It was just after dawn, but the city of Nareth was already alive with noise. Vendors rolled open their shopfronts, martial artists in threadbare robes swung wooden sabers in courtyards, and carriages clattered down stone-paved streets.
But within a quiet house tucked into the northern merchant district, Kyle was still asleep—dangling halfway off a tree branch in the small courtyard behind his home.
The boy looked peaceful, silver strands glinting faintly in the rising sun. A thin book lay draped across his chest: "A Treatise on Cultivation Foundations, Revised Edition." He'd only gotten to the third page before sleep won.
Baron Eran, Kyle's father, stood below him holding a wooden ladle. His eldest son, Rayn, stood beside him, arms folded with a smirk.
"You said he'd start preparing for the test today," Eran muttered.
Rayn shrugged. "Technically, this is preparation. He's meditating. On laziness."
Eran sighed and raised the ladle.
Whack.
A splash of cold water jolted Kyle awake.
He flailed, lost his balance, and tumbled head-first into the bushes with a groan. "Gah… ambushed… by cowards…"
Rayn leaned over him. "Your enemies won't wait for you to finish your nap, little brother."
Kyle sat up with a scowl. "They should. It's only fair."
Eran's expression softened, but his voice was firm. "Kyle. Tomorrow is the entrance test for Duguang Academy. You don't have to pass. But you do have to try."
Kyle blinked. "But why? I already know I won't pass. My talent's B-rank. I'm an ant, remember?"
The word came out bitter.
Ant.
That single insult, thrown casually by a noble's son a year ago, had never truly left his mind. Not because it hurt—Kyle didn't care about the boy. But because it was true.
In the world they lived in, strength dictated truth.
And Kyle was weak.
Long ago, before the founding of the Nine Great Sects and the rise of the Empire, the world had been ruled by savage laws: Strength is truth, and weakness is sin. The ancient cultivators etched these laws into jade tablets, preserved through eras and dynasties.
Over time, this philosophy shaped the very fabric of the cultivation world. Spiritual energy could be harnessed only by those who awakened their Inborn Soul Vein at age fifteen. This awakening determined one's path—whether they could walk the Five Orders of Ascendance: Body, Qi, Spirit, Will, and Dao.
Each order contained profound methods. Sects, clans, and rogue cultivators alike competed to acquire techniques imbued with Dao Marks, lineage echoes, or Soul Imprints. Some were passed down through bloodlines. Others had been carved into Stone Monuments in forgotten ruins, waiting for fated souls to comprehend them.
The common people could only kneel and watch.
Even among those who awakened Veins, most faltered in the First Order—unable to refine their body beyond mortality. Kyle's B-rank talent gave him a chance to advance to the Spirit Realm if he worked harder than everyone else. But why struggle for crumbs in a world where SSS-rank prodigies feasted?
"I don't want to be an Immortal," Kyle muttered, brushing leaves from his hair. "I just want a nap and some warm bread."
Rayn crossed his arms. "You say that now. But what happens when someone comes to take what's yours? Your home? Your peace? You'll just lie down and hope they leave you alone?"
Kyle hesitated.
Eran placed a hand on his shoulder. "Son, I know you don't want glory. But even ants need armor in a world ruled by beasts."
Kyle looked down at his hands.
"…Fine. I'll go."
Later that evening, after a warm meal and a few forced sword drills with Rayn, Kyle found himself back in the courtyard. He sat cross-legged beneath the same tree he fell from, eyes closed in stillness.
A strange wind rustled the leaves. Somewhere distant, he felt… something. A whisper. A breath. A sensation like silk brushing against his thoughts.
He opened his eyes.
Above him, the moonlight revealed a faint shimmer in the air. Just for a moment.
Then it was gone.
"…Weird."
Unbeknownst to Kyle, the faint silver in his hair—the strange phenomenon that had puzzled his father—was a mark of something deeper. A dormant resonance. A distant bloodline that pulsed beneath his skin, waiting.
A thread tied to fate itself.
Elsewhere, in a crumbling tower surrounded by silent tombs, an old man in tattered robes stirred.
His withered hand hovered over a Dao Tablet, its surface glowing with flickering silver lines. The name etched across it pulsed faintly.
"Ah…" he rasped. "The one who dreams under moonlight… the one who slumbers while the Heavens watch…"
He began to laugh.
"He awakens soon. The boy who will bear the mark… the one who refuses to kneel."
Back in Nareth, Kyle scratched his head and flopped onto his back.
"Can't believe I'm actually doing this. Cultivating, training, testing…"
He yawned.
"…So troublesome."
Then he smiled faintly and closed his eyes again, letting the grass cradle him.
Even as fate gathered above him like clouds before a storm.