The moment Bai Chen opened his eyes again, the world no longer felt like the one he once knew.
Gone were the familiar sounds of city streets, the faint hum of electricity, the mechanical rush of modern life. In their place came soft whispers of the wind, the steady creaking of wooden beams above him, and the laughter of children outside his door. His senses felt sharper than ever, and yet there was a haze that lingered around his mind, as if reality itself was still settling around his soul.
He sucked in a slow breath. The air felt cleaner, heavier at the same time—thicker with something he had only read about in fantasy novels: energy.
So this… is reincarnation?
Memories had already told him his name in this new life: Bai Chen. A villager boy, seven years old, born in a small town under Spirit Hall's influence. He remembered flashes of this body's childhood—running barefoot across fields, watching his mother weaving clothes late into the night, and his father, a silent farmer, bowing before Spirit Hall priests every year at the Spirit Awakening Ceremony.
Today would be his turn.
The Spirit Awakening Ceremony was considered the most important rite of passage for any child. At the age of six to seven, each one would stand before the awakening crystal, summon forth their innate martial spirit, and reveal the quality of their talent. Some children awakened common tools—like hoes, sickles, or hammers. Others, if fortune favored them, awakened beast spirits like wolves, tigers, or eagles. And the rare few awakened spirits of divine heritage that marked them for greatness.
Bai Chen had no expectations. Not anymore.
When he tried to pull memories of his previous life, details blurred. He couldn't even recall his past name. Just vague impressions of stories, myths, ancient civilizations, and the yearning he had once held—to see legends alive. Perhaps it was destiny that he had been sent here.
Morning sunlight spilled through cracks in the wooden door. His mother's voice, soft and trembling with excitement, called from outside.
"Chen'er, it's time. The priests are here."
Bai Chen stepped out. His mother combed his hair neatly, her hands trembling. His father stood behind with his coarse farmer's clothing, his back as stiff as stone. His eyes carried hope despite his silence.
Like all parents, they prayed for a miracle.
Together, they walked toward the village square. There, dozens of children lined up nervously, watched closely by parents and Spirit Hall priests dressed in white robes. In the center stood an elaborate crystal sphere, glowing faintly with aura.
The ceremony began.
One by one, children stepped forward. The priests chanted quietly as each laid their hands on the crystal. Spirits shimmered into being—rusty pickaxes, shovels, sickly wolf cubs. A few children had brighter lights—sparks of talent that made parents cry with joy.
"Next. Bai Chen."
Bai Chen stepped forward, the murmurs of villagers buzzing in his ears. Everyone secretly knew: his family had no bloodline. No glory. Likely, he'd awaken something worthless.
As he placed his palms on the crystal sphere, it warmed beneath his touch. A low vibration stirred, and faint threads of light extended outward.
The villagers held their breath. The priests leaned forward.
And then…
Nothing.
At least, that's what they thought. Only Bai Chen felt the truth. At the center of his palm, a silver gleam shimmered. A delicate thread, thinner than a strand of hair, emerged from his hand and gently drifted above him, like a string of moonlight.
The crowd erupted in disappointment.
"A thread? What kind of martial spirit is that?"
"Pathetic… completely useless."
"His family's cursed luck continues."
Even the Spirit Hall priest frowned. "Martial Spirit: Thread of… destiny? Hmph. Never seen it before. It doesn't seem offensive or defensive. Likely trash tier."
The crystal dimmed. The judgment was passed.
Bai Chen stepped back, face calm, while inside his chest his heart pounded like thunder.
Thread of destiny…
He hadn't expected anything. Yet when the thread appeared, he felt something vast and indescribable—a pulse, as though the universe itself tugged on him. It wasn't weakness at all.
That night, back in his small home, Bai Chen lay awake while his parents whispered outside. His mother wept softly, disappointed yet trying to hide it. His father sighed. They would love him regardless, but clearly, they believed his future had died before it began.
Bai Chen stayed silent. Because in his mind, a voice had already whispered.
[Myth Creation System activated.]
Host: Bai Chen.
[Spirit Type: Destiny Thread acknowledged.]
[Authority granted: Power to weave myths, legends, and histories into reality.]
[Restrictions: Host requires Myth Energy. The greater the resonance of a myth, the more easily it manifests.]
The boy's breath caught.
A rush of symbols danced in his vision—strange letters, shifting between Sanskrit, Greek, Norse runes, and Egyptian hieroglyphs. Each shimmered, dissolved, and rewrote itself into words he could understand.
Weaving… myths?
His fingers trembled. Slowly, he willed the silver thread to move. It floated before him and gently curved as though waiting for his intention. Instinctively, he poured his will into it—glimpsing distant flames, wings of fire, a story long remembered…
A fragment of legend took form before him. A single golden feather, alight with warmth, materialized on his palm.
Phoenix.
The feather glowed faintly, before crumbling into sparks. A whisper followed, like a forgotten song.
[Low-level Myth Fragment created: Phoenix Ember Feather.]
[Resonance cost deducted. Current Myth Energy: 0.01]
Bai Chen sat frozen, wide-eyed.
Not a useless martial spirit. Not weak at all. This "Thread of Destiny" was a loom—the loom of reality.
And he… was the weaver.
The room was silent except for Bai Chen's breathing. The last sparks of the Phoenix Feather drifted into nothingness, but their warmth lingered against his palm, as real as the beating of his heart.
A single test was enough to prove it—his so-called "useless thread" was anything but useless.
He sat cross-legged, eyes shut, letting the silver thread hover before him. His mind flowed into the newly awakened Myth Creation System, exploring its depths.
Lines of glowing text unfolded:
[Authority Overview]
System: Myth Creation
Power: Ability to weave myths into existence.
Limitation: Requires available "Myth Energy."
Current Myth Energy: 0.01 units.
Cost of small fragments: 0.01–0.05
Cost of great legends: immeasurable.
Further descriptions scrolled by.
[Warning: Reality resists unnatural changes. Myths must be seeded carefully, resonating with existing beliefs or potential faith.]
[The more plausible or compatible a myth is with the Soul Land's cultivation system, the easier its manifestation.]
Bai Chen frowned slightly. So I can't just snap my fingers and pluck a god from thin air. The universe won't allow that.
He focused again on the silver thread. It pulsed faintly as his thoughts shifted. This was not a weapon, nor a shield. This was creation itself. A power that worked not by brute force, but by story.
When he recalled the myths of his previous life—tales of gods and demons, heroic empires, mighty beasts—he realized all of them had one thing in common. They survived because… humans believed in them. Because people whispered them across generations until stories became reality.
Now, he had the ability to skip generations. To weave them directly into the fabric of this world.
A shiver ran down his spine.
But with the shiver came caution. If anyone knew… not just Spirit Hall, but even heaven's laws might erase him.
He clenched his fist. "This will remain my secret."
Outwardly, he would be the boy with the weakest martial spirit. An invisible presence. The one mocked, then forgotten.
Inside, he would slowly tug on threads until the world itself sang with myths that had never belonged here.
He understood instinctively: this was not a road for fame. This was a road in shadows.
The days after his awakening passed quietly. His parents gradually stopped watching him with hope. Mothers of other children whispered that Bai Chen had drawn the worst of fates. Yet he did not react, only smiled faintly.
Every night, while the village slept, he wove.
The thread responded to his dreams. When he thought of oceans, he saw Atlantean ruins shimmer faintly beneath unseen tides. When he remembered Indian epics, he heard names like Garuda and Naga echo within the silver weave. When Greek and Norse gods brushed his memory, lightning and cold winds stirred faintly in the distant air.
He could not yet bring them fully into being. He lacked energy. But he could plant seeds.
And seeds… grew.
One evening, he went to the forest outside the village. The moonlight washed the ground pale silver.
Bai Chen extended a hand, letting the thread stretch outward. A small bird landed on a branch nearby, chirping sleepily. He smiled faintly.
"Let's try something harmless."
He pictured the great bird of myth—Garuda, devourer of serpents, wings blazing with divine might. His Myth Energy drained; the thread of light wrapped gently around the bird. Yet he dared not create the full beast—he lacked the energy. Instead, he wove only a drop of its essence: a single feather burning faint gold before sinking into the sparrow's body.
The sparrow trembled. Its tiny body shimmered, eyes glowing faintly as its wings beat harder than before. Its feathers grew sharper, its chirp louder. Not a monster, but not an ordinary bird anymore.
[Minor Mutation Generated: Sparrow infused with Garuda's Breath]
[Effect: Speed +30%, Longevity extended. Potential for future evolution.]
Bai Chen chuckled softly. "So it works even on the smallest life."
To villagers, this would be dismissed as coincidence. They would never trace it back to him. And that was perfect.
When he returned to the village, he sat outside his small hut, gazing at the stars. He felt neither despair nor excitement. Instead, a curious detachment—like an author sketching the first lines of a grand epic.
He remembered another boy in this world: the one named Tang San. That child, too, carried knowledge from a past life, strength, and ambition. His name, in this world and the next, would be remembered.
But Bai Chen?
A faint smile touched his lips.
In stories, not everyone became a hero beneath the sun. Some were watchers, teachers, even forgotten scribes. But sometimes, those shadows left marks deeper than any hero realized.
He whispered to the night sky:
"Let the world witness Tang San's brilliance. I will remain the piece no one sees. Not on the stage, not in the spotlight. In the shadows, my threads will shape everything.
I am the myth weaver."
The silver thread quivered at his vow, humming with quiet resonance. Somewhere far above, the stars seemed to tremble ever so slightly.
And thus began the legend that would never be told.
The village had always been ordinary. Mud paths winding between huts, children chasing each other barefoot, smoke curling from cooking fires. But on the northern edge of the village lay a place adults sometimes warned children about—a small ruin, half-buried by earth and vines.
It wasn't anything impressive: just broken stones forming half an archway and fragments of carvings no one could read. To the children, it was a playground. To their parents, it was useless rubble, perhaps the remains of some forgotten shrine.
Yet that night, Bai Chen stood before it with the silver thread flickering calmly in his hand.
His heart echoed with curiosity. Why did this ruin exist? Was it merely coincidence? Or was it here so he… could test his weaving?
The moon was thin, veiled behind drifting clouds. Owls hooted in the forest. Bai Chen pressed his palm against the cold surface of the mossy stones. The thread extended, brushing against the ruin like a pen touching an old scroll.
Fragments of carvings seemed to stir at his contact. They were blank to ordinary eyes, but the thread revealed faint traces—patterns like lotus petals, serpents, and wheels. Ancient, incomplete symbols lost to time.
A strange excitement stirred in his chest.
"This place… it has no story anymore. No one remembers what these stones once meant. But if I give them a story…"
He inhaled deeply, summoning memories from his past life.
He remembered tales of sages under the banyan tree, disciples sitting cross-legged, scriptures crafted in Sanskrit, wisdom flowing across generations. Nalanda, Takshashila… Gurukuls where philosophy and martial training both walked hand in hand. He remembered stories of seekers chasing truth, of Nagas coiled as guardians, of Garuda soaring as protector above temples.
What if… such a legacy had existed here?
His silver thread quivered in answer.
Bai Chen smiled faintly and began weaving. He pushed gently—not too much, not too forceful. Just a seed. Just enough to breathe a myth into these ruins.
In his mind, he whispered:
Let this ruin be remembered as the site of an ancient Ashram… where a forgotten sage once walked, teaching harmony between soul masters and beasts. Let whispers of it echo faintly in the hearts of those who pass by…
The thread glowed brighter than ever, sinking into the stones. Carvings once blurred now deepened, lines curling into shapes clearer than any mortal would suspect. A calm fragrance spread through the air, like burning incense carried on the night wind.
Bai Chen stepped back.
The ruin remained broken. Yet somehow, somehow—it felt alive.
[Myth Seed Planted: Forgotten Gurukul Ruin]
[Effect: Those who linger nearby may experience increased cultivation clarity. Unawakened children exposed may develop slightly improved martial spirit potential.]
[Note: Seed requires time. Growth depends on collective exploration and belief.]
Bai Chen let out a long breath. He had done it.
Such a small thing. And yet… not small at all.
He heard voices behind him. Startled, he slipped behind a fallen pillar, calming his aura. A group of village children had wandered near, laughing softly. One boy tripped over a stone and fell to his knees at the ruin's entrance.
"Ah! What's this carving? It looks like a bird?"
"Dummy, it's a snake."
"No, no—it looks like… writing?"
The children argued, tracing the newly-bright carvings with their hands. Bai Chen's eyes narrowed. None of them had noticed him. They only felt a spark of curiosity, a sense of wonder that made them stay longer than usual.
And as their little hearts wondered, as they whispered, as they believed even a little… the myth seed pulsed brighter.
Bai Chen's lips curved slightly. Unseen, unknown, yet already reality was bending, reshaping. A forgotten ruin was no longer just rubble; it was the birthplace of a legend.
When the children finally ran back toward the village, giggling about discovering a "secret sage school," Bai Chen remained in the shadows.
No one would ever know the truth. To them, it would be coincidence, imagination, or perhaps divine fate. Only Bai Chen would understand that it was a thread slowly weaving itself into the continent's history.
The silver thread floated into his palm, sinking into his chest once more.
"This," he whispered softly into the night, "is how I shall walk this world."
He looked to the stars once again.
"Unseen. Forgotten. Always behind the curtain."
"Let Tang San be the hero who wins admiration. Let Spirit Hall chase its dominance. Let Shrek rise and fall."
"As for me… I will be the quiet story their songs never remember. Myths will spread with no name, no source. They will never know the weaver."
The night wind stirred gently. The ruins glowed faintly one last time before quieting, as if the world had accepted his addition.
Bai Chen turned and walked away, his figure melting into darkness.
Thus began the story of the boy everyone forgot.
The boy who would never stand on center stage.
The boy who would thread gods, empires, and civilizations into Soul Land's very foundation.
The first chapter of his myth had been written—
and no one would ever know his name