The void within the storage ring shuttered faintly, a restless gloom where relics drifted like specters caught in an eternal tide. Swords, talismans, and broken armor shimmered with subdued energies, casting eerie shadows across Wuhlou's dirty face. The dim glow painted ghostly patterns across his skin as he stood at the void's heart.
Wuhlou's eyes darted from one relic to another, his heart thudding against his ribcage. He had never seen such things—swords with hilts wrapped in fraying leather, their blades etched with scratches that told stories of uncounted battle; talismans dangling from thin chains alive with runes like the heartbeat of some slumbering giant; and armor, cracked and dented, its once-shining plates now dulled by time, drifting as if mourning their lost bearers. The shadows they cast played across his face, warping the dirt-streaked lines into something almost otherworldly, a mask of light and dark that made him feel both part of this place and utterly alien to it.
"Qi is power," Whispers began, its voice a resonance that filled the void like the vibrations of a distant bell. "It's the key to extending life until immortality can be grasped through feats of strength, will, understanding and resources. By training under certain conditions, physical training, techniques or exploiting what's around you, you temper the body and soul, extend them, understand them, and then control them. Mobilizing that energy to shape it." The words rolled over Wuhlou like a tide, each syllable carrying a weight that seemed to settle into his bones. Whispers' voice was not just sound—it was a presence, a force that vibrated through the void, stirring the relics into subtle motion as if they, too, were listening. It was deep and resonant, yet there was an edge to it, a hint of something ancient and untamed that made Wuhlou's skin prickle anew.
Wuhlou tilted his head, brows knitting as he tried to follow but understanding the fundamentals felt impossible, even with Whispers' delicate explanations. His mind raced, grasping at fragments of meaning only to watch them slip away like water through his fingers. Qi—power—immortality—these were concepts he'd never had cause to consider. He was a boy of dirt and chains, of survival and small victories, not of grand destinies or mystical energies. Yet here he stood, in a place that defied all he knew, listening to a voice that spoke of things beyond his wildest dreams. Confusion warred with a flicker of awe, and beneath it all, a quiet, stubborn resolve began to take root—he would understand, he decided, no matter how impossible it seemed.
Whispers paused, as if gauging the boy's comprehension, then pressed on. "How could you not know this? Cultivation is just one system this world uses to ascend toward immortality and beyond, but I'm not from here." Laughter filled with mania spilled into the void. "I've got tricks they couldn't dream of." Its tone carried a hint of pride and sinister intent, undeterred by Wuhlou's blank stare. "No matter. There are materials here, plenty of them, flowing like birds through this space. It won't be pleasant for either of us, though. You've got no cultivation, so I'll have to expose you to Qi first. Motes of energy exist in every plant, animal, mineral, and being. Once you're drenched in enough, your body will change—mutate, call it what you will." The laughter echoed, bouncing off the invisible boundaries of the void, a sound that was both joyous and unhinged, as if Whispers delighted in the chaos it promised. Wuhlou felt a chill crawl up his spine, not from fear—though there was that, too—but from the sheer alienness of the entity before him. Whispers was no mere guide; it was something vast, something that carried secrets he could scarcely imagine, and its pride was a beacon that both drew him in and warned him away.
Wuhlou's lips parted as if to speak, but he stopped—Whispers was in complete control, and he knew it wouldn't wait for a response. "The materials here are low-grade, but they'll do for escape." The void quivered, unseen currents stirring the relics into a slow, restless dance toward them. Wuhlou's watched as the relics shifted closer, their movements almost purposeful, like moths drawn to a flame. A sword with a chipped blade drifted near his shoulder, its surface glinting with a faint red hue, as if stained by blood long since dried. A talisman spun lazily before his eyes, its runes flaring briefly before dimming, and he swore he felt a whisper—not Whispers' voice, but something else—brush against his mind. The void itself seemed to hum, a low, resonant note that vibrated through his chest, urging him toward something he couldn't yet name.
"I don't understand what you want me to do," Wuhlou said, closing his eyes. His voice was firm, a child's blunt resolve cutting through the haze of complexity. "Just tell me what to do." The words came out sharper than he intended, laced with a frustration that had been building since he'd first awoke into this strange place. He was tired of riddles, tired of feeling small and lost in a world that made no sense. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his voice steady. He wasn't weak—he'd survived much but this was different and the difference gnawed at him like a beast he couldn't see.
"Find resolve in the moment," Whispers replied. "Feel the energy around you and don't resist." A book materialized before Wuhlou, its cover etched with faded runes that pulsed faintly. "Read it. Repeat it. Read it again, then do it." The book hung in the air, its leather cover cracked and worn, as if it had been handled by countless hands over countless years. The runes glowed with a soft, eerie light, shifting and writhing like living things, and Wuhlou felt a pull toward it, an instinct he couldn't explain. It was heavy when he took it, the weight grounding him even as his mind spun. The pages were rough beneath his fingers, smelling faintly of dust and something sharp, like metal or blood.
Wuhlou stared at the book, frustration flaring in his chest. "I can't read that." He scanned the pages, searching for anything familiar, but the symbols swam like shadows on water. "I don't understand any of this." His voice cracked, raw with the helplessness of a prisoner facing secrets beyond his grasp. The symbols mocked him, their fluid shapes twisting just out of reach, and he felt a surge of anger—at the book, at Whispers, at himself. He'd never been taught to read, not properly; the slavers had no use for a literate boy, and his life had been too full of survival to leave room for learning. Now, that lack burned in him, a wound he hadn't known he carried until it was laid bare.
"You don't need to read it yet," Whispers said, its tone softening slightly. "Look inside yourself. Feel for the center—go deeper, to the very core. Focus there. Let the energy wash over you." The softening of Whispers' voice was unexpected, a thread of patience woven into its usual sharpness, and it gave Wuhlou pause. He took a breath, slow and deliberate, and turned his attention inward. It was strange, like reaching into a dark room with no walls but he searched anyway, fumbling for that center Whispers spoke of. There—a faint warmth, a spark buried deep beneath layers of doubt and pain. He held onto it, fragile as it was, and let it steady him.
As Whispers spoke, herbs began to drift around Wuhlou, their jagged leaves and gnarled roots giving off a strange, sharp scent. "Endure," it commanded. The herbs condensed into a mist, swirling toward a bronze cauldron that hovered nearby. Carved with coiling dragons, the cauldron spun slowly, its mist curling like a serpent's breath, carrying a biting, medicinal tang that stung Wuhlou's nostrils. The herbs were a kaleidoscope of colors—green leaves with veins of silver, roots black as night and a dim glow, petals that shimmered like glass. Their scent was overwhelming, a mix of bitterness and earth that clawed at his throat, and he coughed as the mist thickened. The cauldron gleamed in the void's dim light, its dragons seeming to move, their scales glinting as they twisted around its surface. The mist it produced was alive. Tendrils reached for him and he felt a shiver of both dread and anticipation as it drew near, he focused and rode the waves of uncertainty, all was better than what was.
Pressure surged in Wuhlou's abdomen, a burning weight that forced sweat to bead on his skin. The low-grade herbs, potent to his untried body, seeped into his pores, latching onto his very being. He clenched his teeth, swallowing the pain—a skill honed through years of enduring cruelty. His body tensed, the essence a fire beneath his flesh but he held firm. The pressure was a living thing, a beast clawing at his insides, and he felt it spread—first a heat in his gut, then a searing ache that raced up his spine and down his limbs. His skin prickled as the herbs' energy burrowed deeper, a sensation like ants crawling beneath his flesh, and he bit back a gasp. He'd known pain before—whips, fists, the gnawing ache of starvation—but this was sharper, more intimate, as if it sought to unmake him and build him anew.
"Calm your mind," Whispers instructed. "Concentrate on the energy. Stop trying to swallow the pain—survive it." Another herb, a twisted root with faint light, thumped into the cauldron and dissolved, intensifying the mist's bite. Whispers' words were a lifeline and Wuhlou clung to them, forcing his racing thoughts to slow. The root hit the cauldron with a dull thud, its light flaring briefly before it melted into the mist, turning the air acrid and thick. His lungs began to burn with each breath, a blade that scraped his throat raw but he focused on that spark within, willing it to grow, to anchor him against the storm raging through his body.
Light poured from the cauldron as its lid whirled, spilling molten gold across the void. Gasses wove toward Wuhlou's abdomen, each breath a knife twisting in his gut. He groaned, the sound swallowed by the void's oppressive silence. The light was blinding, a cascade of liquid fire that painted the void in hues of gold and amber, and Wuhlou squinted against it, his eyes watering. The gasses coiled around him, their touch cold despite the heat of the light, and each inhale drove the pain deeper, a dagger that twisted and turned. His groan was a low, guttural thing, lost in the vastness of the void, and he felt a tremor run through him, his knees threatening to buckle.
"ENDURE!" Whispers' voice thundered in his skull, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out his whimpers. "No matter how long this takes, we've got farther to go. Don't cheat yourself—focus. Let the energy wash over and into you." The command shook him, a roar that reverberated through his bones as he straightened, teeth gritted against the agony. Whispers' insistence was a whip driving him forward and he latched onto it, letting it pull him through the haze of pain. The energy was everywhere now like a flood that surged through his veins and he tried to ride it, to let it flow rather than fight it, though every instinct screamed at him to resist.
"Aaggghhhhhhh!" Wuhlou's eyes were bloodshot. His wildfire of pain bore screams that filled the stillness, raw and unfiltered, a child's defiance against an unrelenting force. For nearly three hours, he roared, his voice echoing off unseen walls. He expected his throat to have soured, burnt out by then but the medicines surrounding him had strange effects on his body. The void's energy sustained him, keeping exhaustion at bay but his trembling hands and rattled nerves betrayed the toll.
The vomit came sudden and violent, a bitter flood that should have splattered across the void's unseen floor, but didn't and he doubled over, retching until his stomach was empty. Whispers sent out a wave of energy, clearing it away.
His screams were a primal release, a howl that carried all his fear, his anger, his will to survive. Three hours stretched into an eternity, each second a battle and the void's power kept him upright. Wiping his face himself, Wuhlou panted.
"How much longer." Wuhlou seemed impatient, his words cutting to the chase.
Whispers watched, unyielding. "You're tougher than you look," continuing to keep up with his amusement of it all he aded, "How long until you're forgotten?" said aloud, the voice sharp as any blade. "I've begun reading your memories. Your people might live near-eternal lives but what's that worth trapped here? In tens of thousands of years this ring will rot, its energy fading, taking our escape with it. Let the energy flow." Whispers' intent was a weight Wuhlou felt even in his nerves, a scrutiny that peeled back his layers. The question cut deeper than the pain, stirring memories of faces he'd lost—his mother's gentle smile, his brother's laugh. The thought of being forgotten, of vanishing into nothingness, ignited a spark of and he straightened once again meeting the unseen with a glare.
Wuhlou's jaw flexed, his whole body trembling under the strain as energy impacted in a column around him. "I want… to exist," he rasped, nearly biting his tongue as the words clawed free. The energy hit like a storm, a pillar of light and force that enveloped him, its roar deafening in his ears. His voice was a ragged whisper, torn from a throat raw with screaming but it carried a fire that surprised even him. Existence wasn't just survival—it was a claim, a refusal to fade, and he poured every ounce of himself into the oath to himself.
Whispers didn't buy it. "Prove it!" The challenge shook the void, relics trembling. The void itself seemed to shudder, the relics quaking as if startled by Whispers' demand. The swords rattled, the talismans flared, and Wuhlou felt the challenge like a gauntlet thrown at his feet—a test he couldn't refuse.
It seemed like he would win or die in every moment. "My name is Wuzao Wuhlou!" he shouted, eyes fluttering as if he'd collapse. The declaration was a shield, his identity anchoring him against the torment. A thunderclap, a burst of sound that defied the void's silence and he felt it ripple outward, a wave that pushed back the pain. His name, all he had left of himself, a tether to who he was and he wielded it like a weapon, his voice unbroken.
"Don't give up—give in," Whispers urged, its demand a painful sin to ignore. The words were a paradox, a riddle that twisted in his mind grasping their meaning—surrender to the energy, not to defeat. Whispers' urgency was a fire, burning away his doubt, and he nodded, a small, fierce motion, as he let go, letting the tide take him.
The mist thickened, swirling with an intensity that pulled at Wuhlou's very core, its chaotic dance steadying into a faint, shimmering thread weaving toward his dantian. A faint respiration stirred—his body was baptizing in Qi.
He folded over, wracked with pain as hundreds of spirit shards spun around him like a tornado. Compounded by the cauldron's power, their energy seared into him, each shard crumbling to dust as it poured its essence into his flesh. Countless shards dissolved before the storm settled, the tremble leaving his eyes, the pain fleeing like a battle cry. The mist became a vortex, a whirlwind of light and shadow that tugged at his soul and he felt the thread pierce him. A needle of energy stitching itself into his dantian. The shards were dazzling, fragments of crystal that glowed with hues of blue and green, and they tore into him, a thousand tiny blades that burned and healed in the same breath. The pain peaked, a crescendo that left him gasping, then faded, leaving a strange, vibrant calm in its wake.
Hours, perhaps weeks, passed in the timeless drift of the void—Wuhlou couldn't tell.
"Congratulations, lucky brat," Whispers said, its thrill-laced tone left unheard.
Wuhlou didn't hear it at all. He slumped forward, breath shallow, the void's haze curling around him like a cocoon.
"Lucky brat!" Whispers shouted but the boy was out cold.
"Time to get to work!" Growling but undeterred time melted into a blur, the void's timelessness swallowing any sense of hours or days. His collapse was slow, almost graceful, his body folding as if cradled by the haze, lost to a darkness that was both rest and rebirth, while deeper plans churned on.
The cauldron spun faster and a phantom twin flickered into existence beside it. Two vessels, echoing with veiled fire, orbited Wuhlou, their hum a steady rhythm in the silence forging his awakening. The twin cauldron shimmered, a ghostly mirror of its solid counterpart and together they danced, their flames licking at the void with tongues of red and gold, a heartbeat, a pulse that synced with his own and he felt it even in his unconsciousness, a forge hammering him into something new.
Time flowed differently in the dimensional pocket, adrift beyond the outside world's reach. Should anyone imprint the ring, its treasures would be theirs in an instant—but for now, it was Whispers' domain. The bell hovered, its presence a faint ripple in the void's currents. Instruments of power piled neatly, their potential waiting to be unleashed. The void stretched endlessly, a pocket of reality carved from nothing and Wuhlou lay at its center, a speck in its vastness. The relics stood as silent sentinels, their power dormant but palpable and Whispers reigned over it all, a king in a kingdom of shadows.
With a bit of work, I can escape now that the seal's lifted, Whispers thought. But this kid knows nothing of self-protection. Easy to fix—and at least I'll have some fun. "Wuhlou," it said aloud, voice slicing through the stillness, "give me control. You've got no energy but I do, and I'm in charge. You're useless in a fight without defense, we're doomed. Understand?" The thought was a spark in Whispers' mind, a plan forming amidst the chaos. The boy was a tool, raw and unrefined, but malleable—and Whispers relished the challenge. Its voice cut like a blade, sharp and commanding, rousing Wuhlou from the depths of his exhaustion.
Wuhlou stirred, blinking awake, his gaze steady despite the ache that had settled in his bones. "I can only trust you," he said. "Will you teach me how to fight?" His voice was resolute, a child's will tempered by necessity. His awakening was slow, a struggle against the weight pressing down on him but his eyes burned with a quiet fire. He'd endured, yet he pushed it aside, his trust in Whispers a fragile bridge he chose to cross.
"For the best, yes but your body's weak compared to even ordinary cultivators," Whispers replied. "If I control you too long in that state, you'll backlash and we'll suffer. To get resources without your own experiences, we'll have to find a sect that's recruiting and use theirs. I've taken the ring's remaining resources, except these." Whispers' tone was pragmatic, tinged with a hint of frustration but it carried a promise—a pact forged in the void. The plan unfolded in its words, a path forward through a world Wuhlou barely knew and he listened, absorbing it with the hunger of one who'd never had a choice before.
Two swords rushed toward Wuhlou, their blades catching the void's dim glow. One was plain, unremarkable; the other hummed faintly, alive with latent power. "One has a Sword Soul," Whispers said. "The other's close. Claim them with Blood." The swords moved with purpose, slicing through the haze to hover before him. The plain one was scarred, its edge nicked and worn, a warrior past its prime. The other vibrated, a song of power thrumming through its steel and Wuhlou felt its call, a whisper of its own echoing in his mind.
"It doesn't look that imposing," Wuhlou said, unimpressed. His blunt honesty blind to the sword's menace, he eyed the humming blade, its faint glow doing little to sway him. He'd seen tools of death before—rusty knives, broken spears—and this seemed no different, its power hidden beneath a humble facade. His words were a challenge, unthinking but true.
The Sword quivered, pinning itself millimeters from his iris. Its bland appearance, easily mistaken for a child's training weapon, belied its fury. "Do not pretend to know what I'm capable of," it hissed, edge trembling with indignation, the air around it burning with quiet intensity. The sudden movement startled him, the blade's tip a hair's breadth from his eye and he felt its heat, a warning that prickled his skin. Its voice was a snarl, sharp and proud, Wuhlou realized too late that he'd roused something alive, something with a will of its own.
"I'll do it myself," Wuhlou said unflinching. He pricked his finger on the tip and watched blood running down its edge. The blade glowed briefly as it vanished into a ball of light, sealing itself inside Wuhlou's chest. He claimed the second sword with the same calm resolve. Patting himself as he looked up toward the Bell that was still hovering and asked, "Whispers, are you a sword spirit too?" He moved with his steady hand unflinching despite the sword's threat and the blood flowed freely, a crimson line that bound them. The glow was warm, a pulse that sank into him and he felt the Sword Soul settle, a presence now part of him. The second claiming was quieter, a silent pact and he patted his chest, testing the new weight within, his curiosity turning to Whispers with innocent wonder.
"What I am is too complicated now," Whispers briskly discarded the answer. "No. Listen closely. We can buy some of what we need but rarer items are guarded tightly and you're going to be needing things. Anyone who looks closely will see you're different. At least talismans can hide you." Whispers' dismissal was swift like a door slammed shut, and Wuhlou sensed a depth he couldn't yet reach. The warning hung heavy—different, a word that echoed in his mind, stirring unease he couldn't name.
"Different? What's the difference?" Wuhlou's confusion spilled out like a child lost in a flood. His voice rose, a floodgate opened, and he searched Whispers' silence for answers, his brow furrowing as he grappled with the unknown.
"Forget it," Whispers snapped, annoyed. "This Talisman will work." A jade disc flew toward Wuhlou, landing in his palm. "This is a Palauan Talisman. A master forgery of the genuine article but assassins use it to mask their presence in crowds. It's seen battles but it's capable and will fool anyone below Immortal Ascension." The talisman felt cool, its subtle runes engraved faintly.