A sea of starlight trembled above the void, each point of light swaying as if in breathless anticipation.
From the infinite heavens beyond the mortal plane, a radiant orb drifted downward—brighter than any flame, yet softer than moonlight on water. Within it, the soul pulsed with layered resonance: ancient, weary, and divine. It carried the weight of swords and sorrow, of loyalty and laughter, bound beneath strata of sealed might.
Alter.
The orb descended, gliding along invisible ley currents, slipping through the celestial boundary into the sleeping embrace of the mortal world below.
As it breached the cloud sea, the skies of the Eastern Martial Dominion parted in reverent silence. Far below, jade-green mountain ranges unfurled across the horizon like colossal sleeping dragons, their ridges veiled in pale morning mist. Villages clung to the slopes, their curved rooftops crowned with prayer flags that shivered in the wind. Rune-etched pagodas gleamed under the first kiss of dawn.
Qi poured through the air like golden wind, tracing shimmering veins across the valleys. High above, spiritual beasts wheeled and glided—serpents with scales like polished sapphire, six-winged birds that glittered like shards of a comet, cranes crowned in violet flame.
The orb passed silently over them all.
It drifted toward the highland capital—Yuanzhen City—a sprawling citadel cradled by river channels and encircled by sacred walls inscribed with ancient wards. Bridges curved gracefully over glistening canals, market squares awoke with the first merchants, and spiritual towers speared into the sky like spears of jade and gold.
Through the eastern gate—its towering arch engraved with the characters for Martial Glory and Eternal Flame—the orb slipped, unseen, moving like a breath in the morning air.
Further.
Deeper.
Until it reached the noble quarter—a sanctuary of ancestral estates, each steeped in lineage. There, surrounded by manicured courtyards and peach groves in eternal blossom, rose a great manor wrapped in crimson banners. Each banner bore the same golden emblem: a dragon impaled upon a sword.
The Zhenlong Household.
At the heart of the grounds stood the Great Eastern Pavilion—its obsidian-jade roof flaring toward the clouds, silken windcatchers trailing from its eaves, glowing faintly with formation script that pulsed like a heartbeat.
And inside…
A woman screamed.
The birthing chamber was thick with incense smoke and human tension. Jade lamps swayed gently from carved ceiling beams, their light casting wavering shadows over embroidered silk walls. The scent of crushed spiritual herbs clung to the air. Three midwives and five white-robed attendants moved with urgent grace, tending to the woman's trembling body.
She lay upon a divine-thread mattress, her gown darkened with sweat and tinctures. Though flushed with pain, her beauty remained undimmed—skin as soft as fresh snow, framed by long ink-black hair plastered to her cheeks.
"Just a little more, madam!"
"Keep breathing—the baby is almost—!"
"Steady the yin pulse! Stabilize the soul tether!"
Her cries echoed against the walls as she gripped the hand of a servant until her knuckles whitened.
Then—
The air changed.
The temperature fell sharply. The jade lamps flickered. A sudden gust burst through the ornate windows with a BANG, flinging incense burners to the floor and scattering scrolls across polished wood. Curtains lashed violently, snapping like sails in a storm.
Gasps erupted from the midwives.
From the maelstrom, a single beam of golden light cut through the chaos—straight, unerring. It entered the woman's womb in a single breath.
Her eyes flew wide—not in pain, but in release. A final contraction surged through her, and with a cry that seemed to empty her soul, she collapsed back onto the silk pillows, chest heaving, lips trembling in exhausted relief.
Outside, the scent of rain mixed with the sharp tang of blood.
A young servant raced through the corridor, her slippers whispering against polished wood as she burst into the adjoining hall.
"Master! Master Zhenlong! The child has been born!"
At the far end, a man rose at once.
Broad-shouldered, clad in imperial black trimmed with gold, he moved with the quiet power of a man who had led armies. His hair was bound in a silver-tasseled crown; a finely kept mustache shadowed his mouth, concealing years of command and hard-won battles. His eyes were sharp, his brows like drawn blades angled toward his temples.
Not just a general.
Zhenlong Wuhen, Commander of the Eastern Martial Dominion.
His boots struck the floor in heavy, deliberate strides as he crossed the corridor, entering the chamber without pause.
"Ruolan!"
The woman lifted her gaze, sweat and tears glistening on her skin. "Wuhen…"
A faint smile trembled on her lips. Her delicate fingers reached for him. "He's here… our son…"
He was at her side in moments, taking her hand in his calloused palm.
"You did well," he murmured, voice low but fierce. "Stronger than I could ever be."
The soft shuffle of footsteps approached. The midwife stepped forward, swathed in pale green robes, carrying a small, swaddled bundle.
"The young master is healthy," she said softly. "Perfectly formed… but…"
Wuhen took the child into his arms with the care of a man lifting the rarest treasure.
The boy was flawless—skin like porcelain, a faint spiritual luminescence haloing his tiny form. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.
But—
"…Why isn't he crying?"
He looked up sharply. "Shouldn't he cry?"
The midwife bowed slightly. "He does not react, Master… but his pulse is strong. His channels are open. His breathing is steady. Perhaps… he sleeps."
Wuhen frowned, but nodded slowly.
Ruolan stirred. "Let me hold him."
He placed the child into her arms, and she cradled him as though she were holding the axis of her world. Pressing her cheek to his brow, she whispered:
"…Maybe he's just calm. Or maybe… he's waiting for something."
She opened her gown slightly, guiding him toward her breast.
He did not move.
Did not cry.
Did not stir.
Only slept—bathed in that faint halo of golden light, nestled against the steady beat of his mother's heart.
Outside the pavilion, a lone crane cried into the wind. The petals of a thousand spirit blossoms swirled through the air, falling like snow into the stillness of the morning.
Darkness yielded to warmth.
Not the crude heat of fire, nor the sear of battle's end, but a golden stillness—thick and weightless, like a breath suspended between time and memory. It wrapped him in silence, a cradle without edges, untouched by pain or noise. Then… a single thread of light pierced the void.
Alter stirred.
Not as a mortal. Not yet.
His consciousness flowed downward into the mortal plane, fusing seamlessly into the fragile shell of flesh nestled in his mother's arms. The infant body drew its first breaths—but did not cry. There was no need. His spirit was intact, undiluted, unshattered. It had simply… waited.
Within the newborn's spiritual sea, a golden silhouette floated in still meditation—neither faint nor fragmentary. It was Alter himself. Full awareness. Dormant might. Complete.
The form shimmered like a god sculpted from sunfire and serenity. Ribbons of celestial aura coiled lazily around him, binding his divine essence to the mortal vessel. His hair streamed in molten gold through a mist of inner qi, while ancient runes drifted across his skin like constellations awakening after a long slumber.
His suppressed radiance pulsed slowly—steady as a star—feeding warmth into the infant's meridians. It nourished each thread of bone, blood, and spirit, aligning perfectly with the Triple Core Channeling System Gaia had engineered for him.
The child would not hunger. Would not falter. Even without milk or medicine, this vessel would remain stable, alive, and perfectly sustained.
And so—he watched.
From deep within, Alter peered through the newborn's senses, as though gazing through a rippling pool. Shapes blurred, colors softened, voices thinned into echoes—but they reached him nonetheless.
Panic. Rushed footsteps. Urgent whispers.
"Why hasn't he cried yet?!""My lady, you must rest—we'll bring more healers!"
"His chest rises—he breathes, but…"
Through the haze of sight, Alter caught the figure of a man pacing—broad-shouldered, every step laced with a warrior's weight. His qi rolled through the chamber, heavy and refined, like iron tempered in countless wars. His brows were sharp, sword-cut, shadowing eyes darkened by worry.
Father. Zhenlong Wuhen.
The man's presence was thunder barely contained, yet it frayed at the edges with helplessness.
"Find more physicians!" he barked. "I don't care where—just bring them!"
His gaze flicked back to the unmoving child, shadowed with doubt.
"Why isn't he responding…?"
The chamber doors parted again. A tall woman glided inside—draped in violet robes embroidered with twin silver dragons. Her cultivation radiated steadiness—early Soul Transformation Realm—and her presence was both elegant and commanding.
She rested her hand lightly on Wuhen's arm.
"Wuhen. He breathes evenly. His pulse is strong."
By the bed, the Second Wife—Ruolan—looked up through exhaustion, cradling the child to her chest.
"He's warm… peaceful. I can feel it. He's not in pain."
Still, Wuhen's hands curled into fists.
"No cries. No sound. That's not normal."
One of the elder physicians stepped back, beads of sweat glistening under the lamplight.
"General… we cannot explain it. The young master's qi is still—yet… profound. His meridians match no known channel pattern."
Wuhen's glare cut sharp.
"Then what good are you?"
"Wuhen." The First Wife's voice grew edged, a quiet command beneath the silk. "This is no illness. This is… different. You should call the Ancestor."
Silence gripped the room. All eyes turned toward the general.
He stood unmoving for a breath too long.
"…That is our last resort," he said at last. "We exhaust every other path first. Alchemists. Formation masters. Soul-scribes. Bring them all. We will understand this."
The First Wife inclined her head, saying nothing more. Yet her gaze lingered on the child—a gaze Alter felt like a ripple through the veil.
She suspects.
Still, he remained perfectly still within the newborn vessel, his golden form radiating slow, steady calm. I am alive, his essence whispered through the child's core. I am simply watching.
The sensation of flesh returned to him—the density of bone, the weight of tiny limbs, the faint scent of incense in the air.
So this… is life here.
His lips in the spiritual plane curved faintly. Let them speculate. Let them wonder. For now, he was only a quiet enigma—A child born of light, silent in a storm of voices.
Clouds swirled above the Zhenlong estate—slow, deliberate, as though some vast hand had brushed the sky aside. Shafts of muted light spilled downward, and the air itself seemed to inhale.
Then it came.
A pressure—not the crushing weight of tyranny, but the solemn mantle of ancient authority—settled over Yuanzhen City's eastern quarter. The qi thickened with age and memory. Birds fell silent mid-song, wings folding tight. The spirit beasts pacing the inner walls halted and lowered their heads. Even the dormant formation arrays embedded in the manor walls thrummed faintly, their runes flickering in deference.
A whisper moved like wind through the noble district:
"The War Saint comes…"
At the estate's outer courtyard gate, General Zhenlong Wuhen stood in full ceremonial regalia—black and deep crimson layered in dragon-scale patterns, pauldrons set with jade carved from the bones of river wyrms. His stance was steady, but his jaw was tight. Beside him stood the First Wife, draped in imperial violet, and the Second Wife, serene despite her exhaustion.
Behind them, servants, guards, and retainers filled the flagstone walkway in neat rows, all kneeling with heads lowered. The entire household had gathered.
No horns. No banners. No booming declaration.
Only a single pulse.
It rolled through the air—not sound, not step, but will. The breath of someone who had shaped battlefields and rewritten the destinies of clans.
Then, without fanfare, the figure emerged.
Zhenlong Yansheng. The Great Ancestor. The War Saint.
His presence eclipsed the courtyard's morning light. He wore plain silver martial robes with no jewels, no rank insignia. A bronze-sheathed longblade rested at his back like a shadow. Yet with each step, the world shifted subtly—grass thickened and deepened in color where he walked, the scent of iron and sandalwood sharpening the air.
The aura that clung to him was… refined. Not the raw, violent killing intent of a warlord, but the distilled law of one who had survived every storm. Space itself seemed reluctant to oppose his passing.
He looked to be in his late thirties, his face unlined, his bearing composed—but his eyes were silver-gray depths without bottom. In their stillness lived the weight of centuries.
He stopped before the gate.
Wuhen dropped to one knee, cupping his fists in salute, voice ringing with formal power.
"Wuhen greets the Great Ancestor!"
The First and Second Wives lowered themselves into deep bows.
"We greet the honored one!"
Every servant and soldier bowed until their foreheads touched stone.
Yansheng lifted a hand, and the air itself shifted. A breeze—soft yet charged—flowed through the courtyard, lifting each person to their feet as though the wind itself obeyed his command.
"Among my blood," he said, voice calm yet resonant like a temple bell, "formality should serve the heart, not bind it."
His gaze moved to Wuhen, sharp and unblinking.
"Now—what matter could be grave enough to break my seclusion?"
Wuhen straightened, bowing again but slower this time.
"Ancestor… I would never summon you without cause. But my son was born this morning."
A faint upward tilt touched Yansheng's brow.
"Then this is a day for joy, not summons."
Wuhen's voice grew quieter, taut.
"Were it so simple. There is… an anomaly."
The War Saint's gaze sharpened, silver irises catching a glint of light.
"Anomaly?"
Wuhen gestured toward the inner hall.
"Please. See for yourself."
Yansheng gave a slight nod, his steps silent as he followed. The procession moved beneath archways etched with dragon scripture, past blossom trees inlaid with starlight runes, their petals shimmering faintly under his passing.
They entered the pavilion's inner chamber. There, wrapped in silks, the newborn lay cradled in his mother's arms—silent, unmoving save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
Yansheng halted at the threshold. He did not step forward immediately.
Instead, he reached out—not with hand, but with perception. His spiritual sense brushed the child's core.
The change in his face was minute—but unmistakable.
The silver of his eyes deepened, and his breath stilled.
"…This presence…"
No malice. No divine spark. And yet… not mortal.
It was a storm contained, the sea holding back its waves.
His gaze lifted to Wuhen, voice lower now.
"From the beginning," he said. "Tell me everything. From the moment of birth."