Chapter 1: Cursed Child
In Xiangfeng Village, winter lingered late, nipping at the toes of those too poor for proper shoes. Frost silvered the crooked rooftops, while morning mist clung to the lonely mountains flanking the fields. Amid this biting cold, a boy knelt by a shallow creek, scrubbing the last flecks of dirt from a battered potato. His name was Jiang Wei—the one the villagers whispered about.
"He's cursed," sneered old Aunt Liu as she herded her grandchildren away. "Misfortune follows wherever he treads."
Jiang Wei kept his eyes on the water. He was used to it—the glares, the murmurs, the way motherless children learned to keep their heads down. For all their talk, none dared approach him. It was easier to blame a strangeness they didn't understand than to witness suffering they didn't want to acknowledge.
Numb fingers ran over the leather cord at his wrist. Strung on it was a small, smooth pebble—the only thing his late mother left him, aside from rumors and a legacy of hardship. He'd never understood what comfort she found in it, but in lonely moments he would close his palm over it, and sometimes, just sometimes, he felt less lost.
A gust of wind swept through the village, rattling shutters. Somewhere on the other side of town, a bell tolled—a rare event that found even the most stubbornly superstitious shuffling from their homes. Word spread quickly: the Iron Banner Sect was recruiting.
As people gathered, Jiang Wei hovered by the edge of the crowd. Two disciples in crisp gray robes unfurled a scroll, their expressions bored. They called forth the young and able—a formality, no doubt; no one expected a talent from this forgotten place.
One by one, hopeful children placed their hands on the recruitment crystal. Dull, flickering lights. Disappointment, as always. When it was nearly over, one disciple glanced his way.
"What about him?" she asked.
Her companion scoffed, but she persisted. "Even the lowest root can sprout, under the right rain."
Jiang Wei stepped forward, ignoring the mutters. He pressed his hand to the cold surface. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, a faint, flickering pulse—pale as dawn, but mysterious. The elders exchanged wary glances. The crowd recoiled.
A strange chill swept into his bones. For a moment, the world vanished. In that silent space, an ageless voice whispered from the pebble at his wrist: "Soon, you must awaken."
He jerked back to reality, gasping. The disciples conferred, then beckoned him forward. "A rare, odd reaction," one muttered. "Worth observing," said the other.
As midnight fell over Xiangfeng Village, Jiang Wei packed the few things he owned. He glanced once at the darkened hills, remembering the stories his mother told—a forgotten throne, battles that shattered heaven, the legend of the Ashen Monarch. No one believed her, but tonight even his doubts trembled.
His journey had begun. Though none in the village would see him off, the pebble was warm in his palm, and in the wind he heard a voice that was old as time: "Destiny does not bloom in safe soil. Go, Jiang Wei."
And so, beneath a sky washed clean by winter winds, a cursed boy set forth—not knowing he would shake the universe to its foundation.