themselves a sect," the veteran corrected, "They're a group. And yes, I saw it with my own eyes. Their weapons broke through spiritual armor like it was paper.
They saved the village. We all saw it." He nodded toward his table, where other mercenaries agreed.
"The bodies were lying on the ground," interjected a young man from the group. "They even captured one alive."
"They captured a cultivator and didn't lose anyone? Come on..." said another listener with a mocking smile. Several others laughed with him.
"None died," insisted the veteran, raising his jug and finishing the last sip. Then he slammed it down on the table. "Not one. The fight ended before the demon cultivators even understood what was going on."
The skeptic stood up with disdain. "Impossible."
"We all saw it," the veteran replied, his voice heavy. "Some merchants were with us. Ask them if you don't believe me."
The silence that followed was different. It wasn't doubt, but unease. A spark had been lit.
At a crossroads between two trade routes, a small convoy stopped in front of an inn. The horses, covered in sweat and dirt, panted with exhaustion. The merchants, tired from the journey, couldn't stop talking, their faces flushed with excitement.
"I swear I saw it!" exclaimed a plump man as he climbed down from his cart. His beard was messy, and his breath was heavy, but his voice was firm. "Not a single cultivator among them! Just mortals! And still, they killed the demon cultivators in less than a minute."
A group of guards at the inn entrance watched as they unloaded the goods. One of them raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
"Mortals beating cultivators? With what, stones and pleas?" he said with an ironic smile, shaking his head.
"No, no, no! With weapons... weapons that roared like thunder." The merchant gestured enthusiastically, as if trying to draw the weapon in the air. "I asked one of them, and he said they're called Mau... Mauser rifles, or something like that. All you heard was 'bang bang!' and everyone fell. Even their spiritual armor couldn't resist."
On the other side of the road, a young woman selling fruit stopped her work when she heard the conversation. She looked up, both curious and fearful.
"And what are they called?" she asked, her voice wavering.
"Astralis."
"Who's their leader?" asked one of the guards.
"I don't know. They just said they're going to settle in that village and start recruiting people. Doesn't matter who you are, as long as you want to work, they'll take you. They say they'll protect their own. They're building their own city, no clans, no nobility, no sects."
One of the guards clicked his tongue. "And aren't they attracting disaster with that? A city without cultivators to protect it is a perfect target for anyone with bad intentions."
"Maybe…" replied the merchant, taking a sip of water. His gaze drifted toward the horizon. "But if they killed those cultivators without losing a single man… then the world might be about to change."
In a village hidden among the hills, a young man with a weathered face moved sacks of rice in front of a warehouse. His clothes, faded from constant washing, were covered in rivets, marks of tireless effort. Sweat ran down his forehead as the foreman's shouts echoed throughout the place.
His younger sister waited at home, with an empty stomach. He was the last member of his family, the only one left to take care of her, but every day he felt there was no way out, no future. Life in the village only offered misery. But everything changed when he overheard a conversation.
Two travelers passed by, seeking shade in front of the well. They sought refuge from the blazing sun while conversing in low voices.
"They say they're mortals, they don't use spiritual energy, but their weapons can pierce cultivators and their spiritual shields," one remarked, a look of astonishment on his face.
"And what are they called?" asked the other, curious.
"Astralis," replied the first. "They're recruiting mortals. If you work, they accept you. They protect their own. They say they're building a city to the west."
The young man dropped the sack of rice. The sound of the fabric hitting the ground was like a blow to his chest. His breathing quickened, his body tense, as if something inside him had awakened.
"Where?" he asked, stepping forward, his voice urgent, as if afraid of missing something bigger than himself.
The two men stared at him, surprised by his reaction.
"To the west," said one, pointing with his hand. "Beyond the willow forest, near a small village."
The foreman shouted again, his voice sharp, but this time, the young man didn't move.
His hands clenched into fists. In his eyes, something new shone, something he hadn't seen in years: hope. But it wasn't passive hope. It was a firm determination. Something had changed, something inside him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt that his life could take another course.
The news spread quickly. Stories of those mortals—strange soldiers, with not a trace of Qi—capable of defeating demonic cultivators, traveled like fire driven by the wind.
Taverns, markets, and roads became stages for conversations filled with skepticism, curiosity, and above all, hope.
No one believed it at first. How could simple humans—without the blessing of spiritual energy—defeat cultivators who had spent years perfecting their arts?
But the testimonies were too many, coming from different places, different voices... and they all agreed.
The weapons. The dry sound of gunshots, like thunder tearing through the air. The spiritual armors, useless. The bodies of the cultivators, pierced as if they were ordinary flesh.
For many, it was just a story, like the ones that promise a beggar found a treasure or a woodcutter became immortal overnight.
But for others, it was different. It was an opportunity.
The weary of the immortality of the cultivators, those who would never be accepted into sects, the outcasts, those living under the boot of corrupt cultivators... In them, something ignited.
Hope.
The name Astralis began to float in the air with a strange weight. Not like that of a great sect.
It was more of a promise.
A place where your lineage, your surname, or your talent for Qi didn't matter. A place where all that was needed was to work and protect your own.
And so, from mouth to mouth, from wheel to wheel, Astralis began to take shape.
Not as a legend.
But as a path.
One that many, for the first time, believed was possible.