High atop the mountains, where clouds of mist curled like sleeping dragons and the wind howled through jagged peaks like the whispers of forgotten gods, the Jin Clan's ancestral grounds loomed in a brooding silence.
Generations of pride, power, and blood soaked these ancient stones—etched into the very soul of the mountain. Majestic yet cold, revered yet feared. But to Jin Long, it had never felt like home.
He was an orphan, nameless in the eyes of the clan. The son of a lowborn servant woman who had died in childbirth, he was seen as little more than a blemish on the clan's pristine bloodline. Tolerated only because of his silence and his skill in cleaning and fetching—useful, like a dog trained not to bark. In a place where heritage meant everything, Jin Long was a ghost—neither welcomed nor acknowledged.
The Jin Clan was one of the seven great houses of the Northern Peaks, famed for their powerful cultivation techniques that mimicked the celestial beasts of old—dragons, qilin, phoenixes. Theirs was the path of the Crimson Vein, a legacy passed down through blood and fire. Every child was raised with purpose. Every breath was weighed.
At its head was Patriarch Jin Tianhai, a legend among cultivators. A revered Immortal Ascendant who, in his youth, had slain a Nine-Headed Serpent and forged an entire sect's downfall in a single night. Cloaked in gold-stitched robes, his presence was like the crushing pressure of a waterfall. His gaze could still a crowd, and his voice—calm and cold—carried the force of law. He ruled not with affection, but with fear and expectation. Power above all. Blood above bonds.
Atop the mountain's twin peaks stood two temples—one revered, one feared.
The first, the eastern temple known as the Hall of Radiant Flame, stood proud and vibrant. It was the heart of the clan's spiritual and martial life. Red and gold banners danced in the alpine wind. Stone lions flanked its gate, and flame lanterns flickered day and night. Inside, incense smoke coiled like dragons in flight, and the laughter of gifted young cultivators echoed through the corridors. It was a place of pride.
The other temple, however, was a scar on the land.
Built upon the western peak, it was a forgotten relic—a crumbling ruin buried beneath centuries of moss and superstition. Its spires had long since collapsed, its gates rusted shut, and the carvings on its walls twisted with time. The elders forbade anyone from venturing near. They whispered that it was cursed, tainted by an ancient power sealed away by the first patriarch.
To the clan, it was a forbidden place.
But to Jin Long, it was the only place where he could breathe.
Each night, when the torchlights dimmed and the stars took their place in the heavens, he would sneak away. Barefoot, silent, a shadow among shadows. He climbed the hidden trail, weaving through brush and stone, to reach the abandoned temple. There, among the echoes of the past and the cold bite of stone, he found peace.
No accusing stares. No sneers. No names spat like curses.
Just silence.
But peace, as always, was a fragile thing.
That night, under the eerie glow of a crimson moon—an omen whispered about in old scrolls—they followed him.
Jin Mo and two others. Sons of inner court elders. Dressed in embroidered robes stitched with beast emblems. Faces sculpted with disdain.
"Still sneaking off to worship ghosts, mutt?" Jin Mo's voice rang sharp and cruel, echoing off the broken pillars. He stepped forward, cracking his knuckles with a sick grin. "Or maybe you're hoping to find your father among the dead? Oh wait—you never had one, did you?"
Jin Long stood silent at the altar, shadows from the broken ceiling casting uneven lines across his face. His hands curled into fists, knuckles white, but he didn't speak.
He knew better.
Words only fed them. Silence infuriated them more.
The first blow came fast—a punch to the side of his face that sent him staggering into a fallen column. The second came from behind, a kick to his back. Then fists rained like a storm, each strike born of jealousy, cruelty, and the kind of hatred only entitled cowards could carry.
"Come on, say something!" Jin Mo barked as he landed a blow to Jin Long's stomach.
He collapsed onto the altar's edge, blood smearing across its cold stone surface. The others laughed, their voices like hyenas in the dead of night.
Eventually, they tired of their sport. With a final kick, they turned away, robes fluttering in the wind as they vanished down the path.
Jin Long lay still.
Pain throbbed in every inch of his body. His vision blurred. The cold from the altar seeped into his bones.
And yet, somewhere beneath it all... a strange calm settled over him. A whisper of peace. Maybe this was it. Maybe, at last, the pain would end.
Blood dripped steadily from his mouth and temple, trickling into the worn grooves of the altar.
And then, the altar responded.
The blood was drawn into a hidden symbol—one long buried beneath dust and decay. The ancient engraving drank it hungrily, pulsing faintly with a deep red glow.
Above, the clouds shifted. The full crimson moon cast its light upon the altar.
Suddenly, the air changed.
The altar trembled beneath him. A deep hum thrummed through the stone, vibrating through his spine.
Then—
The sigil blazed to life.
Crimson light exploded from the symbol, arcing through the broken temple like fire. Dust lifted from the ground. The wind roared. The carvings along the walls shimmered with hidden script, now awakened.
Jin Long's body lifted slightly, suspended above the altar. His eyes widened, lips parting in silent awe as power coursed through him—ancient, pure, and terrifying.
And then a voice.
Not spoken aloud, but echoing directly in his mind.
Old. Cold. Commanding.
[Dragon Vein System Detected... Initializing Host...]
The world bent around him.
Pain vanished.
Flames of red and gold coiled around his arms like serpents. The mark on the altar burned into his back, etching a sigil along his spine. His body shook—not with agony, but with something primal. Something awakening.
Jin Long gasped—just once.
Then—
Darkness.