Deep within the Blazing Wastes Ridge, mountains stretched like a chain of ancient beasts, and ravines split the land as if the sky itself had cracked open. Wind howled between the cliffs, cold and sharp.
The first light of dawn spilled across the land—thousands of golden shards drifting through the morning air, warming the silent, frost-bitten forest.
On the wide stone clearing before the Chìlí Tribe, dozens of children trained their bodies under the rising glow.From youngsters barely five or six to half-grown teens, their breath steamed in the cold air. Their movements were clumsy, but their focus was absolute.
At the front stood a massive man draped in beast hide. His skin was bronzed like hammered metal, muscles marked with lines of raw strength. His sharp gaze swept across the children like a predator surveying its pack.
"Dawn rises. Heaven stirs. All living things breathe their first breath of the day."His voice boomed like a drum striking the earth. "We're not ancient sages—we can't refine our bodies by drawing in the morning mist. But bathing in dawn's essence hardens bone and tempers sinew. If you want to survive the Blazing Wastes, not a single morning may be wasted. Understood?"
"Understood!" their voices echoed.
Far above, ancient avian beasts sometimes swept across the sky, casting colossal shadows. On the cliffs, giant creatures would stand and roar into the heavens. Venomous scorpions, crimson centipedes, and blackwater serpents lurked in every crevice.
Just as the response faded, a small, milky voice chirped out half a beat late:
"Uhh… undastood!"
It came from a toddler.
Barely more than a year old, still new to walking, yet wobbling bravely in the training line. His face was round and pale like a porcelain doll, milk still clinging to the corner of his mouth. He mimicked the others with tiny flailing arms—so earnest it made the older kids burst into muffled laughter.
His name was Little Dou'er.
No one knew why he insisted on training with the older children. Since he first learned to crawl, he had tried to imitate every move the tribe practiced.
On a nearby boulder, several elders sat cross-legged absorbing the morning air. Their eyes turned crescent-shaped with amusement as they watched the scene.
In the distance, the tribe's strongest warriors practiced with bone maces and black-forged greatblades. Every swing roared like thunder. Every step quaked the ground. They were the tribe's defenders, its hunters—the only reason the Chìlí people survived this ruthless land.
The Blazing Wastes devoured the weak.To survive, every child forged their body at dawn.
"Focus!" the massive instructor barked.
The children straightened at once.
Little Dou'er, however, was already collapsing onto the ground, gasping for breath. His short legs trembled from exhaustion. Suddenly, he spotted a colorful spirit finch hopping nearby. His fatigue vanished. He stumbled to his feet and chased after it, tumbling again and again but stubbornly climbing back up each time.
"All right, end of training!"
The shout sent the children scattering like startled birds. They ran home rubbing their sore arms and legs, eager for breakfast.
Warriors and elders drifted away as well, laughing and scolding their own children as they went.
The Chìlí Tribe was small—barely three hundred people. Stone houses rose in rough tiers, sturdy and simple.
At the village entrance stood a massive charred stump, the Scorch-Spirit Pillar, burned black by heavenly fire long ago. Legend said an ancient guardian spirit dwelled within. Now, its single surviving green branch dimmed under the morning light, fading back into ordinary wood.
Children gathered around steaming clay bowls, chattering endlessly.
"Whoa! Dragonbeast meat today!""Save me a piece!"
Food was the tribe's greatest struggle. The mountains teemed with beasts, but every hunt risked death. A few mouthfuls of meat were worth more than treasure.
Little Dou'er had become an orphan shortly after birth and was raised by the tribal chief. He'd been fed the milk of nearly every beast in the ridge—and still refused to give it up. The older kids teased him relentlessly.
At that moment, the chief was boiling beast milk in his courtyard. Seeing Dou'er stumbling in, face red from chasing the spirit finch, he called out:
"Dou'er, come eat."
"Little Dou'er's drinking milk again!" older children jeered.
Dou'er only grinned wider, hugging the large clay bowl as he drank, milk frothing around his lips.
Not long after, several white-bearded elders approached the chief's courtyard.
"The nights have been strange lately.""Each time worse than the last—felt like some colossal creature moved through the deep mountains.""I woke up trembling from the vibrations."
The chief's expression darkened."I suspect something has stirred in the depths of the Wastes… something ancient. It's rousing the primeval beasts."
An elder froze."Could it be… a Source-Realm relic?"
Silence fell instantly.
Such relics meant unimaginable opportunity—and equally unimaginable death. The Chìlí Tribe had no right even to approach such things.
Then a mountain-like warrior entered the courtyard, a heavy black blade strapped to his back.
This was Líshān—leader of the hunting party, and the tribe's future chief.
"Our food stores are nearly gone," he said. "The children need to eat."
The chief frowned. "The nights are unstable. The depths are too restless."
"But daylight brings calmer winds," Líshān replied. "If we move carefully, the hunt should be safe enough."
In the end, dozens of warriors gathered at the tribe's entrance. The chief led them to the Scorch-Spirit Pillar, where they bowed in solemn prayer.
"Guardian spirit above, watch over our hunters. Let their spears and blades return unbroken.We honor you with our devotion—may your protection remain with our tribe for generations to come."