I Refuse to Be the Chosen
The night never belonged to Chu Ran.
He merely dwelled within it—like a defunct rune embedded in a prayer that was meant to glow.
On the day the divine light descended, he was hiding in a decrepit latrine.
The mold clinging to the walls hadn't yet grown names, but the entire cultivation world had already bestowed upon him a new identity: Bearer of Destiny, First Light of the Chosen, The Sole Living Witness.
It was a calamity of lightning without warning—splitting the main peak from the heavens, tearing the entire cultivation institute from its roots. The elders perished. The sect leader perished. Dozens of disciples were vaporized in that blinding white light, not even a trace of soul left behind.
And he—was squatting in a corner with stomach cramps, the only sound in his ears the trickling of water over rubble.
Outside the bathroom, the surviving cultivators knelt in awe, eyes filled with unexplainable reverence and frenzy. High above, a translucent mechanical voice descended, as silent as a god's whisper—or a system's decree:
"Binding complete: Chu Ran. Fate classification—Unknown. Trial qualification forcibly granted."
He pushed open the broken door, catching a glimpse of the lightning fading across the ruins. It was too quiet—eerily quiet.
In the wind lingered the tang of scorched blood and broken swords. He stood amidst the wreckage, covered in ash and flesh not his own. A faint glow traced a golden sigil on his forehead—like a holy emblem descending.
He said nothing.
He only watched the senior brothers who once looked down on him—who ordered him to clean latrines—bow their heads to the dirt, hoarsely chanting the word "destiny."
That was the first time he ever wanted to shout.
He wanted to say, "It wasn't me."
But no words fell from his throat.
That night, he dreamed.
Or more precisely, it was a "System Protocol: Initial Dreamfield Sync"—though he preferred to call it what it felt like: a violation of consciousness.
It rained gray in the dream.
He stood among the ruins of the sect, surrounded by twisted, paper-thin corpses of his peers. Their faces inked and torn, like paintings ripped in water.
Across the broken steps, his mother sat—wearing clothes that didn't belong to this world. It was the garment she wore most before death: a dark gray linen robe, left sleeve burned, never mended.
She held a bundle of flame in her arms. Within it, a child cried—himself, as a boy. The boy struggled, begged for help, but his mother only held him closer, letting the fire lick into his eyes and throat.
Where the wind passed, the fire hushed.
This time, he did not run.
"Do you wish to accept it?"
A voice asked him within the dream—devoid of emotion.
It wasn't the system's voice. But it might've come from deep within the system—a shard of humanity designed to better control human minds. Or perhaps, it was his own psyche speaking back.
He stood at the water's edge, watching his mother burn away again and again. The charm on her earring glowed brighter than it ever had in life.
"Accept it, and gain power. Refuse, and live your life as the system's enemy."
He smiled.
And that smile contained absolutely nothing.
"I refuse."
In that moment, the entire dream collapsed.
The sky inverted. Water turned from horizontal to vertical. All things rushed toward him. He felt the ground beneath him split—and from deep within his mind, a tower rose.
No light. No doors. No gods in residence.
Only him, standing at its heart—soaked and cold—watching the world fall apart, without a flicker of fear.
As if he had been waiting for this all along.
He woke up. The system was still running.
No alarm. No errors. No termination.
If anything—it sounded amused.
"Refusal confirmed. Assigning special observation tag: Dream Divergent."
His perception shifted in that instant.
He began to see things others couldn't—cracks in their dreams, glimpses of his own tower forming piece by piece. He could hear the whispers tangled beyond the layers of sleep—like forgotten gods weeping where no record dared reach.
Days later, rumors began to spread.
That he was the first cultivator to refuse a system binding and yet survive.
That he might be a reverse-engineered test subject of the Mainframe.
That he would become the second god.
He said nothing.
He simply kept cleaning, scrubbing toilets, and meditating—like nothing had changed.
But every night when his eyes closed, he found himself beneath the tower—watching the silence of a burning night.
And he knew, deep within:
He was never one of the Chosen.
He was simply the one who refused to kneel.
The one who understood, long before anyone else:
This world doesn't need more gods.
What it needs—is someone to light the lighthouse.
So those still willing to open their eyes, might find a direction to awaken.
Even if beneath that lighthouse,
there are no gods at all—
only him.