Chen Yu awoke to silence.
Not the quiet of a cave or forest on Earth, but the stillness of a place untouched by ordinary time. He sat up, the ground cold and uneven beneath him. The air smelled strange: metallic, earthy, and faintly sweet, with a subtle warmth that seemed to hum against his skin.
Above, the sky was an impossible violet, stretched across in soft gradients, pierced by three suns—or moons—casting overlapping shadows that twisted unnaturally. Mountains rose like jagged teeth, their peaks wreathed in swirling mists that glowed faintly, as if alive. Streams of liquid light cut through the valleys, winding like veins across the land.
Chen Yu blinked. Nothing made sense. The altar… the Grand Phenomenon… the crimson-gold energy. Yet, all that had happened seemed distant, like a dream half-remembered. He could feel a subtle vibration in his blood, a warmth and pulse he could neither name nor fully comprehend.
I am not on Earth anymore… but where am I?
The land around him was silent, yet not lifeless. Strange flora stretched skyward—trees with translucent leaves, roots glowing faintly beneath the soil. Insects, luminous and delicate, moved with precision. Rocks hummed faintly under his fingers. Chen Yu knelt, tracing one with his palm, feeling the faint resonance echo through his blood.
He did not understand it. He only felt it.
Hours passed as he wandered, each step bringing new marvels. Crumbling ruins appeared on the horizon—stones etched with symbols that reminded him of Earth myths, faintly resembling the Monkey King, the Golden Crow, and ancient celestial sages. Statues, weathered by centuries, showed figures with multiple arms, or wings of fire, or eyes that seemed to pierce into eternity.
Chen Yu paused before a toppled statue of a golden-feathered crow. His fingers traced the grooves, worn smooth, and something stirred in his mind—a faint, locked memory, like a key just out of reach.
It feels… familiar. But I have never seen this place before.
The terrain grew harsher. Cracks in the ground glowed faintly, releasing soft hissing sounds. He skirted the edges of deep chasms, sometimes leaping over streams of molten light, sometimes climbing jagged rocks. His endurance was tested, but his calm mind guided him. Every decision was measured, every step deliberate.
Observation first. Survival second. Force only when necessary.
By evening, smoke rose in the distance. His pulse quickened. Perhaps there were other humans, towns, someone who could speak—or teach him.
He approached cautiously. The closer he got, the more the land seemed alive: a low hum vibrating through the ground, small stones levitating and falling in patterns that seemed deliberate. He thought of the altar, of the pulse in his blood. Could this resonance be connected to… that place?
Chen Yu finally reached a worn road and found a small caravan of travellers. Horses with braided manes moved lazily, pulling wagons filled with goods. The travellers themselves wore rough, practical clothing, their eyes wary.
He tried to communicate, pointing at himself, using gestures, drawing symbols in the dust. They did not understand him at first, but their suspicion gradually softened when he helped steady a fallen wagon wheel, using his hands and careful observation.
Slowly, through gestures, demonstration, and patience, Chen Yu began to learn fragments of their language, mimicking sounds and words. He listened to their stories of mountains, rivers, and strange creatures.
One elder spoke of legends near the forbidden lands: heroes who defied gods, a golden crow that travelled across suns, and sages who walked hidden paths of power. Chen Yu's chest tightened with recognition.
These… these are Earth myths.
Not the exact stories, but shadows of them. Reflections of the truths he had studied for decades, now alive in this world.
As night fell, the caravan reached a small town at the edge of the forbidden region. Lanterns glimmered along narrow streets, and faint energy flowed in the air, like the land itself was alive. Chen Yu realised how far he had travelled—not just in distance, but into a world that followed its own laws, yet resonated faintly with the myths he had studied.
He ate quietly, watched, and learned. Every gesture, every symbol, every whispered legend was catalogued in his mind. The language came slowly, syllable by syllable, symbol by symbol. The people were wary but curious, noting the stranger who observed rather than challenged.
As he lay beneath alien stars that night, Chen Yu felt a faint stirring in his chest. It was not strength, not yet, but a pulse, a rhythm he recognised from the altar—a resonance of something ancient, something ancestral.
He did not know what it meant. He did not realise cultivation. He did not know what awaited him in this world.
All he knew was this: he had survived the altar, survived the forbidden lands, and had found his first foothold in this strange world.
And somewhere in the shadows of the mountains, something—someone—was watching.
The journey had begun, and the world itself had opened its first secrets.