The night in Qinglong City was anything but quiet.
From every direction, the city pulsed with life. Lanterns floated in mid-air, guided by threads of spiritual energy. Cultivators leapt between rooftops like flitting ghosts. Even in the shadows of the alleys, alchemists brewed pills in silence while weaponsmiths shaped soulsteel with hammer and flame.
But amidst all the brilliance, Shen Ziyan felt the weight of solitude pressing on him like a mountain.
He wandered aimlessly beneath the lantern-lit sky, Scholar Xuan's words echoing in his mind:
"Your body has been altered. Normal cultivation techniques may fail you. You must find your own path."
He stopped at the edge of a small canal, watching water spirits drift lazily across the surface. His reflection looked unfamiliar—eyes sharper, posture firmer. The golden mark on his palm pulsed softly in rhythm with his heartbeat.
And then he heard it.
A voice.
Soft. Whispering. Like the distant call of wind through hollow mountains.
"Ascend… awaken…"
Ziyan's eyes widened. He looked around—no one nearby. The streets were empty, save for a few flickering lights behind closed shutters.
"Who's there?" he asked aloud.
Silence.
He stared at the mark in his palm. The golden lines had begun to pulse again, now with a faint heat. He closed his fist instinctively, but the sensation only grew stronger, more insistent.
"It speaks," he whispered. "The hand... speaks."
Suddenly, the golden energy surged violently. His knees buckled, and a blinding light erupted from his palm.
In an instant, the world around him disappeared.
Ziyan stood in a void.
Black skies. Shattered stars. Beneath his feet, a floating platform made of silver stone—etched with symbols that shifted when he looked at them.
Before him loomed a massive hand—the Hand of Creation—but whole this time, radiant and immense. It floated in the sky like a constellation, each finger longer than a mountain range, each nail made of crystallized law.
And surrounding it were other divine limbs—some broken, some whole, others missing entirely—drifting like ancient debris from a celestial war.
In the distance, a colossal face hovered among the stars. It was vague and indistinct, as though carved from clouds and light. Its mouth did not move, but Ziyan heard it.
"You who have touched the fragment... hear the Echo of Creation."
Ziyan dropped to one knee. The voice reverberated in his soul like thunder across a desert.
"The gods are gone. Their remnants lie scattered across the Realms. You bear a piece of the First Hand—the Architect's Touch. With it, you may shape the world, or unravel it."
Ziyan forced himself to speak. "Why me? I am no one!"
"You were chosen not by destiny, but by proximity. The divine is indifferent. Yet now that it has merged with you, your fate is bound to higher paths."
He grit his teeth. "Then tell me—what am I to do?"
A long silence.
Then:
"Seek the other fragments. Awaken the Architect's Will. Or perish as others have."
The voice faded. The stars blinked out one by one, and the platform beneath Ziyan crumbled into dust.
Ziyan awoke gasping.
He was lying on the canal's edge, his clothes damp, the mark on his hand burning like fire. People were gathering, whispering among themselves. A cultivator in city guard armor approached.
"You! What technique did you just use? That light—it could be seen for miles!"
Ziyan forced himself upright. "I… I don't know."
The guard frowned, studying him carefully. "You'd best come with me to the Registrar's Hall. No rogue techniques are allowed within the inner rings of Qinglong City."
Ziyan hesitated. If they examined him too closely…
Before he could answer, a familiar voice rang out.
"That boy is under my care."
Scholar Xuan stepped forward, a calm smile on his face, holding out a silver token. The guard's expression changed instantly.
"Elder Xuan! Forgive me, I didn't realize—"
"No need," the scholar said with a wave. "Run along now."
The guard bowed and left hastily. Xuan turned to Ziyan with a frown.
"You lit up the city like a beacon. What did you do?"
Ziyan stood slowly, still shaking. "I… I think I had a vision. A dream… of the gods."
Scholar Xuan's eyes darkened. "Tell me everything."
Back in Xuan's study, Ziyan recounted the vision—every detail from the floating hand to the echoing voice. The old scholar listened silently, his face unreadable.
When Ziyan finished, Xuan stared into his teacup for a long moment.
"The Architect," he muttered. "The legends spoke of a god who built reality itself, who shaped the Laws of Heaven and Earth with his own hand."
Ziyan's pulse quickened. "So it's real?"
"Parts of it," Xuan said. "But even in ancient times, the full truth was unknown. The gods warred, fell, and vanished. All that remained were artifacts—fragments of their power. You've bonded with one."
Ziyan looked down at his palm again.
"Fragments… The voice told me to seek the others."
Xuan leaned forward. "That is no easy path. The remnants of the gods are spread across the realms. Many are hidden, sealed, or guarded by ancient sects that would kill to protect—or control—them."
"Then I'll fight them," Ziyan said.
The scholar chuckled, but there was no humor in his eyes. "You? Fight sects? Boy, you've barely begun to cultivate."
Ziyan stood. "Then teach me more. I'll learn. I don't care how long it takes."
Xuan studied him for a long time, then slowly nodded. "Very well. I will guide you. But only until you can stand on your own feet."
Ziyan bowed low. "Thank you, Senior."
"One condition," Xuan said, raising a finger. "You must enter the Stone Dragon Trials."
Ziyan blinked. "What's that?"
"A gathering of geniuses, held by the five great sects of the Eastern Province. It happens once every ten years. This time, it is being hosted here in Qinglong City—in five days."
"Five days?!"
"You don't need to win," Xuan said calmly. "You just need to survive. And while you're there, observe. There may be others who possess fragments like yours. Or worse—those who hunt them."
Ziyan's mouth went dry. "Then I'll prepare."
The scholar nodded approvingly. "Good. Let the world glimpse the flicker of your flame—but not the full blaze. Hide your strength until the moment is right."
Ziyan looked out the window at the stars.
Five days.
Five days to prepare for a trial filled with cultivators, sect heirs, and hidden enemies.
He clenched his fist, feeling the divine heat return to his palm.
"I'll survive. I'll grow stronger. And I'll find the rest of the fragments."
Somewhere, across the heavens, the remnants of gods were waiting.
And so was his destiny.