A faint breeze stirred the dust.
Zeravon sat in the same spot where he had fallen — the valley quiet, the skies pale. His fingertips grazed the soil, rough and dry, and his eyes wandered across the strange terrain, aimless.
Nothing looked familiar. Not the mountains. Not the color of the sky. Not even the feeling of his own breath.
> *"What… is this place?"*
> *"Who… am I?"*
The questions echoed, unanswered.
Somewhere far off, a bird cried once — the only sign of life in the lifeless valley. He pushed himself to his feet, unsteady at first, but balanced with instinct. His steps were heavy, uncertain… yet oddly calm.
There was no fear in him.
Only **emptiness** — not hollow, but waiting.
Waiting for something to awaken.
---
Roughly a mile away, three figures moved through the trees. Cultivators from a minor sect — their robes worn, their weapons old. They had been searching for a lost herb rumored to grow in this region, but all they had found was scorched earth and… nothingness.
> "Did you feel that pressure earlier?" one of them whispered.
> "I thought it was just a passing beast tide…"
> "Don't be stupid. Even Spirit Beasts don't make the *air* cry like that. Something fell here. Something big."
They pushed forward cautiously — and then froze.
A lone boy was walking through the clearing, dazed. His clothes torn, his aura… nonexistent.
> "He's just a mortal?" one scoffed. "No Qi fluctuation at all."
> "Or a rogue cultivator who had his core destroyed," said another.
Still, they stepped out to confront him.
---
Zeravon stopped as they approached.
"Who are you?" the leader asked, hand resting near his sheathed blade. "What's your identity?"
Zeravon blinked slowly. "I… don't know."
The three exchanged looks.
> *Amnesia?*
> *Or acting?*
"Do you know where you are?"
Zeravon looked around. "No."
The cultivator frowned. There was no hostility in the boy's tone. Just confusion — and a strange, unshakable calm. But what bothered him most wasn't the boy's answer.
It was the **feeling**.
Something about standing near him made his chest tighten, like the sky itself was watching.
> "Take him back," the leader muttered. "Elder Lin will know what to do."
---
### **North Ridge Outer Sect — Cloud Vein Pavilion**
The sect was small. Old wooden buildings stretched across rocky cliffs, barely held together by aging formations. Outer disciples trained with worn manuals, most barely able to form Qi threads. They were the lowest tier of cultivators in the region — ignored by greater sects, surviving only by discipline and quiet isolation.
Elder Lin, the only Foundation Realm cultivator in the entire sect, examined Zeravon from behind a weathered desk.
"Memory loss," he said, after a long silence. "No Qi. No spiritual resonance. You shouldn't even be alive."
Zeravon simply stared, not speaking.
"You're lucky they found you. This land… it's not kind to wanderers."
Elder Lin leaned back.
"Very well. We have no reason to turn you away. You may stay here — but you'll start from the bottom."
He tossed a set of grey robes across the table. "Outer Sect trial begins in two days. If you fail, you'll be sent to the labor fields."
Zeravon nodded, as if that meant something to him.
---
That night, Zeravon sat under the stars on a cracked stone floor. The sect was quiet, the wind gentle. Other disciples whispered nearby, mocking the "new trash mortal" who had no cultivation and no memory.
He didn't react.
His eyes looked toward the heavens — and a strange pull echoed in his chest. Like something up there… was broken.
He placed his hand over his heart.
There it was again — **that warmth**, faint and steady.
Something was **sealed** inside him. He didn't know what. He didn't know how. But he could feel it, like a whisper calling from behind a thousand locked doors.
And somewhere, **beyond realms**, three divine presences stood in silence — still watching.
---