Somewhere beyond the veil of time, a single note lingered. Then, silence.
---
I was dying, and the world was listening.
The roar of the crowd had faded, drowned beneath a final reverberation. My fingers bled across the strings of my guzheng, that sacred instrument I once called a friend. It had cracked when the car struck the stage, yet the music refused to die. It burned brighter, fuller—like it knew this was the end.
In those last moments, I wasn't afraid. I remember the tears of the audience, the look of shock on my sister's face, and the crimson blooming beneath my feet. But more than that, I remember the silence that followed.
Not the silence of absence.
No—this was the silence of judgment.
Something ancient was listening.
And then, I fell into darkness.
---
A child was born in the mountains that winter, beneath an ancient cedar tree where spirit beasts seldom wandered and mortals seldom survived.
The old blind musician who lived there claimed the heavens had wept that night—not with rain, but with sound. A windless storm of music swept the slopes, playing from nowhere and everywhere all at once. A stringed melody, mournful and wild, as though the stars themselves were grieving.
The child's mother died during birth. His father was long since gone, another name lost to war or pride. But the child lived, red-faced and wailing, tiny hands clenched like he was still holding something.
The old man named him Li Yun, which meant "Cloud of Reason."
"Because you fell with thunder," he said, "but you arrived with purpose."
---
[First-Person – Age 5]
I remember the old man's voice before I ever knew my own.
He spoke in riddles and rhymes, sang lullabies to trees, and tapped rhythms on the ground like a bard possessed. To the villagers below, he was a mad hermit. To me, he was the only one who heard what I heard.
He called it "the Second Music."
It lived in silence—in falling snow, in wind through leaves, in the breath between words. Most people mistook silence for emptiness. I knew better.
In that stillness, I felt watched.
Not by ghosts, or gods, but by… something older. Something that remembered.
And sometimes, when I plucked the strings of his old guqin, I felt a warmth return to my hands, a vibration that wasn't my own.
Like the music played me.
---
The years passed slowly in the mountain village.
Li Yun grew with a quiet disposition. He did not play with the other children. They mocked his eyes—too calm, too sharp. They called him spiritless. The local Spirit Master, a third-ring village enforcer, declared with certainty at age six that the boy had no spiritual roots.
"Waste of breath," the man said, slamming his gourd of wine on the table. "No clan. No power. Might as well marry him off to a farmer and be done with it."
But the blind musician only smiled. "You only see what's loud. He's listening to things you'll never hear."
And so, Li Yun learned in silence.
---
[First-Person – Age 9]
When I was nine, I saw a spirit beast for the first time.
It was a low-tier Shadow Rabbit, small and cautious, with violet eyes that gleamed like polished crystal. It had wandered into the village under cover of dusk, searching for herbs.
The Spirit Master raised his staff to kill it.
I raised a song instead.
I didn't know what I played—only that it came from my fingers without thought, an instinct more than memory. A slow, rising trill that hummed like breath before sleep.
The rabbit froze. Its heartbeat aligned with mine. And for a moment, we were one.
The Spirit Master froze, too. The staff slipped from his fingers.
"What… what technique was that?" he whispered.
I didn't answer.
I didn't know.
But something inside me did.
---
The village remained quiet after that night. Whispers spread like shadows beneath the ancient cedars. The Spirit Master's eyes lingered longer than usual when he passed me, filled with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.
But no one else seemed to notice. To them, I was still the boy who did not fit, the one who listened when others spoke, who saw in silence what others missed.
The blind musician often hummed beneath his breath, a melody that seemed to shift with the wind. "The strings speak to the heart that listens," he told me one evening, his fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. "One day, you will hear what no one else can."
I wanted to believe him, but the doubt clawed at me like winter frost.
---
Years passed, each one folding into the next like the notes of an unfinished symphony.
At ten, I learned that power was measured not only in strength but in harmony. The villagers began to notice strange occurrences: wild animals calming in my presence, the wind whispering secrets only I seemed to understand.
One afternoon, while wandering near a quiet stream, I heard it—a faint hum beneath the rustle of leaves. The sound called to me, a song without words. I followed it into the depths of the forest, where sunlight danced through the branches and shadows swayed like dancers.
There, resting among the moss and stones, lay a broken guzheng, its strings silent and frayed.
I reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the ancient instrument.
---
The moment my skin met the strings, the world shifted.
A surge of warmth flooded through me, and the hum exploded into a cascade of notes, filling the forest with a melody so pure it made the air shimmer. Leaves trembled, and the nearby stream stilled as if holding its breath.
From the shadows emerged a figure—a spirit beast unlike any I had seen before. Its eyes glowed with an ethereal light, and its fur shimmered like liquid silver. It moved gracefully, its presence commanding yet serene.
The seasons shifted like the movements of a grand symphony, each bringing new challenges and lessons. The mountain village was both cradle and cage—a place where the air was thick with ancient power, but also bound by the narrow minds of those who feared what they could not understand.
Li Yun's reputation grew quietly, whispered on the wind like a fragile song. Travelers passing through spoke of the boy who commanded music itself, whose melodies could soothe savage beasts and stir the soul.
But such power was a double-edged blade.
One cold dawn, as the mist clung to the pines like ghostly veils, a rider appeared at the village edge—a Spirit Master from the nearby city, clad in robes embroidered with silver and jade. His eyes burned with the sharp light of authority and suspicion.
He sought Li Yun.
---
The old blind musician met the stranger at the village gate, his hands steady despite his years.
"You come for the boy," he said softly, voice like the rustle of dry leaves.
The Spirit Master nodded. "The city Council has heard rumors. A Martial Spirit as unusual as this... it cannot be left unchecked. He must be tested."
Li Yun stood apart, watching from the shadows. The weight of unseen eyes pressed down on him, heavier than any mountain.
The Spirit Master approached, his gaze piercing.
"Li Yun," he said, voice cold but measured, "the path ahead is perilous. The world beyond these woods is not kind to those who walk alone."
Li Yun met his gaze without fear.
"I do not seek kindness," he replied. "Only truth."
---
The test was held at dawn in the village clearing. The elders gathered, faces etched with skepticism and curiosity.
Li Yun was to summon his Martial Spirit fully—a feat none had expected from the quiet boy.
He stepped forward, the broken guzheng strapped to his back, heart steady despite the murmurs.
Closing his eyes, he reached inward, calling the threads of music hidden deep within his soul.
A single note blossomed in the crisp morning air, pure and resonant.
Then another, and another—a tapestry of sound weaving through the clearing, wrapping around the villagers like a warm embrace.
From the shadows, a figure materialized—the Divine Zither Spirit, radiant and serene, its strings shimmering with celestial light.
Gasps filled the air. Some fell to their knees; others wept openly.
The Spirit Master bowed his head in respect.
Li Yun opened his eyes, the first rays of sunlight catching the gleam of determination there.
He was no longer just a boy from a forgotten village.
He was a wielder of ancient song.
The villagers stood in stunned silence, the morning sun casting long shadows as the Divine Zither Spirit's glow bathed the clearing in ethereal light. It was a moment suspended between worlds—between what was known and what was possible.
Li Yun lowered his hands from the guzheng's strings, the last notes fading like whispers in the breeze. His heart still thundered, but his voice was calm.
"This is only the beginning," he said quietly.
The Spirit Master who had come from the city stepped forward, his face unreadable. "You possess a rare gift, boy. Few have ever awakened a Martial Spirit as old and mysterious as the Divine Zither. You will need guidance to survive in this world."
Li Yun met his gaze steadily. "I have my own path."
The elder nodded slowly. "Very well. But be warned—the path of a wanderer is lonely, and the shadows that follow are long."
That evening, as the village settled into quiet, Li Yun stood alone on a ridge overlooking the forest, the sky painted with the colors of dusk. The Divine Zither's strings hummed softly against his back, a living reminder of the bond they now shared.
He thought of the life he had lost—the city, the music, the family he might never see again. But he also felt the stirrings of something new—a destiny shaped by melody and steel, by echoes of a forgotten song.
With a final breath, Li Yun stepped into the twilight, ready to walk the path of the unknown.
---