Dawn broke gently, the mist still lingering in the air.
A rooster's crow pierced the quiet bamboo grove, and a sliver of golden light crept in from the east, casting its glow through the weathered wooden window of a humble cottage. The old village chief crouched by the doorway, the lines at the corners of his eyes etched with years of hardship.
He looked down at the sleeping infant in his arms—there was something in the child's delicate features, a faint trace of resolve.
"Your mother left this jade before she passed… A 'Star' carved on the front, and on the back… hmm, looks like 'Chen'. Then let's call you Xiao Chen, shall we?"
He murmured softly, placing the baby gently into a woven basket. Inside the cottage, his wife laid out a blanket with trembling hands, her eyes red but refusing to let tears fall. This child bore no blood ties to them, yet it felt as though fate had already written him into the quiet chapters of their lives.
The old man wrapped the spirit jade in layers of cloth and hid it deep within a secret compartment behind the cottage, only daring to touch it in the stillness of night.
From that moment on, the last bloodline of the Startrace Sect lived on under the name Xiao Chen—hidden from the world, quietly growing.
——
Several dozen miles away, the embers of Startrace Sect had yet to cool.
The Xingxing Estate lay in ruins, its grounds scorched black. The main peak of Startrace had crumbled, and with it, the foremost sect of Central Plains cultivation—once the pillar of spiritual order—was toppled in a single night.
Far beyond the wreckage, a secret council convened in silence.
Within the hidden chamber of the Palace of Starcatchers, six sects gathered. On the easternmost seat sat the cold-faced enforcer of the Starguard Pavilion. The senior disciple of the Crimson Refinement Sect wore a flame-patterned battle robe, his sword resting across his knees. The Fateweaver Sect and the Shadowthorn Stream eyed each other warily, their spiritual energies subtly clashing. In a quiet corner, Master Huiyin of the Starspire Monastery sat alone, palms pressed together, eyes closed in silent meditation.
The air was heavy—like standing at the edge of an abyss.
"Now that Startrace has fallen… how shall the central spiritual vein be divided?"
A voice broke the silence, low and probing, like a cold needle piercing into everyone's consciousness.
"They called it a divine treasure, yet no heavenly retribution followed. Those old Startrace elders died far too cleanly."
"And that monk from the Reversal Temple… he struck down Startrace's peak cultivator in his final breath, then shattered two mountains. Was he truly at the pinnacle of Fatebrand cultivation?"
Whispers spread like wildfire, suspicion rising with every word.
Master Huiyin finally opened his eyes, his voice calm as he recited an ancient verse:"If the will of heaven can be seen, it is not true fate.If divine power can be seized, it is not true divinity."
Palace Lord Shen Daoheng of Starcatchers furrowed his brow, then quickly composed himself. He raised a hand to silence the murmurs.
"Startrace is gone. That much is settled. If we continue to argue over the treasure's authenticity, we'll only invite ridicule. The spiritual vein may be shared. As for the rest… the Palace of Starcatchers will bear the burden."
As he spoke, his gaze shifted to the left—where a shadowy figure stepped quietly into the hall.
Miao Yunxiang—her face charred, her breath unstable—knelt and rasped, "...I failed to preserve the bloodline of the Reversal family. I await punishment, Palace Lord."
Shen Daoheng's eyes flickered, but he offered no rebuke. Instead, he gestured for her to be helped up.
"Your wounds are grave. There's no need for self-blame."
His tone was gentle, yet it only deepened the unease among the gathered sects.
Startrace lay in ashes, its dead not yet buried, and already the five sects had begun dividing the
spoils and redrawing the map.
The winds of the Central Plains stirred once more.
In the shadows, a new war of fate was quietly beginning to bloom.
——
Five years passed in the blink of an eye. The stars shifted, time flowed on.
At the foot of East Mountain, the quiet village remained unchanged—morning smoke curled from chimneys, chickens clucked in the distance. It was a world apart from the chaos beyond, untouched by turmoil.
Outside a modest thatched cottage, an elderly man with graying hair crouched beside a pile of firewood. His movements were slow but steady, practiced and sure. As he arranged the dry twigs, his gaze drifted toward the cottage interior from time to time.
This man was Old Liu—the village chief who had once saved Liu Xinhui. Since that night when starlight fell and a child was born, fate had quietly bound him to the boy named Xiao Chen.
"Xiao Chen, time to get up. You're heading to the Wang family across the hill to study today. No more sleeping in," he called gently, setting down the firewood.
A child's voice answered from inside, followed by a small figure bounding out the door. His hair stuck out like a bird's nest, sleep still clinging to his face. It was Xiao Chen, now five years old.
"Grandpa… it's still early…" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes, though a spark of energy had already lit up his gaze.
Old Liu feigned a stern expression. "Early or not, you've got to get moving. Can't let your bones grow lazier than a mountain rooster."
Xiao Chen giggled, crouched down, and picked up a stick of firewood with a serious look. "Then I'll help you stack the wood first. I'll study after."
Old Liu watched him, a smile tugging at his lips—warm, but tinged with melancholy.
Ever since his wife fell ill when Xiao Chen was three and passed away the following year, the boy had grown quieter, more thoughtful. Though he still played and joked, there was a maturity in his eyes that often made Old Liu's heart ache.
He knew—this child, though young, already understood what it meant to lose.
With a sigh, Old Liu reached out and tousled Xiao Chen's hair. "Come here, let me fix this mess. You look like a fox's tail got tangled in it."
Xiao Chen burst out laughing and dashed back into the house. "Grandpa's teasing me again—I'm not afraid of foxes!"
Old Liu chuckled and shook his head, though he didn't say what lingered in his heart:
What you should fear… was never in these woods.
——
Though Old Liu had never practiced cultivation, he had spent his youth traveling with herbalists.
He knew the properties of plants like the back of his hand—could identify poisons, understand their nature, and even grasp the basics of healing arts and calligraphy. Over the years, he passed all his knowledge to Xiao Chen—not just to preserve it, but to protect the boy.
"Remember this: mugwort cools the blood when it enters the stomach. But if you pair it with dragonroot, it can clear phlegm and ease breathing. Use it wrong, though, and it'll chill the meridians and harm the body."
"I got it, Grandpa… Mugwort alone nourishes the liver. With dragonroot, it calms the lungs. But never mix it with spiritweed, or else…" Xiao Chen tilted his head, thinking hard, then suddenly clapped his forehead. "It'll mess up the qi flow!"
Old Liu laughed so hard his beard curled. "Good, good! Your memory's sharper than mine ever was!"
Beyond herbs, Old Liu taught him to write—starting with the Thousand Character Classic, then moving on to the profound Taixuan Canon. Every stroke was precise, every lesson serious.
He often said, "A person has spirit bones, and a brush has strength. Write with integrity, and your heart will follow."
But what puzzled Old Liu most was Xiao Chen's habit of gazing at the night sky, lost in thought.
Sometimes, in the stillness of midnight, the boy would whisper, "Grandpa… do you see that star? Isn't it moving strangely? That one… wasn't it over there before?"
Old Liu would pause, then chuckle, "You're imagining things, little one. What do you know about stars and their paths?"
Yet deep down, a ripple stirred in his heart.
This child—was different.
He had a gift. A sensitivity to the flow of fate itself. Though he'd never studied the art of star-reading, he could sense celestial shifts. Old Liu knew this was beyond his guidance, so he kept the truth close to his chest, waiting for the right person to appear.
Far away, a lone figure wandered across mountains and rivers—drawn by a distant divine light.
But peace never lasts.
Since his wife's passing, Old Liu's health had steadily declined. A strong wind made him cough; a cold meal left him faint. Villagers urged him to rest, but he always waved them off with a smile. "My time's not up yet—I can still hold on."
Yet lately, Xiao Chen often saw him sitting alone by the firewood pile, his gaze drifting far away—as if watching a memory from long ago. That quiet life with his wife, like aged medicinal wine: the longer it was kept, the deeper its bitterness.
Xiao Chen understood. He said nothing. He simply planted more rice in the fields, chopped more wood—trying to shoulder what he could.
But no matter how hard he worked, some things couldn't be silenced.
"He's not the chief's real grandson—just a stray they picked up."
"He crawled out of a dead woman's belly. A cursed child."
"The old man only keeps him out of pity."
The whispers always came when Xiao Chen passed by—soft, venomous, slipping into his ears like cold wind.
He never argued. Never spoke.
He still rose at dawn to fetch water, lit incense at dusk, lived each day the same.
Until that day.
It was a quiet afternoon. Xiao Chen returned from his lessons, only to find the cottage door ajar, the room in disarray. He rushed inside—his heart pounding—and saw the wooden box where the spirit jade had been kept, now open and empty.
"—Looking for this?"
At the village threshing ground, a chubby boy stood grinning, the jade glinting in his hand. His smug face radiated malice.
Mei Lisheng—known throughout the village as a bully. Lazy, crude, and cruel. He preyed on the weak, avoided the strong, and now he dangled the jade in the sunlight, waving it mockingly at Xiao Chen.
"Oh dear, Xiao Chen… your precious treasure? It's mine now~"
"A worthless rock, and you treat it like gold? Ha!"
He raised the jade above his head, then made a show of pretending to throw it. "Watch closely, little bastard—I'm tossing this into the latrine!"
"—Stop!"
Xiao Chen's eyes flared red. A surge of fury exploded in his chest, like something ancient and wild had awakened. He lunged forward and threw a punch.
Bang!
Mei Lisheng flew backward, crashing to the ground several meters away. Blood poured from his nose and mouth, his breath shallow, his face broken.
That punch… did not belong to a five-year-old.
Even Xiao Chen stood frozen, stunned by his own strength.
The other boys were terrified. One screamed:
"He killed him! The bastard child killed someone!"
"Someone call help—he's a murderer!"
Cries, footsteps, panic—all erupted like a storm, tearing through the peaceful afternoon.
Villagers stumbled, shouted, women screamed. The quiet village was shattered in an instant.
Xiao Chen stood trembling, the jade at his feet reflecting the horror on their faces. He tried to speak, but no words came. The rage had passed, but fear, confusion, regret, and injustice surged within him like a flood.
It was the first time he had fought.
Not for himself—but for the jade.
The only thing that proved who he was.
The chaos swelled.
And then—
Mei Lisheng's parents arrived, furious and frantic.
"You dare hurt my son?!"
A towering man stormed forward—Mei Renyi, the boy's father.
Xiao Chen flinched, instinctively stepping back, hiding behind Old Liu.
"Chief! Is this how you raise a bastard? He's not even your blood, yet you protect him like your own! Now he's hurt my son—what, you plan to shield him too?"
Old Liu, weary and pale, stepped forward and shielded Xiao Chen with his arm. "Don't be afraid, Chen'er. I'm here."
His gaze was sharp as a blade, his voice low and firm. "Your boy stole from him first. Xiao Chen's strike was wrong—but not without cause."
"You still defend this cursed brat?!" Mei Renyi roared. "He's not your grandson! He hurt my son—should we pay with our lives now?"
Old Liu's voice was hoarse, but his tone was iron. "Your boy took what wasn't his. How can you blame my Chen'er for fighting back?"
"Your Chen'er?" Mei Renyi sneered, his voice like a knife. "Don't forget what he is! A thing dragged out of a corpse!"
The words struck like thunder.
A dagger to the heart.
Old Liu staggered, blood rushing to his head. His face turned pale, and with a choking gasp, he coughed up a mouthful of blood—splattering the doorstep—then collapsed.
It was the first time Xiao Chen saw his grandfather fall.
The first time the world felt unstable.
"Grandpa!!"
He cried out, rushing to his side.
Old Liu struggled to breathe, his hand trembling as it touched Xiao Chen's cheek. His voice was barely a whisper:"Chen'er… don't be afraid… You're not a stray… You're my grandson…"
Before he could finish, his head slumped.
Unconscious.
Villagers rushed to carry him inside. From that day on, Old Liu never rose from bed again.
Xiao Chen held his hand through the night, never closing his eyes.
Outside, Mei Renyi still cursed.
Inside, Xiao Chen knelt silently by the bedside—his eyes burning with a light never seen before.
Like starlight breaking through the cracks of a deep-sea trench.
The first spark of a dustbound fate.
He didn't yet know it, but this day marked the true turning point of his life.
That day marked the beginning of the end.
The sky turned gray, clouds hung low—as if the heavens knew someone was about to leave.
Old Liu lay on his bed, breath faint, like a thread ready to be swept away by the wind. Xiao Chen stayed by his side, sleepless through the night. His eyes held no tears—only quiet resolve.
Three days before the end, Xiao Chen never left his side. No villagers came to visit. Only the wind stirred the firewood gate.
On the final night, Old Liu's trembling hand reached for Xiao Chen's fingers. His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
"Your mother… her name was Liu Xinhui."
Xiao Chen's head snapped up, eyes red, lips pressed into a tight line.
"Before she passed… she said your fate was not ordinary. And those with uncommon fates… shouldn't be trapped in a place like this."
His gaze grew distant, as if countless words swirled in his heart. He hesitated, a flicker of struggle in his eyes. But in the end, he swallowed the truth and whispered:
"If anyone asks about your past… just say I found you by the forest's edge."
He smiled faintly, reached out, and gently touched Xiao Chen's forehead.
"That… would be best for you."
He didn't speak of the jade's origin.
Didn't mention the divine light that crowned the sky, or the blood that soaked the earth.
Didn't utter the words "reincarnated godblood."
He left only this one sentence—like a wall, shielding the child from fate's early summons.
That night, his breath grew weaker. The spirit jade slipped from his hand.
Xiao Chen caught it tightly.
Outside, the stars were silent.
After that night, Old Liu never woke again.
Three days later, he was buried beside his wife beneath the old cypress tree behind the village.
Xiao Chen knelt before the fresh grave. He didn't cry. Didn't speak.
He simply knelt, unmoving.
The wind swept through the forest, scattering leaves.
The jade glowed faintly in his palm—like the warmth that once lingered in the old man's hand.
Blood seeped from his knees, staining the misty soil.
That night, he understood what it meant to say goodbye.
He understood that the human heart has two sides—one that shields you like life itself, and one that crushes you with cold words.
This village held nothing for him now, save two graves.
One for the couple who raised him.
One for the mother he never truly met.
And he—had never truly belonged here.
He stood, casting one last glance at the humble cottage and low firewood gate.
It was the place he grew up.
But it could no longer hold the shadow of his future.
That night, beneath the endless stars, Xiao Chen quietly packed the bamboo basket Old Liu had left behind. He took the spirit jade. Said nothing. Left no message.
The stars poured like a waterfall overhead.
At the village gate, he carved a line into the old tree with a shard of stone:
"I will return—but not yet."
Then he turned and walked away.
His figure small, but unwavering.
He didn't say where he was going.
Didn't say when he'd come back.
He only knew—this village no longer had a reason to hold him.
Not for cultivation.
Not for revenge.
Only to find a place where he truly belonged.
In that moment, he was still a child.
But no longer anyone's child.
Years later, when he finally returned to this village, he would no longer bear the shape of a boy.