I was born in a province forgotten by maps, abandoned by emperors, and ignored by gods: Lingwu. To the casual observer, it was desolate. To me, it was a crucible. Every hardship, every betrayal, every whisper of injustice became a hammer shaping the steel of my mind.
My family was neither noble nor strong. My father, a scholar of limited ambition, tried to teach morality and loyalty. My mother whispered prayers to gods I would soon learn were deaf. And my siblings… I loved them, briefly, until I realized attachment is a weakness a mind cannot afford.
From the earliest age, I noticed patterns that others ignored. Why does the river always flood the same fields? Why do the elders favor the same children while others starve? Why do mortals worship the heavens when the stars themselves obey only natural law?
"Order," I whispered to myself at ten, "is the illusion the weak cling to. Control it, and you control the world."
School was no sanctuary. Teachers praised those who memorized, punished those who questioned. I learned early that intellect is never rewarded in public, only feared in private. A whispered observation about a corrupt examiner led to my first taste of manipulation: I planted a rumor, shifted suspicion, and watched the guilty expose themselves. No sword, no threat—just the careful application of truth and perception.
It was during my adolescence that I encountered the first betrayal that shaped my philosophy. A friend, one I trusted more than myself, stole a manuscript I had spent years compiling—a treatise on logic, deception, and human psychology. I could have confronted him, fought him, or cursed him. Instead, I calculated:
He needed recognition.
He feared exposure.
He desired status above all.
I whispered to others what he had done. I did not accuse; I suggested, implying his guilt. Within days, he had ruined his own reputation while I gained mine. I realized then:
"Manipulation is the art of letting others defeat themselves, while you watch, untouched."
The next step came with the discovery of the Scripture of the False Heaven. Hidden in a ruined library, it promised knowledge forbidden even to scholars of the highest order. While others sought divine power through strength, it whispered secrets of strategy, psychology, and the subtle orchestration of reality itself. I devoured it. Every sentence reshaped my mind. Every symbol etched new paths through the cosmos in my imagination.
By the time I left my home, I was no longer Xuán Luo the child, or Xuán Luo the scholar. I was Xuán Luo the observer, the strategist, the mind that could bend mortals and gods alike. I had learned three truths:
Power is perception. Strength is ephemeral, intellect eternal.
Faith is weakness. Belief binds the mind, but doubt liberates the one who wields it.
Attachment is poison. The heart must be a tool, not a cage.
I had also forged my philosophy of life:
"I will not bow to Heaven, nor fear its agents. I will not serve men, nor trust them. I will bend the world to my mind, and in doing so… I will become the god of cunning itself."
That is the origin of the man who now walks among beasts, sects, and gods. Every whisper I speak, every action I take, is rooted in the lessons of that childhood—lessons in observation, calculation, betrayal, and inevitability.
I smile when I remember it, not because it was easy, but because it was perfect. Every hardship, every slight, every shadow of doubt was a teacher, a forge, a crucible. I am Xuán Luo, shaped by fire, sharpened by betrayal, and honed by intellect. The world may have tried to define me, but I define myself.
"The mind that bends reality begins as a mind that refuses to bow. I refused. And now… all else bends."