The sun dipped below the edge of the hills, staining the clouds blood-red. Li Fan sat alone on the edge of a rice field, bucket forgotten at his side, staring at the crimson sky.

  His back ached. His hands stung. His stomach growled. But none of it mattered.

  He could feel it again.

  That pull. Like a thread in his chest, gently tugging toward the forest beyond the village. The Azure Mist Forest—cursed, they said. Full of ghosts, beasts, and worse.

  But Li Fan wasn’t afraid of monsters.

  He was afraid of nothingness. Of being nothing.

  “Oi, rootless!” A voice broke his focus.

  It was Wei Long, son of the village head, flanked by two other boys. Wei Long had awakened a mid-grade Earth spiritual root last year. The sect recruiters even gave him a red jade talisman to wear around his neck—a symbol of potential. He wore it like a king wore a crown.

  “You planning to talk to the clouds until you die?” he sneered. “Or maybe waiting for your invisible qi to show up?”

  Li Fan stood, wiping his hands calmly. “Just enjoying the silence.”

  “Oh?” Wei Long stepped forward. “Then let me break it.”

  He punched.

  Li Fan ducked. The second fist grazed his jaw. He stumbled but didn’t fall.

  Wei Long struck again—fast, sharp, trained. But this time, Li Fan didn’t try to dodge.

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  The punch connected with his ribs.

  And yet… something strange happened.

  Wei Long flinched back with a hiss. “What the hell…? It’s like hitting a rock.”

  Li Fan winced, but deep inside, he felt it.

  A spark.

  Faint. Distant. Like a candle hidden beneath an ocean.

  But real.

  He stood straighter. Looked Wei Long in the eye. “Again.”

  “What?”

  “Hit me again.”

  Wei Long obliged, fueled by irritation. But every blow that landed left his knuckles aching more than Li Fan’s bones. The spark grew warmer. Not stronger, but present. Real.

  Wei Long cursed, shoving him back. “Freak.”

  They left. Li Fan didn’t follow.

  He sat again under the darkening sky, touching his chest where the ache settled like an ember. He closed his eyes.

  And then he heard it.

  A voice—not from the world around him, but from deep within his soul:

  “Your root was never in the earth.” “Your root lies in the stars.”

  A sudden gust of wind whipped through the rice field. The water shimmered.

  Li Fan opened his eyes, gasping.

  A single symbol blazed on his palm. Faint. Fading. A brand he did not recognize—like an ancient constellation etched in starlight.

  Then it vanished.

  Old Seer Xun awoke from his meditation with a scream. The jade talismans hanging on the shrine wall shattered, one by one.

  “The seal is cracking…” he whispered.

  He stared at the sky—and saw no stars.

  Only a single light.

  Flickering. Withered.

  But awakening.