Neon lights flickered above the narrow alleys of Lowterra, a backwater Outer Rim planet barely holding onto its place in the Astral Federation. Skyscrapers groaned beneath layers of dust, and transport pods drifted silently overhead. Far above, two moons hung still in the night sky, watching.
Long Yan sat alone on the rooftop of a rundown state orphanage. His legs dangled over the edge as wind tousled his black hair. His gaze was locked on the moons, but his mind was somewhere else.
"Another dream," he muttered, rubbing his temple.
Lately, strange visions haunted his nights. Battles under broken stars. A voice whispering through blood. A child's hand in his. But when he awoke, there were only fragments.
He remembered nothing from before the age of ten.
According to official records, he'd been found unconscious outside Lowterra's city perimeter during a dust storm. No ID. No bloodline match. No spirit root.
And in a world defined by cultivation, no spirit root meant no future.
He stood as the wind shifted, carrying the scent of metal and ozone from the factories beyond. Somewhere out there, cultivators soared through the skies, bending elements to their will. But Long Yan was nothing. Just a forgotten boy.
He climbed down the rusted ladder and returned to the dormitory, slipping into bed beside the rows of snoring orphans.
But sleep didn't come.
Instead, a warmth bloomed in his chest. His hand tingled.
He sat up.
A ring now rested on his middle finger—black and scaled, forged like a dragon curled around itself. Its eyes were closed, its fangs bared.
He didn't own a ring.
He didn't know where it came from.
Then everything shifted.
His vision blurred.
And he fell into a world of mist and stone.