The boy hated people.
It was a truth as fundamental as the granite bones of the mountains, as ingrained as the scent of pine and damp earth in his own skin. He couldn't recall a specific reason, no single searing memory of betrayal or cruelty that had planted this seed of disdain. It was simply there, an instinctual revulsion to the cloying scent of cooking fires too close together, the cacophony of overlapping voices, and the brittle artifice of their smiles. Civilization was a cage of unspoken rules and veiled judgments, and he had escaped it long ago, when his legs were still thin and his rage was the only thing that kept him warm.
The forest had been his crucible and his cradle. It taught him its ruthless, honest laws: the swift, silent kill; the patient, watchful hunt; the unforgiving cold of a winter's night. He knew nothing of Immortals who defied the heavens or Cultivators whose sword light could rival the sun. His world was a visceral cycle of predator and prey, his greatest victory the simple act of waking to a new sunrise.
But a new hunger, different from the familiar ache in his belly, had begun to gnaw at him. It was a hollowness in his core, a whisper in the quiet moments between one hunt and the next. Ascend. The word was a foreign seed, cracking open in the barren soil of his mind. He didn't understand it, not in the way the scholars in their pavilions did. To him, it meant climbing a taller tree, hunting a faster deer, surviving a harsher winter. Until now.
Today was different. The forest, his forest, was holding its breath. The usual symphony of chirping birds, rustling leaves, and buzzing insects had fallen silent. It was an unnatural quiet, a heavy stillness that prickled his skin and set his hunter's instincts on edge. From the north, from a dense, unexplored thicket of ancient trees, a low-frequency hum resonated. It wasn't the call of any beast he knew, nor was it the murmur of a human voice. It felt older, deeper. It was as if the very earth was dreaming, and he was hearing its slumbering song.
Curiosity, a dangerous luxury, warred with the caution that had kept him alive for so long. Curiosity won. He moved like a wisp of smoke through the undergrowth, his bare feet making no sound on the mossy ground. The hum grew stronger, vibrating not in his ears but in his chest, a strange resonance that seemed to pull at the center of his being. He finally emerged into a small, circular clearing he would have sworn hadn't existed the day before.
In its center stood a tree that defied all reason. Its trunk was a luminous, pale white, as if carved from solidified moonlight. Thin, bioluminescent blue lines pulsed with a soft, steady light across its bark, weaving intricate patterns that reminded him of the river's tributaries or the veins on a leaf. The hypnotic hum emanated from this impossible tree, and as it washed over him, he felt a flicker deep in his gut, in the place he would one day know as his Dantian. It was a dormant power, stirring in its sleep. The very air here was different, thick with the scent of ozone after a storm and the sweet, clean aroma of freshly cut watermelon. It was the smell of pure, raw life energy—Qi—but the name was unknown to him.
As he stared, mesmerized, a single fruit detached itself from a high branch. It floated down, not falling, but descending with the grace of a feather, untouched by the wind. It landed softly on a bed of moss directly in front of him, glowing with an inner, jade-green light. The fragrance it released was intoxicating, and it spoke not to the emptiness in his stomach, but to that new, confusing hunger in his soul. The desire to ascend.
A gift? A trap?
His mind, forged in the unforgiving furnace of the wild, scoffed at the idea of a gift. The forest did not give gifts; it presented opportunities and laid snares. This single, perfect fruit was a test. A distraction. The true prize, the real wealth, was the dozens of other fruits that glittered like emerald stars amidst the tree's silver branches. Opportunity, his life had taught him, must be seized, exploited, and stripped to the bone.
He ignored the offering at his feet.
He approached the tree, laying a hand on its impossibly smooth, warm bark. He was deaf to its beauty, blind to its ancient majesty. His gaze was fixed on the bounty above. Like a predator assessing its kill, he found his route and began to climb. The branches were as unyielding as stone beneath his weight. One by one, he plucked the fruits, their glow dimming slightly as they left the tree, and dropped them into a makeshift sack fashioned from his tattered robes. With each fruit that fell, the tree's meditative hum seemed to falter, its pitch dipping almost imperceptibly in sorrow. He didn't count. This wasn't greed, not in the human sense. It was the instinct of a squirrel burying nuts for winter, but magnified by a more brutal, encompassing philosophy.
When the last fruit was secured, he slid back to the ground, a silent shadow. His sack was a heavy, glowing treasure trove. But to him, it was just a collection of unproven claims. Now, for the proof.