An elderly man with a white beard stepped forward slowly. Though his pace was unhurried, there was no trace of frailty in his bearing. He wore a weathered monk's robe, draped with a long ash-gray cloak. His forehead was smooth and gleaming, the crown of his head faintly luminous. He carried no weapon—only a string of dark red prayer beads, which he gently rolled between his fingers. With each step, the beads emitted a deep, resonant hum, like the morning bell of an ancient temple lost to time—mellow, profound, and hauntingly distant.
He came to stand before the crowd, his gaze commanding without anger, exuding no hostility, but rather a serene composure that seemed in harmony with the heavens and earth. In his brow lay a quiet clarity untouched by worldly dust, as though he had witnessed endless suffering and death, yet still held compassion for all living things—a timeless witness to the human condition.
This was no ordinary man. That figure, those beads, that tranquil bearing—he bore the mark of a Xingta Temple wanderer.
Xingta Temple did not preach, did not convert, did not bind itself to monastic rules. It cultivated fate and karmic seals, walking beyond the bounds of mortal life as silent ferrymen of destiny.
Most of them remained quiet, untouched by worldly affairs—but when they spoke, their words never missed their mark.
The crowd had yet to disperse. Xiao Chen stood alone, his heartbeat pounding like a war drum. He could still feel the lingering warmth of the spirit jade at his chest, his blood surging like a tide. Strangely, the wound on his arm had already begun to heal, more than halfway, without him noticing.
Just as he lowered his gaze in reflection, a sigh drifted from behind him:
"That is the power of a Fate Mark… and not an ordinary one."
The tension of the earlier confrontation still hung in the air at the village entrance. Villagers exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves. But Xiao Chen simply took a deep breath, as if he hadn't heard the old man's words. Facing the crowd, he said calmly,
"It's over. It's getting late—everyone should head home. Whatever needs to be said… can wait until tomorrow."
His voice was soft yet carried a quiet authority that settled the unease. The villagers hesitated, then slowly dispersed in small groups, leaving behind only the dusk and the whispering forest wind.
Once the crowd had thinned, Xiao Chen turned around. His gaze fell upon the white-bearded elder who had approached, and his expression grew solemn. He had already suspected something—but still found it hard to believe. In a low voice, he asked,
"You… can see it? This power… is it a Fate Mark?"
His voice trembled—not just from surprise, but from a deeper instinct being stirred.
Only the white-bearded elder remained, standing in the fading light, unmoving as a mountain. Xiao Chen turned back and stared at him for a moment, then slowly stepped forward.
The elder smiled faintly, pressed his palms together, and chanted a quiet Buddhist verse. Then he said,
"I am Han Bo, once a wandering monk of Xingta Temple. I have seen many strange paths of fate. But your Fate Mark… is rare beyond compare."
"From Xingta Temple?" Xiao Chen's brows furrowed.
"Then why have you come here?" His tone was calm, but carried a hint of caution.
Han Bo did not answer. Instead, he asked,
"Have you ever wondered—why you've been rootless since birth? Why the spirit jade protects you without your knowing? Why this Fate Mark has awakened now, of all times?"
Xiao Chen's expression shifted, but he held his emotions in check. Tentatively, he asked,
"How do you know all this? Who told you?"
Han Bo smiled faintly and pointed toward the celestial star chart in the sky.
"The mark upon you fell like a meteor to earth. I read fate through the stars, and from the moment you stepped into this village, your life thread blazed across my vision—clear as day."
Those words finally struck a chord deep within Xiao Chen.
He hesitated, his gaze shedding its wariness and shifting toward inquiry.
"Then this Fate Mark you speak of… what exactly is it?"
Han Bo looked at him, his voice low and deliberate.
"A Fate Mark is not merely a form of power. It is an imprint—infused into the body at the birth of heaven and earth. But within you… lie ten Fate Marks. Across all ages… such a thing has never existed."
Xiao Chen fell silent.
Ten Fate Marks… within me?
If such a phenomenon was truly unheard of throughout history, then who… am I?
He pressed his lips tightly together, his eyes trembling slightly. The answer hovered like mist—only a glimmer of starlight piercing through, yet enough to shake his very foundation.
At last, he drew a deep breath, suppressing the turmoil within, and looked up at Han Bo.
"I don't understand, and I've never thought about these things. But if this is fate… then I'll walk it to the end."
As he spoke, Han Bo raised a hand and pointed toward the distant mountain ranges.
"There are countless paths of cultivation in this world, but they all boil down to two: one seizes fate from the heavens, the other forges fate from within. Your Fate Mark… belongs to the latter."
He paused, his tone soft but weighted with gravity.
"This is the convergence of ten Fate Marks—merging pulse, breath, soul, and bone into one. It is exceedingly rare… and exceedingly dangerous."
Xiao Chen frowned slightly.
"Why do you say it's dangerous?"
Han Bo's smile curved again, but it held no lightness—more like a bitter laugh at destiny's cruel jest.
"Because the path of Fate Marks in the Central Plains does not borrow fate from the heavens—it forges it within the mortal frame, carving destiny into flesh and bone."
He gazed at Xiao Chen, his voice deepening.
"This means the Fate Marks within you were not cultivated by your own hand. They… chose you. If you accept them, you may ascend the great path. But if you reject them… they will consume you."
A breeze stirred the forest shadows. Han Bo walked slowly to a nearby stone table and sat down, patting its surface.
"Come. What I offer is not a command—it's a choice. I'll speak as much as you're willing to hear."
Xiao Chen hesitated, reflecting quietly. He realized that his master, Suan Wu Yi, had never once spoken of Fate Marks or the nature of his power.
If he wanted to understand the difference between fate and strength—and if he wished to survive and walk further—he had no choice but to seek guidance. He stepped forward and sat across from Han Bo.
Han Bo's gaze deepened as he watched Xiao Chen settle in. Then he asked,
"Earlier, you asked me what this power is… so I'll tell you. But first, you must remember—this explanation belongs solely to the Central Plains."
His tone softened, as if offering both a reminder and a warning.
"Beyond this land, myriad paths and doctrines exist. Some conflict, some oppose. If you one day step into the outer realms, do not blindly apply what you've learned here."
At that, he suddenly paused, his expression shifting slightly—as if something had come to mind.
"You must understand, this path is not the only one. In the west lies Xuanlei City, where blood is refined into bone, and cultivation is forged through slaughter and thunder. In the southern lands of the Flame Phoenix, fire souls are sacrificed to fate, trading agony of the flesh for power of destiny. In the northern frontier, the people forge their path through the art of crafting."
He paused again, his voice softening.
"And Windspire City… I once visited it. That year, a great clan migrated from the Central Plains to the northern frontier, stopping briefly in Windspire. I was asked to divine the wind currents for their journey—and in that moment, I glimpsed a young girl."
His voice grew quiet, tinged with memory.
"That girl's aura was remarkably steady, yet faintly carried the essence of wind and thunder intertwined. Three spirit guards flanked her, each with a distinct gait. She didn't speak—but her presence was like wind sweeping across the sky, stirring the heart with unease. I knew then—she was no child of an ordinary bloodline."
Xiao Chen's expression shifted slightly at those words.
The wind drifted gently through the forest gaps beside him, rustling the hem of his robe. It seemed to stir something deeper—a long-buried image from the recesses of memory.
It was a city he had once visited as a child.
Or… he thought it was during his "childhood."
That day had been clear and bright. Sunlight spilled across the stone walls. She stood at the edge of the ramparts, hands resting on the rough railing. Her long hair danced in the wind, soft and ethereal, like silk not of this world. She wore a pale gray dress, its lines simple and unadorned—carrying a sense of effortless grace and purity.
She turned to him, her eyes curving into a smile, and said:
"You always wear that gloomy face and never speak—just like winter snow."
Back then, he had only stared at her in silence, saying nothing. But he remembered—
The direction of the wind.
The sound of her voice.
And the unspoken warmth and longing hidden within her words.
Now, that image returned like a dream stretched across years of dust—hazy, yet vivid.
Suddenly, Xiao Chen jolted awake from his reverie. His gaze trembled as he looked around, but saw only the deepening dusk and the whispering mountain wind. The memory had felt so real—even the sensation of wind brushing through his hair was clear. Yet he couldn't be certain—was that memory truly his?
Why could he recall her voice so clearly?
Who was she?
Or rather… who was it that remembered her?
He feared he had remembered wrong.
But more than that, he feared he had forgotten someone important.
Her voice, her expression, even the way her dress fluttered in the wind—all felt as vivid as if he had lived it. Yet he had never been to Windspire City.
Then whose memory was this?
And why had it surfaced in his mind?
He murmured softly,
"I'm not sure… if she still remembers me."
But what unsettled him more—was whether he had truly forgotten her.
Han Bo said nothing. He remained silent for a moment, something flickering briefly in his eyes.
Then he pulled out a thick parchment scroll and spread it across the stone table.
"In the Central Plains, cultivation is known as the Path of Fate Marks. It is rooted in 'fate' and imprinted through 'marks.' One layer, one seal—ten seals in total. These are the inscriptions of destiny upon the cultivator… and the means by which the cultivator inscribes destiny in return."
He pointed to the scroll.
"Within you, only the first seal—the Mark of Breath—has awakened. You are still at the entry stage."
Han Bo poured a cup of tea, then extended a finger and traced a faint glowing line across the stone table. His voice was calm and steady.
"The sequence of the Ten Seals is as follows: Breath, Form, Guard, Pulse, Root, Sense, Star, Inquiry, Creation, and Void. From the Pulse Seal onward, each mark is divided into three stages—Initiation, Intermediate, and Completion. A seal bears a mark, the mark holds fate, fate shapes form, and form… may break the boundaries of the world."
"The First Seal: Breath. It senses the energy of heaven and earth, resonating with fate for the first time. The cultivator thus steps into the path of cultivation."
"The Second Seal: Form. Breath takes shape, and power can be projected outward. Techniques manifest visibly, and force becomes as sharp as blades."
"The Third Seal: Guard. Fate and breath protect the body, defending both within and without. The spirit becomes agile, able to repel external threats."
"The Fourth Seal: Pulse. Breath flows into spiritual meridians, circulating through the body. One begins to grasp the flow of fate's trajectory."
"The Fifth Seal: Root. The root of fate is anchored, connecting with heaven and earth. Evil cannot invade, and myriad arts may be embraced."
"The Sixth Seal: Sense. Fate awareness awakens. One begins to perceive fate, understand it, and align will with its principles."
"The Seventh Seal: Star. Stars are drawn into fate, responding to celestial mechanisms. The Fate Mark pulses in rhythm with the stars."
"The Eighth Seal: Inquiry. One may question their own fate, others' fates—even the fate of heaven. A single thought may glimpse a fragment of the future."
"The Ninth Seal: Creation. Fate is used to forge new fate. One defies the ordained path, shaping destiny by their own hand."
"The Tenth Seal: Void. All arts return to silence. The Fate Mark vanishes. In the extremity of no-mark, fate becomes unknowable—and so does the person. Only freedom remains."
Han Bo's voice was like water striking stone—deep, yet clear.
"These Ten Seals form the backbone of fate cultivation in the Central Plains. But not all can walk the path to its final chapter. The further one goes, the greater the danger… and the heavier the burden."
He gazed toward the distant horizon, his voice drifting like the wind.
"If fate becomes a seal, it is a gift from the heavens. But if the mark can be changed… that is true freedom. These Ten Seals will ask you about your future—but they will not answer your choices."
As the sky darkened, Han Bo's tone suddenly shifted, growing quiet.
"Years ago, I encountered another born with all ten seals. At the time… he was slightly older than you. He reached the Seventh Seal… then sealed his own fate, and has remained silent ever since."
He said no more, leaving only that single sentence behind—as if the rest of the story was too heavy to speak aloud.
Xiao Chen listened in silence, yet felt that each seal described was like an invisible hand etching something deep into his soul.
He had thought these were merely stages of cultivation—but now he understood: behind each Fate Mark lay the weight of destiny… and its price.
Xiao Chen looked up at the sky. Ten faint stars had begun to emerge in the twilight, like a hidden map of fate quietly lighting his path. His heart was still—but something within him… was beginning to awaken.
He didn't know if this was the path fate had drawn for him—but he sensed, however faintly, that each step forward would leave no room for retreat.
He clenched his fist tightly, and whispered in his heart:
—If the Fate Mark has truly chosen me, then I will see… just how far this seal can take me.
But if the path it leads me down is not the one I seek—
Then I shall defy it with my own fate.