The forest lay still, the mist yet to disperse.
Xiao Chen trudged back to the cave, a bear haunch slung over his shoulder. His wounded arm was streaked with dried blood, the pain searing through the wind like fire. He gritted his teeth and pressed on, the girl's parting smile still lingering in his mind—along with her soft question: "Do you… truly remember me?"
Just as he sought a quiet spot to tend to his injury, a sudden tremor pulsed through his chest, halting his steps. A strange vibration stirred from the jade pendant he had kept close to his heart—now trembling faintly, as if echoing a heartbeat, resonating with some unseen rhythm of the world.
Startled, Xiao Chen looked down. The spirit jade shimmered with a faint, elusive glow. At first, it flickered like a dying ember, but in the blink of an eye, it surged with light—as if awakened by a hidden force.
Crack—
A subtle sound, like a seal loosening.
Light poured forth like a river of stars, illuminating the forest around him. An invisible pressure surged from the jade. Before he could react, the glow flared, and from within it, a blurred figure slowly emerged.
Suspended in midair, the figure was neither fully real nor entirely illusion—a middle-aged man in ancient robes, his expression layered with complexity.
He was no flesh and blood, but a projection—dreamlike, ethereal. Tall and graceful, his robes fluttered as he hovered in the void, eyes deep and commanding.
Xiao Chen stared, frozen, at the stranger who somehow felt… familiar. His heartbeat quickened.
"Who… are you?" he asked hoarsely, instinctively wary and confused.
The man said nothing. He simply gazed at Xiao Chen, his eyes calm as the sea—like one beholding a long-lost kin.
He wore ancient robes, and his features bore a subtle resemblance to Xiao Chen. His gaze was heavy, tinged with sorrow.
"My child… at last, this moment has come."
The word "child" struck like thunder cracking open the gates of his heart. Xiao Chen's body trembled, a strange stirring rising from deep within his chest. He had never seen this man before, yet some dormant instinct—woven into his blood—kept hammering at his reason.
"I am Ni Linhai," the phantom said slowly. "Your father."
Xiao Chen's pupils quivered. His breath caught. His fists clenched unconsciously.
"I… don't have a father…"
Ni Linhai didn't refute him. Instead, he spoke each word with solemn weight, revealing a truth buried for years:
"Your surname is Ni. Your name, Xingchen. You were born in the Startrace Sect—once the main sect. Years ago, the Palace of Starseizing coveted a divine treasure. They accused our sect of harboring a forbidden artifact that defied fate and violated the heavenly order. Five sects joined forces. Startrace fought valiantly, but was destroyed."
"But the artifact… was not a thing. It was you—a child yet unborn, carrying a fate unlike any other."
"To protect you, your mother—Liu Xinhui—sent you away amidst the chaos. I was gravely wounded, my soul reduced to a remnant bound to this spirit jade, surviving until now."
Xiao Chen felt as if lightning had struck his mind. His thoughts spun wildly. He remembered his grandfather once mentioning his mother's name. Hearing it again now, his heart churned with turmoil.
"I've sealed the remaining techniques and martial arts of Startrace within this jade. Now that you've awakened, let it guide you—to witness the first imprint of the Star Map."
Ni Linhai's fingertip glowed, sending a stream of light into Xiao Chen's brow. Fragmented yet profound techniques and celestial patterns swirled like a galaxy, flooding into his sea of consciousness.
"I cannot avenge our sect. Nor can I decide your future… But this time, you have the right to choose."
His voice faded. The phantom's outline blurred.
Xiao Chen lowered his head. His knuckles turned white. His jaw clenched.
"Why… why were you never there…"
He collapsed to his knees, voice hoarse.
"You speak of sects and fate… but none of you ever gave me a real home…"
"You say I have a choice… but was being born ever mine to choose?"
Ni Linhai gazed at him in silence, eyes filled with sorrow and helplessness.
"I'm sorry… If there is a next life, may I teach you to wield a sword myself."
The light scattered like dust. Silence returned to the world. The spirit jade, now dimmed, lay quietly in Xiao Chen's palm.
He stared at it, lost in thought, as if wrestling with a voice deep within. After a long pause, he whispered:
"I don't care about sects. I don't believe in fate… But I can't deny this bloodline, or these memories."
He looked toward the fading glow where the phantom had vanished.
"Father… I won't live by anyone's design… but I'll remember every word you said today."
"From this day forward, I will grow stronger. Not for you. Not for anyone else—
But for myself. So I can protect what I choose to protect… and sever the fate that must be severed."
With those words, Xiao Chen tucked away the spirit jade. His gaze sharpened. He rose and walked into the forest.
—He was going back. Back to face the master who had always watched over him.
The mountain wind was cool. Starlight veiled the sky.
By the time Xiao Chen returned to the cave, his aura was unstable, his face pale, blood still staining his arm. The spirit jade at his chest glowed faintly with lingering warmth.
Suan Wuyi had already sensed something amiss. He stepped out swiftly, and upon seeing Xiao Chen's condition, his brows furrowed. He rushed forward.
"What happened? Your injuries…"
He lifted Xiao Chen's wounded arm. The blood had soaked through the bandages, and his energy remained unsettled. Without a word, Suan Wuyi retrieved cleansing tincture and hemostatic powder from his sleeve, rewrapped the wound with practiced care, all while observing him closely.
Xiao Chen didn't resist. Nor did he speak. He simply sat in silence, letting his master tend to him, his eyes vacant, his expression dazed.
"This look… it's not just pain," Suan Wuyi said quietly, his voice probing.
Xiao Chen stared at him, stunned. After a long pause, he whispered,
"Master… I just saw someone… He said… he was my father."
His voice trembled. In his eyes were shock, confusion—and a sorrow long buried.
Suan Wuyi was shaken, but didn't press further. He simply sat beside him, letting the mountain wind brush his sleeves, the firelight flicker. He waited, as if giving the boy space to unravel the fog in his heart, piece by piece.
Xiao Chen recounted everything—the jade's glow, the phantom's appearance, and the man who called himself Ni Linhai. Not a word was left out.
Suan Wuyi listened in silence for a long time.
Finally, he sighed, his voice soft as pine wind.
"Ni Linhai… So he did leave behind a remnant soul after all."
He paused, then continued slowly,
"I saw him once, years ago—during the night battle outside the Starwalk Manor."
"I watched from afar as he led a group of guards and a woman through a blood-soaked formation. That woman… was carrying you."
Xiao Chen froze. "You… knew all along?"
Suan Wuyi nodded, then shook his head.
"I suspected. But never dared confirm. Your fate is too strange, too chaotic. That night, your grandfather stayed behind to ensure your escape. Amid the scattering starlight… I saw him strike down three foes with a single palm. But he too…"
His voice faded into the night.
He turned to Xiao Chen, gaze steady as a mountain.
"Now that you know… do you blame me—for keeping it from you all this time?"
Xiao Chen lowered his head. After a moment of silence, he shook it gently.
"I don't blame you. You never forced me down this path. Everything… I walked it myself."
A brief silence passed. Suan Wuyi nodded lightly, a rare glimmer of comfort in his eyes.
After a while, he asked,
"So… what are you thinking now?"
Xiao Chen looked down, clutching the spirit jade tightly, his knuckles pale.
"I don't know," he said hoarsely. "It feels like the world suddenly changed… I don't know who to trust. I don't even know… who I really am…"
"Who you are—is yours to decide," Suan Wuyi replied, his tone calm but resolute.
"You can choose to believe in the past… or choose to forge your own future."
Xiao Chen looked up. In that moment, his eyes flickered—
As if, within the fog, he had finally grasped a thread of light.
—This was the first time he faced his origins head-on.
And the road ahead… would have to be walked by him alone.
He lowered his gaze, staring at the spirit jade in his palm. He said nothing for a long time.
The confusion that once clouded him… now had a faint outline.
But he knew—light was only a guide in the distance.
The one who must take the first step… was himself.
At dawn the next day, he sat cross-legged in the cave, quietly unfolding the techniques and diagrams left in his sea of consciousness by his father.
It was a path of fierce cultivation—
The Startrace Sect's core method: guided by stars, anchored by traces, breaking through with sheer force.
Dominant, desolate, and overwhelmingly powerful.
At first, he struggled to channel the energy. It surged like thunder through his body, wild and uncontrollable. If not for Suan Wuyi's guidance—refining his energy paths, reshaping his cultivation meridians—and Xiao Chen's own innate talent and divine bone, he might have succumbed to inner chaos on the very first day.
Suan Wuyi spoke little. He merely observed from the side, pointing out flaws without offering answers, letting Xiao Chen grasp the truth on his own. It was a silent form of mentorship—both protection and trial.
From then on, Xiao Chen trained deep within the forest.
His blade became firewood, his fists the wind. Grass served as scripture, trees as foes, stars as guides.
He practiced by day, meditated by night, condensing energy into bone, forging strength into flesh.
Five years passed like sand slipping through fingers.
Sometimes he trained in torrential rain.
Sometimes he sat silently atop a cliff, watching the stars move across the sky—seeking that one light that resonated with his fate.
His techniques grew sharper, his strikes more precise. His energy sometimes roared like thunder, sometimes swirled like constellations.
With the remnant soul's teachings, his divine bone, and Suan Wuyi's subtle guidance, his mastery and battle instinct soared.
Within five years, he could already replicate many of the techniques his grandfather once displayed upon entering the sect.
Though his power remained at the "Qi Trace" stage, his refined technique and keen spiritual sense often misled foes into thinking he was far stronger.
But he knew—this was only the beginning.
The true path of cultivation had just begun.
Yet even with such talent, the boy's heart held unanswered questions.
One day, standing atop a cliff, watching the sunset dye the forest red, he asked himself:
"My strength is forged…But where shall my sword point?
Where does vengeance begin?
Where is my sect now?"
His gaze drifted toward the horizon, and a memory surfaced—
The dying words of the village elder from years ago:
"A life destined for greatness should not be trapped in the mud."
That phrase echoed like a bell in his soul.
He thought of the village that made him bleed, made him cry—
And taught him the cruelty of the world.
—Perhaps, the answer lay there.
Once decided, he acted.
He packed a few simple belongings, pushed open the wooden door of the hut, and looked back at the forest that had raised him for five years.
A flicker of emotion passed through his eyes.
He knew—this farewell sealed away his youth, along with the mist and wind of the woods.
Suan Wuyi was already seated outside, as if he had been waiting all along.
"I've taught you all I can," he said calmly, though his eyes betrayed a quiet sorrow.
"From here on, the path is yours to choose."
Xiao Chen bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Master. For teaching me how to survive, how to walk… and how to stand without bowing to others."
Suan Wuyi said nothing. He nodded gently, then turned and walked back into the hut.
Before Xiao Chen left, he spoke one final line:
"If one day you grow weary, tired of wandering—come back.
This forest will always be here for you."
Xiao Chen nodded, then turned and walked away.
In the misty light, his figure merged with the shadows of the forest—
Like a shooting star that had finally found its direction, stepping toward the crossroads of fate.
As dusk bathed the familiar mountain path in golden light, Xiao Chen arrived at the entrance of the village he had left behind years ago.
It was the place he grew up.
And the place that once cast him out.
The village was more dilapidated than he remembered.Weeds choked the paths, bricks crumbled from the walls.
But the old well, the stone steps, the ancient banyan tree… remained unchanged.
Villagers bustled about, gathering tools, preparing dinner.
No one recognized the boy at first.
Until he approached a hunched old woman and asked softly:
"Granny Qian… is the village chief's grave still behind the mountain?"
His voice was clear and calm—
Yet it struck like thunder.
Granny Qian froze, staring at him.
Moments later, she gasped,
"Xiao Chen!? Is that you… Xiao Chen!? You're alive…"
The crowd stirred.
Someone dropped their hoe.
Heads peeked out from doorways.
A group quickly gathered at the village entrance.
"He's… alive!? Didn't he—"
"No one's seen him in years… How could he come out of the deep forest?"
"He's… changed…"
Whispers rippled through the crowd—shock, doubt, and a hint of unease.
Just as the village buzzed with whispers, a series of heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the path.
Leading the group was a bloated man, belly round as a drum, his face layered with flesh—
It was Mei Lisheng, the village bully who had once stolen Xiao Chen's spirit jade.
Now, he ruled the village through brute force and intimidation.
He recognized Xiao Chen instantly. A glint of malice flashed in his eyes as he sneered,
"Well, well… if it isn't the ghost orphan. You've got guts coming back here. Looking to die?"
Behind him, several thugs approached with aggressive swagger.
Xiao Chen listened to their steps, his expression unchanged.
"Teach him a lesson," Mei Lisheng barked. "Let him know this place isn't for him!"
Xiao Chen shifted his stance slightly.
Before his palm even moved, his aura surged—
The pressure alone made the thugs falter.
Then, with a single flowing motion—
Smack!
Thud!
Agh—!
In just a few swift strikes, the men were sent flying, groaning on the ground.
His movements were fluid, precise—like water flowing through clouds.
No excess. No hesitation.
Mei Lisheng stood frozen, lips trembling, too stunned to curse.
He stumbled back a step, cold sweat dripping from his brow.
Then, with a final snarl, he spat out:
"You think you're tough? Don't go far. This isn't over!"
He turned and fled, tail between his legs.
His lackeys scrambled after him, vanishing in panic.
The villagers were stunned.
"What… just happened?"
"He barely moved, but they flew like leaves in the wind!"
"That's not something a normal person can do… Has he… cultivated?"
Xiao Chen said nothing.
He simply brushed the dust from his shoulder, his gaze calm and distant.
Just then, a hunched figure stepped forward from the crowd.
An old man, hair white as snow, leaning on a long staff.
His eyes were deep—still and unreadable, like a well untouched by time.
He looked at Xiao Chen and spoke softly:
"That… was the power of a Fate Mark."
The crowd fell silent, turning toward him.
The old man added, his voice tinged with gravity and a hint of reverence:
"And not an ordinary one."
Xiao Chen's heart stirred at the words, but he remained silent.
—At this moment, he stood at the village gate, no longer bowed, no longer broken.
He stepped forward, into the next chapter of his fate.
Outside the village, the twilight bled like crimson across the path.
His shadow stretched beneath him—thin, but no longer wavering.