The night was silent — too silent.
Wind swept across the barren mountains, carrying with it the scent of blood and damp earth. The moon hung high above, veiled by drifting clouds, its pale light spilling faintly over broken stones and wilted trees.
A young man sat cross-legged before a dying campfire.
His robe was torn, soaked in dirt and dried blood, his hair disheveled and matted against his face. His breathing came in slow, ragged intervals, and each exhale carried the faint shimmer of qi escaping his body.
Wang Chung opened his eyes.
They were cold, sharp, and hollow — like a man who had seen too much death and yet refused to die.
The battle earlier that day had nearly ended him.
A small group of wandering cultivators had recognized the symbol of his destroyed sect — the Azure Cloud Pavilion — and attacked without warning. They had wanted to loot him, to erase any remnant of that fallen sect from existence.
He had killed them all.
Even now, he could still feel the warmth of their blood staining his hands. The stench of death lingered around him like a shroud.
But there was no pride in his eyes — only exhaustion.
He had won because of desperation, not strength.
His gaze fell to his right hand.
Under the moonlight, faint golden ripples shimmered beneath his skin — the trace of the mysterious bead that had merged with his soul months ago.
It had neither spoken nor granted him a single technique. It didn't heal his wounds, nor did it offer divine protection like the treasures of legends.
It simply existed.
Silent, calm, and cold — just like him.
Still, he could feel its faint rhythm every time he cultivated, purifying his qi in subtle ways, allowing him to survive where others would have crumbled.
It was both a blessing and a curse — it kept him alive, but never helped him advance easily.
His hand trembled slightly as he picked up a cracked jade bottle beside him.
Only two drops of low-grade spirit liquid remained inside — pitiful remnants scavenged from the bodies of his enemies.
He stared at it for a long time before drinking both drops in silence.
The bitter, metallic taste spread through his mouth. A weak surge of spiritual energy entered his dantian — like a flicker of warmth in a body long frozen.
But Wang Chung did not stop there.
He began to cultivate.
The moment he did, pain exploded through every nerve in his body.
His meridians twisted and burned as he forcefully drew in spiritual energy far beyond what his body could handle. His pores bled, and his veins bulged under the strain.
It was reckless — even suicidal.
No sane cultivator would do such a thing.
But sanity was a luxury long lost to him.
The heavens had denied him a strong spirit root.
The world had destroyed his sect.
Fate had tried to bury him.
So he would bury fate instead.
His teeth clenched, and he began circulating the qi faster, pushing it through damaged meridians, letting it tear apart the old impurities. His body trembled violently, skin cracking open as lines of crimson appeared across his arms.
He ignored it all.
Every heartbeat felt like thunder, every breath like fire.
Inside his dantian, the golden bead flickered once — faintly.
Then, slowly, the violent qi began to calm. The bead purified it — not out of compassion, but as though it refused to let him die.
Time blurred.
The moon sank, and dawn painted the horizon in pale gold.
By the time the first ray of sunlight touched his face, a sudden, deafening roar burst from Wang Chung's body. The surrounding air rippled outward in a wave of invisible force.
He had broken through.
Fifth Layer of Body Refinement.
Wang Chung's body slumped forward, his hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. His breathing was shallow, his lips pale, but there was something different in his eyes — a flicker of life amidst ruin.
He looked down at his trembling hands and whispered, voice hoarse but steady.
> "Even if my body shatters… even if my soul burns to ash… I will not stop."
The wind carried his voice into the distance, scattering it across the silent mountains.
He pushed himself to his feet. His body screamed in protest, but he stood tall. He wrapped his tattered robe tighter and turned his gaze northward.
There, beyond the horizon, lay the Uncharted Wastes — a place whispered to hold ruins of forgotten sects and treasures left by ancient immortals. Few ever returned from there.
But danger meant opportunity.
And opportunity was power.
"Scarlet Sun Sect…" he murmured, eyes cold as winter. "You destroyed my home. You killed my brothers. You made me crawl through blood and mud…"
His voice hardened into steel.
> "Then I'll crawl to the heavens themselves if I must — and drag you all down."
The campfire flickered out, the wind howled through the mountains, and Wang Chung's figure disappeared into the mist.
Each step he took left faint traces of qi in the air, harmonizing with the silent pulse of the bead within him — a rhythm of defiance, of life born from endless suffering.
That day, the young man who had once been a weak mortal fully stepped onto a road where no light shone —
A road that would one day shake the heavens themselves.
The Path of No Return had begun.