Chapter 1: The Dust of Ages
The dust, thick and ancient, was the only thing in the forgotten hall that truly stirred. It danced in the infrequent shafts of moonlight that pierced the grimy, shattered skylights, illuminating the slow, deliberate rise and fall of a chest that had long forgotten the rhythm of purpose. King Theron, or what remained of him, lay sprawled amidst the ruins of his own forgotten legacy, a clay jug clutched loosely in one hand, its contents long since drained, much like his ambition.
Once, this hall had echoed with the clamor of a thousand voices, the clash of training blades, the hum of spiritual energy, and the pronouncements of a vibrant court. Now, only the scuttling of unseen creatures and the occasional, mournful sigh of the wind through broken archways broke the silence. Theron, once hailed as a prodigy of the Azure Qi Vein, a king whose very presence could stir the dormant spiritual energies of the earth, was now merely a lump of flesh and bone, clad in tattered silks that still bore faint, faded embroidery of a lion rampant – his forgotten house sigil.
His cultivation, once a roaring torrent, had dwindled to a stagnant puddle, barely enough to keep the chill of the decrepit fortress from his bones. He hadn't touched a cultivation manual in decades, hadn't meditated on the flow of Qi in what felt like lifetimes. His days blurred into an indistinguishable haze of cheap spirits, half-eaten scraps, and the profound, suffocating weight of doing absolutely nothing. He was the forgotten one, and he had embraced the oblivion with a fervor that bordered on devotion.
The world outside, he knew, had moved on. Whispers, carried on the rare gusts of wind that found their way into his sanctuary of apathy, spoke of a Great War, a cataclysm that had reshaped the very fabric of existence. The Seven Sins, primordial forces of corruption, had clashed with the Seven Virtues, bastions of cosmic order. Theron had heard the distant roars, felt the tremors that shook the very foundations of his mountain, but he had merely rolled over, pulling his threadbare cloak tighter. What was a cosmic battle to a man who had lost his own?
The Sins had won, or so the whispers claimed. But at what cost? Only four of the seven remained, their victory a hollow echo in a fractured world. And yet, four Virtues, too, were said to endure, scattered like embers, waiting for a spark. It was a tale of ruin and lingering hope, a saga that should have stirred the blood of any cultivator, any king. But Theron merely grunted, reaching for another jug. The world could burn; he was already ashes.
A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his skull, not from the cheap liquor, but from something deeper, something resonant. It was a faint, almost imperceptible hum, like a distant gong struck once, then fading into silence. He blinked, his eyes, once sharp and commanding, now bleary and unfocused. The dust motes in the moonlight seemed to coalesce, twisting into a fleeting, ephemeral shape – a yawning chasm, endless and dark, yet strangely… peaceful. A profound sense of absence, of something vast and ancient missing from its rightful place, washed over him.
He dismissed it as a drunkard's hallucination, a trick of the light and his addled mind. Yet, the hum lingered, a subtle vibration beneath his skin, a foreign note in the symphony of his self-imposed decay. It was the faintest ripple in his stagnant pool of Qi, a whisper of a forgotten power stirring, not within him, but around him, tugging at the edges of his profound indifference.
And with that whisper, a forgotten memory stirred, like dust motes catching a forgotten breeze. The classifications. The paths. In this world, power wasn't merely gained; it was cultivated along distinct, arduous roads, each culminating in godlike might. He, Theron, had been destined for the Warrior path, a destiny etched into his very bones, manifesting as his unique Azure Qi Vein. He remembered the stages, drilled into every aspiring cultivator from childhood, each a testament to escalating power and mastery.
There was the Ironborn, the foundation, where one mastered brute force and heavy weapons, their very bodies becoming as hard as steel. He had surpassed that before he was a man. Then came the Bloodforged, a terrifying stage where strength blossomed from wounds, turning pain into power. He had touched that, too, in his youth, reveling in the surge of might as he pushed past limits. The Ragehowler followed, unleashing a berserker fury that swept away all opposition. He had seen his generals, even some of his peers, achieve that terrifying state. But his own path, the Azure Qi Vein, had propelled him towards something grander, something that resonated with the very earth.
He had been on the cusp of becoming a Titanbone, gaining supernatural endurance and giant-like strength, his presence alone enough to crack mountains. Beyond that lay the Battlelord, a cultivator who commanded the battlefield with an unstoppable presence, their will shaping the very flow of war. And then, the ultimate, the mythical War God, the pinnacle, an avatar of war itself. He had been groomed for that, his lineage, his talent, his kingdom – all pointed towards him becoming a living weapon, a bulwark against any foe.
Now, he was less than an Ironborn, a mere shadow of even a Fletchling, the lowest rank of an Archer, barely capable of lifting his own jug. The irony was a bitter taste, far worse than the cheap spirits. The hum, however, persisted, a persistent, annoying fly in the ointment of his sloth, and it felt… different this time. It wasn't just a memory; it was a resonance, a pull. It was as if the very air around him was vibrating with a frequency he should recognize, a frequency connected to that yawning chasm he'd glimpsed.
For the first time in years, a flicker of something other than despair stirred within him – not hope, not anger, but a profound, almost childish irritation. Something was changing. And Theron, the forgotten king, the drunkard who did nothing, felt the first, unwelcome tremor of a world that refused to leave him in peace.