The first thing Yi Wu remembered was silence.
Not the silence of sleep, nor the quiet before death—
But a stillness so complete, it felt like the world itself had ceased to breathe.
He lay motionless on a cold stone slab, surrounded by incense smoke and murmurs of an ancient tongue. Bound by red cords. Marked with cinnabar. His eyes, closed since birth, would not see the altar he had been offered upon.
They called it tradition. A ritual meant to cleanse misfortune.
Every hundred years, one child without fate. One sacrifice to Wuji Mountain.
They never expected the offering to survive.
But fate does not bow to tradition. And the Dao... chooses no one.
As thunder rolled above the peak, Yi Wu's breath returned—not with panic, but clarity. Something stirred within his chest. Not power. Not anger.
An understanding.
He did not scream. He did not beg.
He listened.
From within the stone, a voice not heard in a thousand years whispered:
"You were born with nothing. That is why you can hold everything."
And so began the journey of Yi Wu—not toward glory, nor vengeance—
But toward the truth buried beneath heaven and earth.