On the Highest Peak
The mountain
trembled as lightning tore the sky apart. Thunder raged, shaking the summit to
its core. Yet the figure standing there did not move.
His eyes were
closed. Aura trembling—not from instability, but from memory.
In that silence, the
past returned. Thunderbone Ridge as it had once been.
Now, the sky was
strangely still. Too still.
Years ago, this
ridge had roared with lightning and blood. Seventy percent of the world had
fallen. Cities turned to ash. Rivers ran red. Cultivators scattered like shards
of broken jade.
A few had stood
firm—not for glory, not for sect, but for humanity. They had fought. They had
bled. Then they vanished, leaving no mark.
No one remembered
their names. They weren't demon tamers. They weren't sovereigns of slaughter.
They were cultivators who chose compassion—and karma buried them for it.
> "The last spark
in a dead wind. A disciple born of pity… now the storm walks with him."
The memory faded.
Lightning split the clouds again. His eyes opened slowly, golden light spilling
across the ridge. Even distant enemies felt the weight of what was coming.
A single breath. The
storm quieted. A divine breakthrough had been achieved.
Yet his heart did
not soar. Instead, it whispered:
> "All seven of
my disciples… they've grown mighty. Feared. Revered. Honored. But the last one…
the child I took without a Soulspring… I never taught him anything. He followed
me with eyes full of hope. I couldn't shatter him back then. I accepted him to
protect his heart. And then I left."
The white tiger at
his side exhaled softly, sensing the sorrow beneath the storm.
> "I don't even
know what he's doing now. He had no Soulspring… yet I saw a fire in him.
Wherever you are, if that spark still burns, I hope that when we meet
again—you'll surpass me."
They called him the
Lightning Sovereign, and even the clouds whispered his name. Lightning split
the sky one last time before the figure vanished into the storm, leaving only
echoes behind.
Far below, in the
dust and bustle of a crowded market, one fragment of that storm remained—a
child with no Soulspring, no strength, no path: Arin.
---
Market Road – Lower District
Arin walked alone, a
small pouch of copper coins clutched under his arm. His dark hair was messy.
His clothes were worn and patched. Around him, the market hummed with life:
spirit fruits glimmered, qi herbs scented the air, cultivators in fine robes
displayed techniques to impress passersby.
A boy floated a coin
with qi, hands weaving a practiced pattern. Arin mimicked the motion. Nothing
happened.
Mocking laughter
rang out:
> "Hey! Look at
him—trying again!"
"Careful, Arin. You
might shatter the sky!"
"Hahaha! The most
powerful cultivator of our generation!"
Arin didn't respond.
He lowered his hand, gaze steady, mind silent.
> "I'm the last
disciple of my master—one of the continent's strongest. I will prove I can
cultivate. At the sect selection next week, I'll show them."
He pressed forward,
weaving through the stalls.
Arms full of
groceries, he nearly collided with a familiar voice.
> "Arin?"
He looked up. It was
Niva—his only true friend. Her hair tied loosely behind her, eyes faintly
glowing with spiritual light. Her steps were light, graceful.
They paused, smiled
awkwardly, and spoke in unison:
> "Are you going
next week?"
Niva nodded,
laughing softly.
> "Yeah… I'll be
in the trial."
Arin's smile was
faint.
> "Me too."
She hesitated.
> "I've awakened
something. Elders say it's rare… but it hasn't taken form yet. Sometimes I feel
it… like mist in the wind. Pressure. Lightning in my chest."
She laughed softly.
> "Or maybe I'm
imagining it."
Arin's expression
darkened, but his voice stayed calm:
> "Not yet. But
I'll still go."
Before she could
respond, a rough voice interrupted.
An older cultivator
stepped from the shadow of a stall, arms crossed, tone coiled like a serpent
ready to strike.
> "You? Going to
the sect admission test? Hah. Foolish brat. That trial isn't for trash like
you. Especially Soulspringless trash."
Niva flinched. Arin
did not. His fists clenched, trembling with years of bottled anger. He drew a
deep breath, straightened, lifted his chin.
> "If I make it,"
he said evenly, "you'll kneel before everyone at the sect trial… and beg
forgiveness."
The words hit like
lightning. Niva's breath caught—she had never seen him like this: sharp,
fearless, almost dangerous.
The older cultivator
faltered, unease cracking his sneer.
> "Fine," he
snapped. "I'll be there. And when you fail—we'll see who kneels."
Arin smiled faintly.
> "Stand by your
words."
He walked away, calm
but thoughtful. What's happening to me? Since when… did I become this bold? Not
arrogance. Just truth.
Niva placed a hand
on his shoulder:
> "Let's go,
Arin. We'll see him at the trial."
She gave the older
cultivator a sharp glance before guiding Arin away. Neither noticed the figure
half-hidden in a shopfront—eyes narrowed, lips curved in a faint, knowing
smile. Quietly, the watcher trailed them into the crowd.
Home – Evening
Arin pushed open the
door.,
> "Mom? Dad?"
Silence answered.
Floorboards creaked beneath his feet. He set the groceries down, eyes scanning
the room.
His mother appeared
from the hallway, wiping her hands on a worn cloth. Lines etched her face. Her
arms faintly carried the scent of vegetables and dust from the market. She
moved with quiet diligence, meeting his eyes briefly.
His father, Rajan,
stepped forward. Usually warm, reassuring, today his smile was gone. Lips
pressed thin. Eyes heavy, hands trembling faintly with hidden worry.
Arin swallowed, the
weight of their presence pressing down.
> "What's wrong
with me?"
His mother paused,
glancing at her work. His father's gaze drifted toward the table.
> "I know you're
hiding something. I don't have a Soulspring. I've tried everything. I've read
scrolls, heard rumors… What's the truth? Why am I like this?"
Silence. His father
changed the subject:
> "The Uccot Sect
Trial is near. Top twenty earn outer disciple status. Top three… enter the
inner sect."
His mother smiled
gently, avoiding his eyes:
> "Just do your
best, Arin. That's all we ask."
Arin's voice
trembled as he stepped back:
> "You both… you
never tell me what's wrong! Sometimes I feel… like I don't belong here… like
I'm not really yours."
His mother froze.
His father's hands tightened.
> "Arin… don't
say that," she whispered. "We love you. We are your parents!"
His father shook his
head slowly.
> "We don't know,
son. We're mortals, not cultivators. We can't see what you're meant to be."
Arin clenched his
fists, chest rising and falling.
> "Fine. If you
won't tell me… I'll find my own way. Don't try to stop me."
His mother reached
out, trembling:
> "Arin, wait—"
But his father
placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
> "Let him go.
He's not like us. He was born for something greater… something else."
Arin turned, leaving
the house. Footsteps echoed through the quiet hall.
After Arin Leaves – Parents' Whisper
The door closed
softly. Silence lingered—until his mother spoke, barely above a whisper:
> "He's going… no
hesitation."
His father nodded,
staring at the folded robe in the chest:
> "He's always
been like that. Quiet. Stubborn. Like the storm that watches but never
strikes."
She turned to the
window, eyes misty.
> "Do you think
he'll awaken something? Anything?"
> "We don't
know," his father said slowly. "He has no Soulspring. We've tested him, prayed…
but nothing ever showed. I remember the day we got him. That figure… red and
black robes. The air boiled. Thunder rolled like it was angry at the earth. He
said nothing. Handed us the child, whose Soulspring was unformed, and vanished
into the storm. The sky split open, then closed like it had made a choice. That
boy wasn't abandoned. He was delivered. And now he walks toward the trial… with
only that fire in his eyes."
They stood in
silence. Outside, faint thunder rolled across the sky.
> That night,
Arin sat alone on the rooftop, the wind brushing past like a forgotten
memory.
> Lights shimmered across the hills—each one a promise, a threat. The sect's
outer trial camp was forming. The competition would be merciless.
And he… would be
laughed at again.
> "But I'll go
anyway. Even if I fail. Even if I'm broken. Even with nothing… I'll still walk
forward."