The Uncharted Wastes were nothing like the stories.
Legends spoke of immortal ruins, lost treasures, and heavenly opportunities — but all Wang Chung saw was death.
The ground was littered with shattered bones, broken blades half-buried in the sand, and the faint remnants of spiritual pressure that still lingered after hundreds of years.
Each step he took sank into black soil mixed with ashes. Even the air tasted metallic — a faint bitterness of decay and forgotten wars.
He walked in silence.
His robe clung to his thin frame, torn in several places. His once-dark hair now shimmered faintly white under the light of the twin moons, a sign of overexerted essence and sleepless nights.
Days turned into weeks.
He hunted spirit beasts for their cores, absorbed their essence through pain and patience, and endured every storm without shelter. The mysterious bead within him pulsed faintly, purifying his qi in moments of exhaustion, never saving him — only letting him survive.
He could feel the change in his body.
His qi flowed smoother, colder. His spiritual sense expanded, allowing him to sense faint ripples in the surrounding world — whispers of ancient formations buried beneath time.
Then, on the twenty-ninth night in the wastes, he felt it —
a strange resonance.
The bead inside him pulsed once, stronger than ever before.
He froze. His gaze turned toward a range of jagged peaks in the distance. One of them loomed higher than the rest — a mountain shrouded in mist, utterly silent, yet carrying a pressure that made even the wind halt at its base.
A faint tremor rippled through Wang Chung's soul.
He did not hesitate.
For three days, he climbed that mountain.
There were no birds, no beasts, not even insects. Only stillness. Each rock was carved with faint runes that emitted no light, but carried power that made his spiritual sense recoil.
On the third day, he reached the summit — and stopped breathing.
Before him lay an ancient battlefield, preserved perfectly in time.
Broken spears pierced the ground like gravestones, and a massive skeleton sat cross-legged in the center, clad in rusted armor that still gave off a suffocating aura.
It was the remains of an Immortal Realm cultivator.
Even in death, the air around the corpse twisted slightly, unable to contain the lingering trace of its former might.
Wang Chung stood still for a long time.
Then, with slow, respectful steps, he approached the skeleton.
His instincts screamed danger, but his heart… burned.
For years, he had sought a chance — a spark — to escape mediocrity. He had begged heaven for a path. And now, standing before the remains of an immortal, he realized heaven had ignored him long enough.
If the heavens wouldn't grant him opportunity… he would steal it.
Wang Chung knelt before the corpse.
Its hollow eye sockets seemed to gaze back at him through the veil of time.
He pressed his palm to the ground.
The moment he did, the air trembled. A faint ripple spread outward — and a formation awakened.
Countless runes flared to life, forming a circular array that surrounded him. His body froze instantly, qi locked in place.
A deep voice echoed through his mind — ancient, tired, yet filled with power.
> "Mortal… who dares touch the remains of the Silent Heaven Emperor?"
The sound was like thunder. Blood poured from Wang Chung's ears, and his soul quivered.
But he didn't back down. His eyes met the empty sockets of the skeleton.
> "I am Wang Chung," he said, voice steady. "A mortal who lost everything. I have no master, no sect, and no fate. I seek strength — not for glory, but for vengeance."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Then, the voice returned — faintly amused.
> "Vengeance? You speak of vengeance before eternity itself. Yet I see… you do not lie. Very well. Then endure my will, mortal. If you survive, take what remains of my legacy. If you fail, your ashes will feed my bones."
The array blazed to life.
Runes spiraled around him, forming patterns that shifted faster than his eyes could follow. A surge of immortal pressure descended, crushing his body against the earth.
Wang Chung screamed — the sound muffled by blood. His veins bulged, his dantian shook violently, and cracks formed across his skin.
But he didn't stop.
He bit down on his tongue, forcing clarity into his mind, circulating the little qi he could still control. The mysterious bead inside him began to spin violently, absorbing the overflowing energy, purifying it, then feeding it back into his meridians in thin streams — just enough to keep him alive.
Seconds stretched into hours.
His body trembled, eyes bloodshot, every breath a war between life and death.
Then, at the brink of collapse, a faint golden rune appeared before his chest — ancient and broken. It flew into his soul, merging with the bead's rhythm.
The pressure vanished.
Wang Chung collapsed, gasping for air. His vision blurred, but he saw something — faint lines of text burning within his mind.
"Silent Heaven Art — Fragment I."
He laughed weakly, a hoarse sound that echoed across the silent peak.
His body was torn apart, his soul scarred, but his heart burned brighter than ever.
He had taken the first inheritance of an immortal.
And from that day forward, the mountain would whisper of him —
the nameless mortal who defied heaven's silence.
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