Sixteen years had passed since the Heaven-Stolen Hour, and although the world continued to turn with apparent normalcy, the invisible foundations of balance were no longer the same.
At the northernmost edge of the Great Continent of Auralis, beyond the main trade routes and far from the direct gaze of the Aureon Empire, lay the White Ash Martial Dominion—a harsh region of gray mountains and wind-scoured plains. It was not a wealthy land, but it was strategic. Ancient military routes passed through it, and more importantly, several clans with enough history to be either useful… or dangerous were established there.
Among them, the Lin Clan occupied an uncomfortable position. It was not weak, but neither was it dominant. It was not powerful enough to challenge the major clans of the dominion, nor insignificant enough to be ignored. Over the years, this middle position had turned it into a nest of internal intrigue, silent power struggles, and family rivalries that rarely surfaced in public.
That morning, the clan's central courtyard was packed. Stone pillars engraved with spiritual beasts encircled the plaza, and at its center stood the Celestial Pulse Sphere, an ancient artifact supported by a platform of darkened jade. It was the day of the Vital Pulse Measurement Ceremony, the event that determined the fate of every clan youth upon turning sixteen. For some, it marked the beginning of a life of martial glory. For others, a silent sentence.
Lin Ye stood among the crowd, dressed in a simple gray robe. He wore no insignia or ornaments indicating status. Around him, youths from the main branches spoke with confidence—some laughing, others subtly showing off the spiritual resources they had received in preparation. From time to time, glances filled with disdain landed on him.
"Why is he still here?" whispered a boy in a blue robe. "I thought the secondary branch barely counted as part of the clan anymore."
"His father died on an imperial mission, but no one ever explained how," another replied. "They say he offended someone he shouldn't have."
Lin Ye heard them, but did not react. His expression remained calm, almost distant, as if those words did not concern him. Only his eyes—quiet yet deep—rested on the sphere in silence.
One by one, the youths were called forward. Each measurement sparked different reactions: bluish flashes for common affinities, stronger radiance for superior talent, and occasional murmurs of admiration when someone displayed an exceptional vital pulse. The elders nodded, made mental notes, and in some cases exchanged looks heavy with political meaning. Every strong talent shifted the clan's internal balance.
"Lin Hao, main branch," announced the examiner.
The sphere flared brightly, releasing a dense, stable aura.
"Solid vital pulse. Metal and wind affinity. Internal Pulse Realm, third level."
The applause was restrained but unmistakable. Lin Hao smiled proudly.
"Next," the elder said without emotion. "Lin Ye, secondary branch."
An awkward silence spread across the plaza.
Lin Ye stepped forward steadily and placed his hand on the sphere. For an instant, nothing happened. The elder frowned and increased the flow of spiritual energy into the artifact. Still, the sphere remained dull, emitting not the slightest glow.
"Is it malfunctioning?" someone murmured.
The examiner withdrew Lin Ye's hand and repeated the process. Then he checked auxiliary instruments. His expression shifted from confusion to disbelief.
"Vital pulse… nonexistent," he finally said. "Spiritual reserves: zero. Elemental affinity: undetectable."
A murmur erupted immediately.
"Impossible."
"How can he even be alive?"
"Not even a common mortal would be that empty."
The elder hesitated briefly before delivering the final verdict.
"Martial waste. Unfit for the path of cultivation."
The words fell like a slab of stone. Some laughed openly. Others shook their heads, as if a long-held suspicion had just been confirmed. On the elevated platform, several clan elders exchanged calculating glances. One of them, with a dark beard and sharp eyes, spoke quietly.
"The secondary branch has no value anymore."
"Keeping them only consumes resources," another replied. "It's the right time to cut them off."
Lin Ye slowly withdrew his hand. There was no anger, no visible shame—only an unsettling calm. He bowed slightly, as protocol demanded, and turned to leave. As he walked away, he felt dozens of gazes fixed on his back—some filled with contempt, others with pity, and a few… with discomfort.
No one knew that, deep within his existence—where no instrument could measure or detect—it was something entirely different that was awakening.
That night, Lin Ye was moved to the outer barracks, a cluster of humble buildings reserved for servants, talentless apprentices, and martial wastes. Cold seeped through the wooden walls, and the air smelled of dampness and old dust. Several youths were already asleep, exhausted from the day, but Lin Ye remained awake, sitting cross-legged on his bed.
"So this is the limit the heavens have set for me," he murmured softly.
He closed his eyes—not to cultivate, for he could not—but out of habit.
That was when the world blinked again.
The distant sound of wind slowed until it became unrecognizable. The sensation was subtle, yet unmistakable. Time around him stretched like old fabric. A deep pressure descended upon his consciousness—not crushing, but evaluative—as if something were observing him from a place that did not belong to this reality.
A voice echoed within him—without physical sound, without recognizable emotion.
"Bearer confirmed. Stable anomaly."
Lin Ye opened his eyes, but he did not see the room.
Before him stretched a dark, limitless space. At its center floated an impossible object: a fragmented black clock, frozen at an hour that did not exist. Its gears were broken, suspended, each emitting a different sensation, as if representing incomplete laws of the world.
At the center of the clock, a closed eye pulsed slowly.
"Fragmented Primordial Throne System: initial activation."
The pain arrived without warning. It was not physical. It was as if his entire existence were being rewritten to fit a mold that did not belong to the current world. Images, concepts, and fragments of knowledge flooded his mind—not as clear instructions, but as truths branded into his being.
He understood that his path would not be that of traditional cultivation. There would be no dantian to refine, no meridians to open. His strength would not come from heaven or earth, but from something far more dangerous: lost instants, moments discarded by reality itself. Every advance would demand a price. Every step would fracture the balance a little more.
The eye of the clock opened a mere sliver.
A pulse ran through his body.
There was no explosion of power.
No visible change.
Yet Lin Ye knew, with absolute clarity, that something had changed forever.
When the pressure faded, time resumed its flow. The night wind blew once more. The room regained its form. Lin Ye drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, which for a brief instant reflected a glimmer impossible to describe.
"So… this is my true path," he whispered.
Far away, in a meeting hall of the Lin Clan, several elders argued beneath dim light.
"Tomorrow we'll present the motion," one said. "The secondary branch must be officially demoted."
"And the boy?" another asked. "What shall we do with him?"
A brief silence followed.
"Nothing," replied the dark-bearded elder. "The heavens have already discarded him."
No one imagined that, at that very moment, the heavens had lost control over him.