The ancient calendar of the Shenzhou realm, Xining Year 1177 — in just a hundred years — night fell as dark as ink, and countless stars dotted the sky like shimmering beads. A silhouette drifted slowly through a deep, mist-shrouded valley, silent and still. The air was thick with a suffocating fog, swirling among the mountains, blinding in its density.
But this mist was no ordinary moisture. It radiated an eerie, azure glow—the Devouring Spirit Fog—that flickered with sinister vitality. Whenever the wind stirred, faint ancient runes appeared and vanished within the mist, as if the stars themselves had woven secret symbols into the very fabric of heaven.
Near a bamboo pavilion, a bronze bell hung still, swaying gently in the breeze, emitting a faint "ting—swish—" sound, like celestial chimes echoing through the void. Three shining silvery "Sky-Seeking Sparrows," with feathers gleaming like liquid metal, soared from the shadows. As they flapped their wings, phosphorescent dust scattered in the air, drawing fleeting star maps—briefly illuminating the heavens with mystical lines.
Amidst this tranquil scene sat an old sage, seated quietly next to the mountain gate. His figure was thin and ancient, yet emanating a mysterious aura. His slender fingers gently stroked a plain white porcelain cup, within which a nebula of celestial mist was sealed—an artifact of ancient craftsmanship, reflecting distant starlight from forgotten worlds.
His respiration flickered softly, an indistinct sign of passing time. His pupils, once bright as divine stars, now shimmered with an unnatural silvery-gray—a consequence of forcibly deciphering the secrets of heaven, and bearing the backlash of divine insight.
In the quiet of the night, he raised his hand to pour tea. Suddenly, the porcelain cup cracked unexpectedly—webbing across its surface as if a celestial wound opening. The tea inside flowed out, transforming into a strange, rust-colored liquid that shimmered with metallic brilliance, then settled onto the stone platform, forming two characters: "Guì-Yǒu" (癸酉), the year of celestial anomalies.
His sleeve slipped back, revealing a mysterious rune engraved on his wrist—seven dark green chains, five of which had already shattered, fading rapidly as if their purpose was nearing an end. Time had carved deep lines into his face—yet his expression remained serene, calm as an ancient well, unperturbed by sorrow or joy. Decades of hardships had washed away worldly ambition; only tranquility persisted.
Across the centuries, in the Xining Year 1070, the Northern Song emperor Shen Zhong had promoted reforms, yet the sage sensed his days waning. Fear of death settled in his heart, and he tendered his resignation papers. That same year, he moved from Gongcheng County to Luoyang, seeking refuge among former chancellors Fu Bì and Sima Guang, often wandering through the quiet streets and ancient relics of the city.
He read tirelessly—no book escaped his grasp—spending years in study. Winter nights without fires, summer days without fans, nights filled with relentless effort. His only regret: "Ancient sages once ventured beyond the old boundaries; I, how far have I come?"
At sixty, he crossed the Yellow River, the Fen River, traversed rivers and plains—Huang He, Luo, the Huai, the Yangtze—examining ruins of Western Zhou in Qi, Lu, Song, and Zheng. He wandered for five long years, broadening his horizons and contemplating the universe. When he finally returned, everything felt familiar yet distant. It was as if the beginning of his journey was unfolding anew—and he sighed: "The Way is here!" After that, he no longer journeyed afar.
Now, on the fifth day of the seventh month in Xining Year 1077, a strange omen appeared. Clouds gathered silently in the sky, rolling like dark waves, while distant thunder rumbled without sound, yet the earth trembled as if the universe itself was awakening. This was a divine turbulence—the Great Wheel of Heaven—a call from ancient celestial forces awakening the ancestral spirit.
A mysterious invisible power began drawing his flesh into an enigmatic space—a swirling realm of thick clouds and ancient runes, hiding secrets long buried in the dust of ages. The sky darkened, crackling like a sky-shattering roar. The void was torn apart, space fractured like a cloth in the wind. The unseen force pulled his vital soul into a dimension beyond space—thick mists billowed and swirled, hiding cryptic celestial symbols rich with antiquity.
The heavens burst open with a deafening roar, stars