Long before empires carved borders across the earth, before kings raised flags and named lands their own, the world was ruled by something far older—something living.
At the heart of an untouched realm stood a tree unlike any other. Its trunk pulsed with veins of soft golden light, and its roots sank deep into the earth like the bones of the world itself. Leaves shimmered even in the absence of wind, whispering secrets to the sky. The air around it was thick—silent, reverent—as if time itself dared not disturb its presence.
This was no ordinary tree. It held power—pure, ancient, and unshaped. When humans first came upon it, barefoot and wide-eyed, the tree did not speak. It simply gave. And those it touched… changed.
They awakened to strength beyond imagining. Fire danced at their fingertips. The wind bent to their breath. Stones shifted at their will, and thoughts flowed clearer than crystal water. They were few at first, wandering across valleys and rivers, unsure of their new nature.
But power is never silent for long.
As more awakened, questions began to stir like thunderclouds: What is this gift? Can it be tamed? Can it be passed on? From these questions rose the first sects and clans—hidden in mountain caves, beneath moonlit groves, or within forests so thick no light could pass. They trained, studied, fought, and dreamed.
Centuries passed.
The gifted multiplied. Cities began to rise—slowly, like vines curling around old stone. With them came greed, rivalry, and chaos. The world swelled, too fast for its own good. The sky darkened.
It was then that the elders—beings who had lived longer than memory itself—stepped forward. They called for order. They carved the world into three great continents, each with a purpose. And at the center, where the sacred tree still stood in stillness, they built the Pure Soul Hall—a temple of marble and silence, its walls etched with runes that glowed in moonlight.
Twenty warriors—chosen not for their power alone, but for their resolve—were made guardians of the tree. Their blades could level mountains, yet they swore never to rule. Laws were etched in stone, binding them tighter than chains.
A thousand years have passed.
Now, the tree's gift is a birthright. Passed from parent to child, yet never equally. Some are born to shine; others must claw their way up from the mud. In the shadows of these powerful bloodlines, ambition still burns.
Qing Yuan—lush and misty, where power is moderate and peace is fleeting. Home to Lian Hua, a land of scholars; Feng Yin, veiled in rivers and songs; and Yan He, where iron and fire feed the forge.
Zhen Wu—a continent of honed warriors and deep tradition, where power is honed like a blade across the lands of Tian Xuan, Jin Hui, Mo Yun, and Feng Lei.
Tian Ling—a place of legends. Towering spires, floating palaces, lightning storms that never end. Only two great nations reign here: Guang Ming and Cang Qiong, where even the air tastes of strength.
But power alone does not decide fate.
In the quiet streets of Hang-Ye City, nestled between sloping hills and narrow cobblestone paths, a boy named Mike Yeagor works beside his father in a smoke-stained forge. The clang of metal and the scent of burning coal are all he's known. His hands are rough, his future—ordinary.
But destiny does not knock. It breaks the door down.
The wind is shifting. The world is stirring. In the forests beyond the city, crows fly in circles. The sky turns red at dusk. And somewhere, the sacred tree rustles—not in peace, but in warning.
Mike's journey is about to begin.
And in a world where strength means survival… weakness is a death sentence.