Prologue — Dawn over Willowmist
The first rays of the sun spilled across Willowmist Village, turning the thatched roofs to gold and painting the morning mist that curled over the river like silver smoke. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, mingling with the faint scent of freshly tilled soil and wildflowers. Birds called, children laughed, and the soft clatter of wooden wheels on dirt paths blended into the rhythm of a quiet, ordinary morning.
Li Wei crouched near the edge of the village, barefoot, a simple wooden stick clutched in his small hands. He swung it through the air, awkward at first, then gradually smoother with each pass. Ten years old. Small, unassuming. But there was something in the way his eyes studied his movements, something that made the village elders pause when they glanced his way.
"Li Wei! Stop swinging that stick like you're fighting ghosts!" his mother called from the doorway. Her tone was gentle but firm, worry threading through it.
Li Wei grinned, skidding to a stop on the soft grass. "I'm fine, mother! I just… I want to get better."
His father stood a few paces away, leaning on a hoe, eyes shadowed with thought. "Better comes with time, son," he said. "Power is not something you can snatch with your hands. It flows, like the river, slowly carving its path."
Even now, the wind brushed his face with a strange intimacy, the rustle of leaves seeming almost deliberate, as if the world itself whispered instructions he could somehow understand. A subtle warmth tickled his chest, like a tiny ember buried deep within. He didn't know what it was. Perhaps it was nothing, or perhaps… something more.
The village itself was small, tucked against the shadow of the Spirit Fang Mountains. Beyond the fields and quiet homes lay forests, cliffs, and ruins — remnants of a time when gods had walked the world. Stories of those days survived only in whispers, carved symbols, and half-forgotten scrolls.
Far beyond the mountains, something stirred. Not visible to mortal eyes, but a faint pulse of energy, ancient and patient. Somewhere in the ruins of a world forgotten, a fragment of a god slept, dormant yet aware. Not enough to act, not enough to awaken. But enough to notice the boy who played with a wooden stick beneath the morning sun.
The world was quiet. Peaceful. Innocent.
And that peace, like all things, would not last