"Strength is Truth. Weakness is Sin."
In the northern grasslands beneath the waning azure sky, a gathering storm of spiritual pressure loomed over a small courtyard. A golden-robed elder stood tall, his aura like a falling mountain. Opposite him, a boy with raven-black hair and silver-streaked tips met his gaze, blood dripping from his knuckles.
The boy's name was Kyel Arin, and he had just broken a noble's jaw.
The injured youth, moaning behind the elder, was Sen Thalos, heir of a prestigious martial lineage known as the Thalos Ironbone Line—a clan feared across the Cloudlight Prefecture for its brutal body-refining methods.
"Bow your head," growled the elder, Joran Thalos, Sen's father. His cultivation base stirred faintly, and the air grew heavier. "You dare wound a descendant of the Ironbone Line? You owe a kneeling apology."
Kyel clenched his fists again. His arms trembled—not from fear, but restraint. His dantian, newly awakened just hours ago, buzzed faintly with undeveloped Qi. His meridians itched to roar but lacked the substance.
Behind him stood a lean man with graying hair, his robes patched and worn. Baron Orlen Arin, Kyel's father, once earned his title through logistical service during the last Bloodscale Rebellion. A commoner elevated not by strength, but circumstance.
And in this world, circumstance meant little.
"Lord Thalos," Orlen said, lowering his head. "My son… acted impulsively. He'll apologize."
Kyel's head turned sharply toward his father. The realization came not like a blow, but a slow corrosion eating through his pride. The baron was not wrong—he was simply weak.
Kyel looked again at Sen Thalos, who sneered from behind his father's robes, and murmured, "Ants should know their place."
That word again.
Ant.
A single breath. Kyel stepped forward.
"I hit him," he said, tone cold. "So I will apologize."
He bowed. His pride didn't shatter—it calcified into something quieter, colder. When he rose, his obsidian eyes had dulled into inkstone.
Sen laughed cruelly as he and his father turned to leave. But as Kyel watched them go, he didn't feel regret. Only distance.
In this world where strength was truth, and weakness a crime… Kyel was guilty.
One Year Later – Ashfall City, Eastern Verdant Province
The Arin household had grown quiet. Inside a modest but sturdy home near the outskirts of Ashfall, the smell of stewed grains and mountain pepper hung in the air.
Baron Orlen sat with his two older sons—Rei Arin, the stoic spear cultivator, and Neril Arin, the second son with a sharp tongue and even sharper saber techniques.
The fourth seat remained empty. Again.
Moments later, a sleepy boy wandered in, yawning and scratching his head. His black hair still bore those silver edges—a strange phenomenon that hadn't faded. It was said that such marks appeared in those whose souls brushed fate… or catastrophe.
"Late again," Orlen said with a tired smile.
"Sorry, Father. I was meditating," Kyel muttered, flopping into the seat.
"You were drooling on the meditation mat again," Neril quipped.
As Kyel munched on steamed bread and root slices, Neril leaned forward with a mischievous grin.
"Tomorrow, the Eastern Heavenroot Academy is hosting their annual entrance ritual. You qualify."
Kyel choked on his bread.
Rei raised an eyebrow. "You're sixteen. You passed the threshold. Time to see where the winds take you."
Kyel blinked. "You're serious?"
Even Rei, who had awakened an A-Rank Bloodline, failed the Heavenroot trials. Kyel's own talent, tested a year ago, had merely formed a B-Rank Spirit Vein—barely enough to condense Qi into his lower dantian, let alone form a solid Foundation Core.
On this world—Mythrain—one's potential was measured not by dreams, but spirit root alignments and bloodline purity. The higher the resonance, the further one could walk the Path of Ascension.
"I don't want to go," Kyel muttered. "It's not like I'll pass."
"You won't," Rei said bluntly. "But you'll learn something."
"Like what?" Kyel asked flatly.
"That ants get stepped on," Neril replied with a smile.
Kyel glared at him. "I hope you choke on your rice."
Neril smirked. "It's dry anyway."
Later That Night
Kyel sat alone on the roof of the house, staring up at the stars. His fingers absently traced the silver edges of his hair. It had only spread further in the last few months.
Some said it was a mutation.
Some whispered it was a mark of Failed Reincarnation.
Kyel didn't care for prophecy. He had no divine destiny, no ancient bloodline, no secret master waiting in the shadows.
But in the corner of his dantian, something stirred.
Ever since that fight with Sen Thalos, a thin thread of silver Qi had settled inside him—untouched by the techniques of this era. It refused to move like normal energy, pulsing only when he felt anger, shame, or… resignation.
When he closed his eyes, he sometimes heard a voice.
"Fate is merely the memory of gods.
Tear it. Burn it. Rewrite it with your hands."
He didn't know where it came from. But tomorrow… perhaps the Academy would give him answers.