The night Jin was born, the sky tore open.
For three heartbeats, an apparition darker than the abyss between stars loomed over Detrox. In distant celestial observatories, divination crystals shattered. Ancient sect masters clutched their chests as their centuries-old hearts faltered. Somewhere in a mountain tomb, a long-dead cultivator's corpse twitched in its coffin. Then—nothing. The vision vanished, leaving only a silent, suffocating dread in the bones of every powerhouse across the land.
On Mount Figus, a midwife slapped a newborn's backside, and the baby's first cry split the air. Karl laughed as he cradled his son, oblivious to the way the candles in the room burned suddenly blue. Outside, the family's scarecrow stood upright for three breaths before collapsing back into its post.
Eighteen Years Later
Jin wiped sweat from his brow as he hauled another cart of ore up the mountain path. The villagers called him "Stone-Cut Jin" for his steady hands and unshakable focus.
"Jin! The hunting party leaves at noon!" Old Man Lirr called from across the square.
Jin nodded, hefting his freshly sharpened blade. But his fingers tingled strangely today, as if the air itself was alive between them.
The forest was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth when he saw it, a streak of silver cutting through the clouds. A cultivator, standing effortlessly on a floating sword, robes fluttering like banners in a storm.
"Imagine living like that," Ralen sighed beside him.
Jin didn't answer. The wind around his wrists suddenly coiled tight, whispering secrets against his skin before fading away. His chest ached with something deeper than longing.
That night, as the village celebrated their successful hunt with ale and song, Jin slipped away. The moon hung heavy and low, its pale light painting the world in shades of silver and shadow.
Then—a pull.
Not sound, not scent, but a vibration in his very bones. He followed it through the trees, boots crunching on frost-laden ferns, until the forest erupted in light and sound.
Two figures clashed in the clearing ahead. One moved like the mountain itself—every step sending tremors through the earth, fists sheathed in molten stone. The other danced with fire, their blade trailing comet-bright flames that turned fallen leaves to ash midair.
Jin's breath caught in his throat. This wasn't fighting—it was the elements themselves given will and form. The earth cultivator roared, slamming his palms together, and the ground beneath Jin's feet heaved