The wind howled across the highland trail like a spirit in mourning, carrying with it the taste of dust, old pine, and distant blood.
A lone figure trudged through the narrow mountain pass, robes faded to ash-gray and patched from countless repairs. His boots were worn thin at the heels, soles blackened from years of forgotten roads. A wide-brimmed straw hat cast shadows across his face, and from beneath it, calm, unreadable eyes watched the world with quiet detachment. No crest adorned his robes. No badge of sect or clan. Just a plain satchel and a wooden staff, scuffed and splintered at the tip.
He was a man with no name, at least not one he cared to offer anymore. Those who met him remembered only the silence he carried like armor—and the unsettling sense that he saw more than he let on.
As the path wound higher into the hills, the forest grew thinner. The air was colder now, less forgiving. He stopped to rest near a crag jutting from the cliffside, gaze drawn to the wide expanse of the Douluo Continent far below.
Cities glittered in the haze of distance, tiny stars pinned to the land. Somewhere in the north, Spirit Hall's banners waved over towers of marble and gold. To the west, the Heaven Dou Empire's smoke trails rose like brushstrokes across the sky. And yet, despite all the greatness of the world laid before him, the traveler frowned.
"It's all the same," he murmured to no one.
The cultivation world was sick, though it didn't yet know it. Generation after generation clung to the same teachings, the same hierarchies, the same narrow power. Spirit power measured worth. Spirit rings dictated form. Lineage determined future. Every soul master bowed to the same tyrants, even if they wore different faces.
He tightened his grip on the staff. Somewhere deep in his bones, he felt the gap—between what was and what could be.
The world had forgotten something.
And that forgetting made it blind.
A low growl shattered the stillness. The traveler turned, heart steady.
From the thicket emerged a soul beast, lean and gaunt from winter scarcity. A crimson ridgeback wolf—one-hundred-year class, by its aura. Its fur bristled like razors, lips curled over long, yellowed fangs. Its eyes gleamed with starvation and rage.
The traveler didn't move.
"Not here," he whispered. "Not today."
But the wolf lunged.
The man pivoted sideways just as it leapt, letting the beast fly past him. He spun the staff in his hand—not as a weapon, but as an extension of his breath. A downward tap of the staff struck the wolf's flank mid-air, just enough to unbalance it. The beast crashed into the rock behind him, whimpering.
It snarled and charged again, more cautious this time.
The traveler took a single step back and closed his eyes.
A strange, faint ripple passed through the air. Like the turning of a page.
His palm hovered over the satchel.
And then—
A dull crack split the air. The wolf howled, its limbs locking up as if frozen by an unseen force. A faint pattern shimmered beneath its paws—scriptwork. Invisible lines written into the terrain with spirit power, now activated.
The traveler exhaled softly. His fingers had traced those runes into the dust when he'd first stopped to rest.
He crouched beside the beast, placing a hand on its side. The wolf trembled but didn't fight.
"You're starving," he said, not unkindly. "So is the world."
He reached into his satchel and retrieved a dry ration—salted meat and stale rice. He placed it in front of the wolf and stepped back, deactivating the trap seal with a flick of his hand. The glow faded.
The beast blinked. Then, slowly, it devoured the food.
A moment passed. Then another.
The wolf turned and slinked back into the forest, tail low. It didn't look back.
The traveler's shoulders relaxed.
As the sky began to darken, a faint snow drifted from the mountainside. He pulled his robe tighter and resumed his climb.
By nightfall, the trail widened into a crumbling stone causeway—half-swallowed by vines and moss. At its end loomed a broken gate, one side sheared off at the hinges. Behind it: the ruins of a mountain temple, blackened by fire and half-buried under landslides.
He recognized none of the script on the shattered pillars.
But he felt it.
A presence. Ancient. Watching.
He stepped inside.
Moonlight spilled through the broken roof, illuminating shattered statues and burnt tapestries. A giant central brazier, long cold, still bore soot in the shape of handprints. Birds nested where monks once knelt.
He ran his hand across a broken prayer wall. Something pulsed beneath the surface. Not spiritual power, exactly—but an echo.
He sat in the center of the main hall and began to meditate. Not for strength. Not for rings.
But for stillness.
The storm outside grew louder. Wind whispered through the temple's cracks, like voices. The ground trembled faintly beneath him—not from quakes, but something older.
Then, something shifted beneath him.
With a grinding crack, the stone floor gave way.
He dropped like a stone into darkness.
But even falling, he did not cry out.
The air turned cold and stale. His body hit ground hard, rolled once, and stilled.
He coughed. Sat up slowly.
No light. No noise. But the pressure—yes. There it was. Old, coiled like smoke and shadow.
He raised a hand. With a flicker of soul power, a small lantern of condensed light formed in his palm—a technique he'd learned from a forgotten scroll in a desert town long buried.
The room lit with dim gold.
And what he saw made his breath catch.
Books.
Scrolls.
Stone tablets.
Rows of them.
Towers of them.
A buried library—sealed in silence beneath the mountain.
He stood slowly, awestruck.
Along the far wall, massive doors were sealed with golden chains covered in spirit inscriptions. A plaque above the door was nearly rubbed smooth, but one phrase could still be read:
"In Knowledge, Freedom."
His heart pounded. His Codex—still dormant—trembled in its latent state.
He stepped closer, lantern held high.
One scroll pulsed faintly in response.
Not power. Not soul energy.
But recognition.
As if it had been waiting.
As if it remembered him.
And somewhere deep in his soul, something turned. Not a martial spirit. Not yet.
But a key in an ancient lock.
A whisper in the dark:
"Read… and remember."