Chapter 1: The Boy With No Name
Feilong Province, Eastern Boundary – Year 8720 of the Mortal Era
The rain hadn't stopped in two days.
Dark clouds clung to the sky like rotting gauze, spilling sorrow over the crooked rooftops of Stone Quill Village. The dirt streets had turned to wet, sucking mud. Chimneys sputtered, fires died. And the children stayed inside, coughing under thin blankets.
In the western corner of the village stood the orphanage, half-rotten, leaning like a drunk over a bamboo ditch. Inside it, on the damp plank floor, a boy sat curled in silence, arms wrapped around his knees, chin buried against them.
He didn't have a name.
The caretakers called him "thing." The other children called him "spiritless." The villagers called him a curse.
But none dared to look at him too long. Because no one, not even the elders, could explain his appearance.
---
He was six years old that morning.
Rain dripped through cracks in the ceiling onto his shoulders, dampening the thin cotton robe that hung too tightly across his chest. His silvery-white hair, long for a boy, clung to his neck in soaked strands. His skin was smooth, pale, cold to the touch like polished jade. And his eyes, when open, gleamed a soft violet — the kind found only in old moonflowers that bloomed during eclipses.
But the whispers weren't about his eyes.
They were about his body.
Despite being just six, his frame was… wrong. Delicate collarbones. Slim arms. A chest that rose too high and too soft when he breathed. His waist narrowed like a girl's. His thighs were full. And behind him… his buttocks were heavy, round, and jiggled when he walked — so unnaturally plump it drew stares from confused children and bitter adults alike.
The robe clung to him, damp and see-through in places. Even now, as he hugged his knees, the pink tips of his nipples were slightly visible, firm from cold. And whenever he shifted, the robe tightened around his thick thighs and soft ass, leaving little to imagination.
---
That morning, he hadn't eaten.
The matron slapped his hand when he reached for a bowl.
"You eat after the real children."
So he sat, hungry, wet, and silent.
---
Today was Awakening Day.
The Martial Spirit Awakening Ceremony was the only hope for lowborns to escape poverty. At age six, every child would place their hand on a Spirit Crystal Tablet. If they possessed a Martial Spirit — a beast, weapon, element, or totem — it would reveal itself. Even a weak one was enough to enter a sect, earn cultivation, change fate.
The village buzzed with excitement.
---
By noon, the Red Bamboo Sect Elder, a wiry old cultivator named Mo Yao, stood near the village square with his tall crystal monolith. Children lined up in the mud, hands twitching with nerves.
One by one, he called names.
> "Zhou Min — Blue Frost Sparrow!"
"Lin Hai — Bronze Hammer Spirit!"
"Ji Fen — Crimson Petal Vine!"
Cheering erupted each time. Even the poorest child awakened something. Even the boy with a hunchback awakened a Poison Beetle Spirit.
Then the matron shoved Aman forward.
He stumbled.
Mud splashed up his calves, soaking the hem of his robe. Eyes turned. Some villagers scoffed. Others whispered.
> "That thing from the orphanage?"
"Is that a girl?"
"No… no, it's the spiritless freak."
Aman lowered his head and stepped forward slowly. His robe clung to his thighs and rear with each wet step. His back curved in shame, yet every eye lingered on his swaying backside.
Elder Mo frowned. "Your name?"
"…I don't have one."
The Elder's brow twitched. "Place your hand."
Aman obeyed. His fingers trembled as he pressed them against the stone.
The crystal stayed dark.
Seconds passed. Then a minute.
No glow. No ripple. Not even a flicker.
"…Nothing," Elder Mo said.
"Ha!" someone shouted. "Even the gods don't want him!"
The villagers burst into laughter.
> "Trash."
"Told you he had no soul!"
"His Martial Spirit probably saw his fat ass and ran!"
Aman stood there, still, as the laughter rained harder than the sky.
He turned, face blank, and walked away. Every step made his soaked robe ride up just a little more across his thighs, exposing smooth, pale skin. Someone whistled mockingly.
He didn't flinch.
---
That night, the storm returned with a vengeance.
The orphanage was quiet except for the sound of wind forcing its way through the cracks. Most of the children had eaten. Aman sat alone in the far corner, his belly tight with hunger.
He tried to sleep.
But the door creaked open.
---
Three older boys entered. The strongest in the orphanage. Sons of long-dead bandits and failed cultivators.
They shut the door quietly.
Aman's heart skipped.
He tried to pretend to sleep, but his breathing gave him away.
> "Still awake, girl-boy?"
"Did your tits scare the spirit away today?"
"Hey… let's see if you're a girl underneath, too…"
Aman bolted upright, eyes wide. He scrambled backward until his back hit the damp wall.
They cornered him.
One grabbed his wrist, pulling him forward. The other reached to pull open his robe.
His body twitched.
"D-Don't…" his voice cracked, soft and high-pitched, like a girl's whimper.
One boy blinked. "Hah? You sound just like—"
And then he bit down.
Aman sank his teeth into the boy's hand — blood spurted. The boy screamed, pulling back.
In the chaos, Aman broke free and ran.
---
Barefoot, he sprinted into the storm. Through mud, thorns, and roots. Cold wind tore at his soaked robes. Rain splattered across his skin, clinging to every soft curve, every jiggle of his ass as he ran.
He didn't know where he was going. Only that he couldn't stop.
Not until he collapsed in the bamboo forest beyond the village.
There, in the quiet heart of the grove, he dropped to his knees and sobbed.
---
> "Why…?"
"Why was I born like this…?"
"Why no spirit…? Why this body…?"
Rain trickled down his back. His robe slid off one shoulder, revealing a soft chest that shouldn't belong to any boy. His thighs trembled, bare and scraped. His breaths came in sobbing gasps, lips parted, eyes full of helplessness.
He curled up under the trees, shivering.
Then… it happened.
---
A pulse echoed inside him.
Not from outside.
From deep, deep within his soul.
> [DING]
> "Soul condition met — rejecting martial system sync…"
"Initializing hidden inheritance…"
> "The Empty Tome has awakened."
Aman froze.
A warmth bloomed inside his chest — not lust, not Qi, but something older. Timeless. Unknowable.
In his mind's eye, a black book appeared — floating, bound in chains, its cover blank.
The moment he saw it, it opened itself.
And all the chains fell away.
---
🔮 [THE EMPTY TOME]
Status: Bound to Host Soul
Pages: 0 / ∞
Notes: The Empty Tome records and reshapes all techniques witnessed. Host must choose his path. No external detection possible. Sealed from spiritual analysis.
> "Write your legend in a world that will never understand you."
Aman stared at it, wide-eyed.
The laughter. The shame. The stares. The pain.
All of it had led to this moment.
He had no Martial Spirit… because he had something else.
Something no one could take.
Something no one could see.
Something that belonged only to him.
---
Far above the clouds, where even Immortal Sects could not gaze, a celestial thread trembled… and snapped.
---
Aman closed his eyes, rain sliding across his cheeks like warm tears.
For the first time in his short, cursed life… he smiled.
---
End of Chapter 1
(Next: Chapter 2 – "A Path No Sect Teaches")