The dawn of a new day crept gently over the Spirit Pagoda's city, gilding rooftops with a pale glow. Merchants shouted as they opened stalls, spirit masters strode through streets in polished uniforms, and curious children tugged at their mothers' sleeves to watch the passing patrols of the Pagoda. It was a world buzzing with vigor, brimming with the structured order of cultivation, and in that tide of ambition, a single boy slipped quietly through, unremarkable as a pebble among stones.
Bai Chen's clothing was rough, his hair unevenly cut with the dull edge of a knife he had borrowed. His eyes carried no fire that might mark him as prodigy or genius. When people glanced his way, their gazes slid past as though he did not exist. This suited him perfectly.
In his heart, however, the golden loom whispered, threads vibrating faintly like a harp waiting for touch. He had tested its limits again the night before, in the safety of a hidden clearing. It was not mere fantasy—whatever he wove became real. Yet the weight of each creation drained him like a dying flame consuming oil. That was his restriction. He could not summon mountains or rewrite continents yet. For now, he was a candle, shaping shadows carefully so that no wind could snuff him out.
He entered the Spirit Pagoda's plaza, an immense square where spirit masters gathered daily. Above, the towering structure itself rose like a pillar that pierced the heavens, floors stacked endlessly, shimmering with runes. Here, contracts with soul beasts were forged, spirits cultivated, and the next generation's fates decided. To countless families, this place was a temple of progress.
To Bai Chen, it was a stage.
He lingered at the edge, watching. Children lined up with hopeful faces, palms sweating as they awaited their turn to awaken their martial souls under the Pagoda's guidance. Parents held their breaths, praying for a rare or powerful soul spirit. In every direction, whispers of envy, joy, or disappointment filled the air.
Bai Chen kept his expression mild, even detached. Yet his scholar's mind dissected everything. The rituals, the formations, the patterns of energy—it was a grand tapestry already woven by generations. But what if he introduced a thread? A forgotten god disguised as a soul beast? A cultural philosophy reborn as cultivation? The loom in his chest pulsed softly at the thought.
No. Not yet. Too soon, and ripples would spread. A shadow never casts itself under the spotlight.
Instead, he chose his role: that of an orphan errand boy. A kindly vendor, pitying his thin figure, offered him scraps in exchange for running deliveries. By midmorning, he was darting between shops, carrying parcels with silent obedience. To the world, he was forgettable labor. To himself, he was laying roots. A shadow that earned food, shelter, and cover.
That night, after his work ended, Bai Chen wandered beyond the city walls. The world outside was vast—rolling hills, whispering forests, and beyond them the endless wilds where soul beasts roamed. The stars above shimmered more brightly here, no longer dulled by the lanterns of civilization. He sat upon a boulder, alone, and let the threads hum louder.
Closing his eyes, he imagined. A serpent—not grand enough to shake heavens, not weak enough to be ignored. A minor spirit beast, small as a myth whispered only in a single village. He pictured scales shimmering like jade, a forked tongue flicking at the air, eyes glowing with cunning. In his mind, he told a story:
"There was once a snake said to guard forgotten wells, feeding not on flesh but on lies. Whoever spoke falsehoods near its waters would find themselves bitten, their tongues numb for seven days."
He wove this tale into the loom, and the threads trembled, resisting. Power surged through him, draining his strength, but he gritted his teeth. Slowly, painstakingly, he pressed the myth into reality.
When he opened his eyes, he was drenched in sweat, chest heaving. At the edge of the clearing, something stirred. A serpent, no longer than a man's arm, slid forward, scales gleaming faintly in moonlight. Its eyes were indeed sharp, its tongue flicking.
It hissed once, as though displeased to exist, and then coiled itself at the base of the boulder. Bai Chen almost laughed aloud despite his exhaustion. It worked. Not merely a dream—the world had accepted the lie as truth.
But then he saw the cost. His body was trembling, his soul power nearly dry. He had woven a mere footnote of a beast, and already he felt as if days had passed without rest.
"Careful," he muttered to himself, his voice ragged. "Each thread costs more than I can pay. I can't burn too brightly, not yet."
The snake hissed again, this time curling closer, almost obedient. Bai Chen reached out, brushing its scales with a cautious hand. It felt alive, warm, undeniably real. He dismissed it soon after, unraveling the thread with effort until it vanished back into the void.
Staring into the night sky, Bai Chen's thoughts turned sharp. He understood now. The loom was limitless in concept but shackled by his own growth. The stronger he became, the larger myths he could weave. The greater his imagination, the grander his tapestry. But until then, patience was his weapon.
Patience… and shadows.
He returned to the city silently, blending once more with the flow of laborers and beggars. No one looked twice at him. No one suspected the boy had created life from nothing hours earlier. To the world, he was nameless, faceless. Exactly as he intended.
From that day forward, Bai Chen lived as two people. One was the orphan boy who ran errands, smiled faintly at merchants, and slept in alleys or spare lofts. The other was the myth weaver who, under moonlit nights, tested the limits of reality, crafting tiny stories into being and unraveling them before dawn.
And though the world spun unaware, changes began like seeds in soil. A traveler swore he had glimpsed a strange serpent in the woods, warning children not to lie near wells. An old hunter claimed he heard faint whispers of a guardian beast unseen before. Small rumors, threads in a vast cloth.
Bai Chen heard them and smiled to himself in silence.
The loom in his heart thrummed like a heartbeat. The world had taken its first stitch.
And he remained, as always, the shadow in the crowd.