The first light of morning broke like a blade over the mountains — thin, silver, merciless.
Mist drifted through the pines, painting the valley in ghostly ribbons. Down by the river's bend, Lin Dong knelt shirtless in the dew, the mark on his palm faint but still warm against his skin.
His father's words from the night before lingered in his mind, half-reproach, half-resignation:
"You are my son, Lin Dong. But the world doesn't spare those who fall behind."
He clenched his fists, feeling that warmth stir again — like something alive, waiting.
He drew a breath, remembering every exercise he'd ever seen others perform: the slow gathering of Yuan energy, the flow through meridians, the delicate balance of inhale and release.
But this time, it was different.
The light inside him answered.
From the rune on his palm, a soft glow spread, trailing up his arm in thin threads of gold. He felt the world tilt — the sound of the wind sharpened, the whisper of insects deepened, every heartbeat of the forest aligning with his own. The energy moved — not gently, but like a river breaking through a dam.
He gasped as it surged through his meridians, flooding places that had always been blocked.
Pain — white-hot — then release. For a moment, he saw through the mist: the shape of his own Yuan pool, weak and flickering… now stabilizing.
"So this is cultivation," he whispered, trembling.
"This is power."
He rose, sweeping his hand through the air. The glow followed, a trail of shimmering dust twisting in his wake. It felt unreal — effortless, intoxicating. But the talisman's pulse grew faster, hungrier. The more he drew, the more it took.
The sky darkened for a heartbeat. Birds burst from the trees. A gust tore through the clearing and slammed him to his knees.
He winced — too much, too fast. The mark on his palm flared, and a faint voice — not words, but something old and echoing — whispered at the edge of his mind. A memory not his own. Fire. War. A talisman floating above a burning world.
Then, silence again. The light faded. His breath came in ragged bursts, sweat dripping down his temple. He stared at his hand — the rune now dull, almost sleeping.
He laughed, breathless.
"You're alive, aren't you?"
Something deep within the rune shimmered, like the faintest heartbeat in reply.
Behind him, branches rustled. A small shadow darted through the trees — Qingtan, his younger sister, eyes wide and curious, clutching a basket of herbs.
"Brother, what are you doing out here? The elders are furious — they think you ran away!"
Lin Dong turned, quickly covering his palm.
"Just… training."
She blinked.
"Training? You never—"
Then she stopped. Her gaze fell on the faint golden motes still hanging in the air around him. Her eyes widened further.
"Brother… you did it?"
Lin Dong didn't answer. He simply smiled — small, secret, dangerous.
"Don't tell anyone."
From far above, unseen through the mist, a black hawk circled once, then vanished toward the Lin Clan manor — a silent witness carrying news no one yet understood.