The mountains were drowned in mist, their peaks like broken blades piercing through the heavens.
Among them, a lone figure walked.
His steps were steady, yet there was no destination—only the endless road. The world had long forgotten his name, but in whispers, people called him something else: the Ashen Dao.
His cloak was torn, his blade dull, and his eyes hollow, as if the weight of countless lifetimes had buried every spark of light. He carried no glory, no treasure—only silence.
The Dao he followed was not one of power, nor one of salvation. It was a path carved by suffering, paved with the ashes of all he had lost. Each step he took was heavy, not because of the road, but because of memory.
In every village he passed, children looked at him with fear, elders with pity. Some claimed he was cursed, others believed he was the last remnant of a forgotten sect. Yet none truly knew the truth.
The truth was simple: he walked because he could not stop.
Far away, thunder rumbled. The mist stirred as if the heavens themselves held their breath. His hand brushed the hilt of his blade, and for the first time in years, he whispered:
"The Dao is silence… but silence is never eternal."
And in that stillness, the world seemed to awaken