Chapter 1 — in the beginning there was only hush.
No sky, no soil—only the unmeasured quiet between two sleeping eternities.
From that stillness rose a pulse, soft as a heartbeat, vast as oceans yet unborn.
It was not sound but motion, and from motion came breath, and from breath, Qi.
Qi flowed like a river with no banks. It circled upon itself, spinning light and shadow into spirals. Within its turning the first colors were born—pale gold, deep azure, ember-red, stone-gray, and the hue of water after rain. These became the Five Currents, the primal essences from which every later element would descend.
When the Five Currents met, they clashed and sang. Their song split the void: the lighter tones rose to form Heaven, the heavier sank to weave Earth. Between them drifted mists of promise—the Middle Breath—and there the first life quickened.
The Awakening of the Veins
Heaven and Earth, though sundered, yearned for reunion. Their longing shaped ten-thousand veins through which Qi could travel, knitting the newborn world together. Mountains rose along those veins; rivers followed them; lightning marked their intersections. Thus were born the Ley Lines, and through them the world began to breathe.
The breath of mountains condensed into crystal pools of light—the first Spirit Springs. From these the earliest beings emerged: not beasts, nor gods, but Embodied Currents, forms of wind, flame, and tide that wandered the newborn land. They possessed no hunger and knew no speech; yet in their movement, patterns formed, and from patterns, memory.
It was memory that summoned thought, and thought that shaped form. So it was that among the Embodied Currents, one stream of awareness condensed into flesh. The first humans awoke beside the Spirit Springs, their eyes reflecting both Heaven and Earth. To them the elements whispered secrets, and they learned to inhale Qi as breath. Thus began cultivation, though they had no word for it yet. They merely called it listening.
The First Listeners
Those who listened long found the world echoing within them.
Their hearts pulsed in rhythm with thunder; their veins glowed like molten jade.
They discovered that when they willed the wind, it obeyed; when they calmed their breath, the storms eased. In fear they hid this gift, but the world itself urged them onward.
The mountains grew taller beneath their meditations, as if eager to meet their reach.
Among the earliest listeners was a woman named Su An, who dwelt by the Lake of Mist.
Her soul was tranquil, her hands empty of greed.
When she breathed, lilies opened; when she spoke, even beasts bowed their heads.
She became the First Saint, though in those ages sainthood meant nothing more than harmony.
Opposite her rose Tian Hu, the Fire-Voiced One.
He sought not peace but proof—he wished to know how far will could bend the world.
He inhaled the crimson current until flame poured from his skin.
Thus the balance of Heaven and Earth tilted, and the first duel of philosophies began.
The War of Breath
Su An taught stillness: that to master Qi one must mirror the calm lake.
Tian Hu preached motion: that Qi was a storm and must be ridden, not resisted.
Their followers multiplied, and the first communities of cultivation took shape along the ley lines—gentle gardens for the quietists, forges of flame for the tempestuous.
When drought struck the western valleys, Tian Hu's adepts drew rivers of molten rock to fertilize the soil. The land prospered for a season, then cracked, releasing smoke that blotted Heaven's stars. Su An's disciples walked among the ashes, weeping, and cooled the ground with endless rain. From their sorrow the first Qi Arts were written—simple patterns of breath and gesture meant to restore balance.
The arts spread like seeds on the wind. Some bore fruit; others birthed monsters. For when mortals shape Heaven's power, Heaven demands remembrance. Each misuse carved scars upon the ley lines. The world, still young, trembled.
The Covenant of Five Peaks
At last the Embodied Currents themselves intervened.
They gathered upon five mountains that pierced the clouds and took visible form—giant shapes of flame, wave, stone, wind, and void.
There they spoke to humanity in a voice of thunder:
"Children of the Middle Breath, your hearts are mirrors of our flow.
Keep the currents in harmony, or be drowned within them."
To seal this covenant, they offered guidance.
Each mountain gave one Vein Seed, a fragment of pure Qi that would awaken the latent meridians in humankind.
Those who bore the seeds could circulate energy without tearing their bodies apart.
They became the First Vein-Bearers, and their mastery birthed the notion of Realms—stages of understanding, reflections of Heaven's own layers.
The Five Peaks then withdrew beyond mortal sight, leaving echoes known as Guardians—spirits of element and direction.
For a time, peace endured.
Of Realms and Resonance in those early centuries, cultivation was not ambition but pilgrimage.
To open one's first vein was considered a prayer; to shape one's Qi was gratitude.
Villages measured age not in years but in breaths mastered.
Children played games tracing the flow of Qi across sand to mimic the ley lines beneath their feet.
Yet perfection breeds curiosity. The more humans learned, the more they questioned why Heaven should limit them to the mortal span.
Some began to hoard Spirit Springs, claiming that only chosen lineages could guard their purity.
Others hunted the Embodied Currents themselves, seeking to devour their essence and ascend.
The world darkened a shade, and the first shadows of sects were cast upon the mountains.
Prelude to the Sects
It was said that a thousand years after Su An's peace, the stars themselves shifted.
Where once five constellations ruled the sky, now seven burned, their light crimson and unsteady.
Astrologers declared that Heaven's covenant had weakened.
Qi surged unpredictably; springs dried or overflowed; beasts warped into demons.
To survive, the cultivators gathered into strongholds near stable ley lines.
There they built halls of stone and wrote manuals to preserve their teachings.
Thus were born the earliest Sects—not yet Orthodox or Unorthodox, but brothers divided by temperament.
They named their philosophies after the winds they followed:
the Calm, the Swift, the Rising, the Falling, and the Still.
In time, these would evolve into the countless paths of Murim, but that tale belongs to the next age.
So ended the First Dawn of Qi, and began the Age of Names,
when power sought language, and language sought rule.