Chapter 1 – Early Morning in Qinghe Town
Fallen Star Continent.
Qinghe Town lay nestled between low hills and quiet rivers on the edges of the Great Yan Dynasty. Far from the wars and courts of nobles, life here was simple — rice in the fields, smoke from clay chimneys, the rhythm of day and night unchanged for generations.
Morning came early.
The first rays of light spilled across the rooftops, piercing the light mist that still clung to the fields like old dreams. Roosters crowed. Dogs barked. From the distant stream, a wooden bucket creaked as it rose, dripping, from a stone well.
Children stirred.
Among them was a boy of seven — Yun Long.
His bed was a straw mat in the rear room of a wooden house. Thin, patched quilts lay twisted at his feet. He blinked away sleep and sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes.
"Long'er, wake up," came a warm voice from the kitchen. "The rice hasn't washed itself."
"I'm coming!" he called back, already fumbling for his clothes.
His name was Yun Long, son of Old Yun the healer and Madam Su. Everyone in the town believed the couple had been blessed late in life with a quiet, clever boy.
He lived like any other child in Qinghe Town. He fetched water from the stream, swept the yard, helped carry herbs from the forest edge. When he had time, he ran away with the other children to chase birds or climb fig trees. His knees were often bruised. His face was often muddy, such the life of an innocent child.
But his heart was steady.
That morning, Yun Long knelt by the river to scrub a handful of rice. The water was cold, and his fingers quickly turned red. He gritted his teeth and kept scrubbing. Beside him, two older boys joked and splashed each other, their laughter echoing along the bank.
He smiled faintly but said nothing.
"Long'er," his mother called from the path above, "when you're done, come help me dry the leaves."
"Alright!" He grumbled.
As he ran back up the slope, rice bowl tucked under one arm, a gentle wind stirred through the willows.
Far beyond the fields, hidden behind veils of morning mist, the old mountains stood silent.
Some said that, years ago, the sons of nobles and warriors from far-off sects would ride their cloud beasts through those skies. But here in Qinghe, such stories were only told on festival nights, around firelight and sweet wine.
Yun Long didn't think much about those things. He had chores to finish, and the drying frame needed mending. But in the depths of his heart — though he could not name it — a small spark quietly waited for the wind.
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