The wind rattled the wooden shutters of the small sect's outer hall.
Outside, the mountains stretched endlessly, gray and misty, while the outer disciples shuffled about, carrying water, sweeping courtyards, and reciting incantations for hours on end.
Among them was Xuanyin Zhēn—or at least, that was the name he had taken.
No one knew of his bloodline.
No one suspected the storms he had once unleashed.
To the sect, he was just another outer disciple: weak, untalented, and clumsy.
He could barely sense spiritual energy, had no spiritual roots, and often struggled to maintain even the simplest cultivation formations.
He bowed clumsily before the senior disciple.
He fetched water, swept the floors, and recited the sect's meager daily prayers.
And every night, the past is slowly coming back to him.
"Ha. Ha. Ha."
He awoke drenched in sweat, painting heavily.
Lightning arced across the sky in his dream, and voices—thousands of them—shouted in every direction.
"Consume us! Become!"
"Zhēn… your destiny…"
"The Devouring Dao hungers…"
He shook his head.
The cries faded, but the lingering cold in his chest remained.
Memories he should not have had—the Xuanyin Clan, the fallen disciple, the stolen forbidden techniques, the glowing violet eyes—haunted him like a phantom.
He didn't understand why these visions persisted.
Perhaps they were dreams. Perhaps they were echoes of the Devouring Dao, calling to him even now, despite his "weakness."
In the daylight, the irony was bitter.
Every cultivator around him was strong, talented, born with spiritual roots that flared even in infancy.
And there he was: a boy who could barely ignite a single qi flame.
They laughed at him behind his back.
They mocked his clumsy movements.
Even the outer disciples whispered rumors:
"That one… he's hopeless. He'll never advance beyond the most basic cultivation stage."
Zhēn smiled faintly.
On the surface, he accepted it.
But deep inside, he remembered the taste of the Devouring Dao, the power that had once burned through his past.
He touched the tip of his palm, expecting nothing. A flicker of violet—weak, fleeting—danced at his fingertips.
And that was enough to remind him: he was not truly powerless.
Late at night, alone in his tiny outer chamber, he closed his eyes and whispered to himself:
"One day… I will remember. One day… I will feed again."
He clenched his fists. The outer disciple life, the taunts, the inability to sense spiritual energy—all of it was a mask.
A crucible.
And every night, when the dreams came, when the whispers clawed at his mind, he felt the Devouring Dao stirring.
It was patient.
It remembered.
And it hungered.