The mountain village of Qingshan clung to the earth like a stubborn weed, its thatched roofs hidden beneath swirling mists and jagged peaks. To most, it was a place forgotten by the world—poor, small, and insignificant. Yet for Liang Shen, it was the only world he knew.
He rose before dawn, his thin frame already slick with sweat as he hauled firewood down the narrow paths. The other youths laughed at his silence, at the strange mark etched upon his chest since birth, but Liang Shen paid them no mind. He had long grown accustomed to their stares.
The mark was not ink, nor scar, but something else—an intricate web of faint silver lines that glimmered faintly under moonlight. When he was younger, the village elders called it a curse. His mother, before she died, only told him one thing: "Never let others see its light."
By day, Liang Shen labored like any other youth. By night, he would climb the cliffs beyond the village and sit upon a weathered boulder, gazing at the stars. There was a pull in them, an ache in his chest he could not explain.
Tonight was no different. The harvest festival lanterns flickered far below, their laughter faint on the wind. Shen sat alone, eyes locked upon the heavens.
Why do they feel so familiar? he thought. The constellations seemed to stir something in his blood, like a memory just out of reach. He closed his eyes—and for the briefest moment, he saw it.
A battlefield drenched in crimson light. The earth split open, mountains crumbled, and countless cultivators knelt in fear before a single figure standing above the clouds. A man wreathed in golden radiance, defiant even against heaven itself.
And in that moment, a voice thundered in Liang Shen's mind.
"Even heaven cannot erase me."
His chest burned. He gasped, clutching at the mark. It pulsed beneath his skin, lines glowing faintly in the darkness. Shen stumbled, nearly falling from the cliff. The vision vanished as suddenly as it came, leaving him trembling and cold.
"What… was that?" he
whispered, breath ragged.
No answer came. Only the whisper of the wind, carrying with it a chill that felt far too heavy for a summer night.
Shen dragged himself back down the cliff path, heart pounding. The festival fires glowed brighter now, the air alive with music and chatter. Children darted about with paper lanterns, and elders sipped rice wine with weathered smiles.
Yet Liang Shen could not shake the weight pressing upon him. He sat quietly at the edge of the crowd, silent as laughter echoed around him.
"Shen," Old Man Zhang called, the village chief with a back bent like a bowstring. "Why do you always sit alone? Come, drink. You're young. Tonight is for joy, not brooding."
Liang Shen forced a smile and bowed respectfully. "I'll join in a little later, Uncle Zhang."
The elder chuckled and waved him off, though his eyes lingered with worry.
As the festival carried on, Liang Shen slipped away. His chest still throbbed faintly, the mark's glow hidden beneath his rough tunic. He returned to his hut and lay awake on the straw mat, staring at the ceiling.
That voice echoed still.
"Even heaven cannot erase me."
Liang Shen did not know that tonight marked the first crack in the seal the heavens themselves had placed upon his soul.