THREAD WOVEN BY HEAVEN
Three years before the Tournament of Brilliance shook the empire, the capital was filled with pilgrims, banners, and hushed anticipation. The great plaza outside the Hall of Heaven and Earth blazed with incense smoke and the shimmer of talismans. Families of every station—from silk-clad nobles to barefoot farmers—had gathered for the most sacred rite of youth: the Spiritual Root Ceremony.
Once every three years, children between the ages of twelve and fifteen would stand before the stone monoliths of destiny. These ancient relics, inscribed with the flowing script of forgotten sages, awakened when touched by the blood of the young. They revealed which Path the heavens had set for each soul—dividing futures as effortlessly as the loom separates threads.
The Paths were four, yet each carried the weight of eternity.
The Path of Athanjan was chosen by scholars, ministers, and keepers of order. Those who bore this fate would refine their minds and cultivate wisdom. Their ultimate calling was to ascend as Sages of Athanjan, guiding empires with words that could halt wars as easily as blades. Though commoners revered them, everyone knew the imperial family guarded mysteries within this Path far beyond the reach of ordinary men.
The Path of the Mongke Tao belonged to cultivators—the seekers of heaven's essence. Their journey was endless, their trials harsh, yet their promise divine. To walk this way was to strive toward the rank of Sage of Tao, transcending mortality itself. Few returned from its storms, but those who did stood as pillars between the mortal and celestial realms.
The Path of Bellicines was the bloodline of warriors. These were the martial artists, the wielders of steel and spirit, who embodied the will of their weapons. From spear to sword, bow to halberd, they carved legacies in battlefield and duel alike. The greatest of them rose as Sages of Arms, their very strikes carrying the weight of nations.
And then, rarer than a star glimpsed at noon, was the final path. Its name was spoken softly, with reverence and unease: The Dharma Path. This way was not of conquest, nor of authority, but of renunciation and clarity. Rooted in the teachings of the ancient Buddhas, those chosen for it often became monks, healers, or wandering ascetics. But legends whispered that the rare few who perfected this way could step beyond even the cycle of life and death.
To the crowd, the ceremony was not merely a test—it was a glimpse into heaven's design, a weaving of invisible threads that would bind each child's life forever.
And on that day, among the countless youths who stood trembling before the monoliths, were names history would never forget.
THE CROWN PRINCE'S BLESSING
The Crown Prince, eldest son of the Dragon Throne, stepped forward first. His robes were woven from imperial purple and edged with golden embroidery. He ascended the white jade platform, bowed toward the heavens, and offered incense to the Three Pure Ones, guardians of order and truth.
> "May the Heavens bless the common people. May wisdom be as water, and strength as mountain. This son offers his blood, not for self, but for the realm."
With those words, he raised a blade of ritual bronze and drew a line across his fingertip. A single drop of blood fell upon the Divine Stone, a monument older than the empire itself.
The plaza held its breath.
The stone shuddered, then blazed into a radiance so bright it seemed to pierce the clouds. His glow was neither the pale white of scholars, nor the crimson of warriors, but a sovereign blend of imperial purple laced with golden fire. The light was heavy, sacred, suffused with a weight that pressed on every soul in attendance.
Gasps erupted. Ministers bowed. Nobles lowered their heads. Only the emperor on his throne remained unmoved, though in his eyes, pride burned like a quiet star.
The mark of the Athanjan Path had chosen him—the path of order, faith, and governance. His root was not merely pure, but sovereign, a light destined for the Sage of Athanjan.
---
The Royal Line
One by one, the emperor's other children followed.
The First Grand Prince, broad-shouldered and grim, bled upon the stone. A sapphire blue light arose, strong yet rigid—a noble destiny fit for generals. The crowd approved, though all knew it dimmed beside the Crown Prince's brilliance.
The Second Princess, graceful in jade robes, touched the stone. A gentle silver-white glow emerged, clear as moonlight upon still water. The scholars praised softly—hers was the mark of a sage-scribe, a future to pen scripture and preserve the empire's memory.
The Third Prince stepped forward, nervous. His glow was a murky grey-green, weak and indecisive. Whispers rose like wind in dry reeds. In such a palace, even the blood of a prince could be fragile porcelain—soon hidden away, assigned to minor offices far from the capital.
So the line continued—radiant and dim, celebrated and pitied—all weighed against the Crown Prince's imperial blaze.
---
The Nobles and Ministers
By midday, the sun struck the jade tiles with golden fire. The banners of noble houses stirred in the breeze as scions of great clans mounted the steps.
From the House of Wei, famed for their warrior-kings, a boy pressed his blood into the stone. It roared to life in scarlet light, fierce and domineering—the mark of the Bellicine Path, destined for blade and spear. Cheers erupted from soldiers in the crowd.
A young girl from the House of Qian, descendants of physicians and scholars, offered her drop. A soft emerald glow bloomed, warm and steady. The ministers murmured—hers was the root of healing, a noble destiny of compassion.
The son of the Prime Minister himself stepped forth. His blood gave birth to a muted ashen violet, faint but dignified. Not brilliant, not shameful. A steady flame, suited for governance—an heir to a bureaucratic throne rather than a battlefield.
Each glow sparked debate among the nobles, hushed bargaining for alliances, and whispers of rivalry. To the crowd, it was spectacle. To the court, it was destiny made visible.
---
The Ceremony's End
As the sun lowered into the west, the Divine Stone pulsed with the mingled colors of a hundred souls. The day had weighed princes, princesses, and nobles, branding them with the paths of their lives.
And yet—though the stone dimmed, though the court prepared to leave—its surface seemed to thrum faintly, as if aware that the true test, the hidden brilliance, had not yet arrived
By the time the sun leaned westward, the Imperial Hall was heavy with incense and whispers. The morning had already shaken the court: a king's son stepping onto Dharma, scholars' heirs faltering, dukes birthing warriors and a cultivator.
Now it was the turn of lower nobles, renowned teachers, and their descendants. Though their stations were humbler, sometimes Heaven favored the unnoticed.
The Divine Stone pulsed faintly, weary from the countless blood offerings it had tasted that day. Still, its glow sharpened whenever the Crown Prince's gaze fell upon it, as though reminding all present that destiny bent around the imperial line.
One by one, the children of ministers, teachers, and minor nobles stepped forward.
A minister's boy dripped blood and revealed the faintest Athanjan spark, no more than a candle's flame.
A girl descended from the empire's archivists unveiled a quiet Tao root, silver-gray, like drifting clouds—scholars murmured with approval.
Two sons of generals cut their fingers, both flaring with scarlet—Bellicine warriors destined for the battlefield.
But then—
A hush swept the hall.
From among the arrivals stepped a girl robed not in silks, but in plain white wool, her hair tied loosely with red thread. Her skin bore the bronze kiss of high plateaus, and her eyes were clear pools of starlight. She bowed gracefully, though not deeply—her bearing carried a serene pride.
"The girl… she is no imperial noble," one minister frowned.
"She comes from the Tibetan plateau," whispered another. "A monastery girl, brought here as guest of the Dharma envoys."
The Crown Prince leaned forward, curiosity flashing in his eyes.
The girl pressed her finger to the Divine Stone.
For a heartbeat, nothing stirred. Then—
The chamber darkened, as though night itself had seeped through the windows. From the Stone unfurled a river of pale radiance, shimmering and endless, as though the Milky Way had descended into mortal sight.
It was not sharp like a sword's edge, nor calm like a scholar's ink. It was emotion given form, flowing, endless, beautiful. A sword style not of destruction, but of expression.
"The Path of Dharma… in its purest form." An elder's voice trembled.
"But it moves like… the cosmos itself."
The ministers and dukes could not find words. This girl, without pedigree, without backing, had drawn down Heaven's favor so strongly that even the Crown Prince rose from his seat.
The girl looked up at the stunned assembly.
"My name is Tara," she said simply, her voice soft, like prayer bells in the wind.
And in that instant, the hall knew—though she was no princess, no noble, her name would echo through the empire's chronicles.
---
DAY 2 OF CEREMONY
The second dawn of the Spiritual Root Ceremony rose soft and golden, but the palace courtyards trembled with unease. Yesterday had belonged to nobles and scholars, yet today, the common-born children—farmers, craftsmen, hunters, and merchants—would step before the Divine Stone.
For many ministers, this day was a mere formality.
"Let the peasants bleed upon the Stone," one scoffed. "At best, a faint spark of martial root. At worst, nothing at all."
But Heaven does not share mortal prejudice.
---
The Farmers' Children went first.
A barefoot boy of no more than twelve walked forward, hands calloused from tilling earth. His cut finger bled upon the Stone, and suddenly the chamber rang with golden bells no human hand had struck. A root of Bellicine strength, so bright and heavy that generals gasped.
"He bears the aura of a Groourner—a man who can rally armies and stand as a wall for his people!"
The crowd, once dismissive, now murmured in awe. The farmers' delegation wept openly, bowing toward Heaven's glow.
---
Next came the Craftsmen's Sons and Daughters.
One wiry boy, his tunic stained faintly with wood dust, stepped forward. His blood fell—and the Divine Stone blazed pure scholar's white, dazzling and sharp as if carved by jade. Elders exchanged stunned looks.
"This is the glow of a Prime Minister's line… but from a craftsman's womb?"
Even the Crown Prince arched a brow. The boy's father collapsed to his knees, weeping with joy and terror all at once.
---
The merchants' turn followed, bringing minor sparks of Tao and faint warrior glows—but the hall was waiting for something greater.
And it came.
---
A boy stepped forth, thin but proud, dressed in plain hemp clothes. His eyes were steady, not cowed by the grandeur around him. When he cut his finger, the Divine Stone erupted—not white, not crimson, but a royal purple-gold, majestic and deep, flooding the chamber with imperial weight.
The ministers leapt to their feet. Even the Crown Prince's expression shifted from calm to narrowed shock.
"This… this is an Imperial Root!"
"No! Only the emperor's bloodline carries that mark!"
The boy lifted his head. His voice was steady, unshaken.
"My father was the late Grand Prince, brother to the Emperor. My mother is a farmer. I carry both their blood. Heaven bears witness."
The chamber broke into chaos.
The Empress herself rose, her eyes blazing, and unleashed her Imperial Aura. It surged like a storm, pressing upon the boy as though to crush him—but the Divine Stone blazed brighter in his defense, unyielding. The hall filled with its light until even the Empress stepped back, face unreadable.
"…Authentic," she said at last. "The boy speaks truth."
But not all were silent.
An old minister, beard trembling with rage, stepped forward and shouted,
"This is heresy! A commoner-born child cannot sit among the imperial scions. We must erase this false root before disorder takes hold!"
Others followed his voice—some out of fear, some out of self-interest.
Then—
From the back, a lone scholar rose. His robes were threadbare, his face young, but his voice rang like iron.
"Have you grown deaf, esteemed ministers? The Divine Stone itself has chosen! Will you deny Heaven's decree for the sake of your prejudice?"
His words struck the hall like thunder.
The boy with the imperial glow stood silently, but his back was straight, his chin lifted.
On the dais, the Crown Prince watched him for a long moment. Then, faintly, he smiled.
"Let it be so," the Prince said. "Heaven has spoken. And I… will not oppose Heaven."
The ministers fell silent, their resistance broken.
And so, on the day meant to humble commoners, three miracles shook the empire:
A farmer's son, destined as a Groourner.
A craftsman's boy, shining with the Prime Minister's scholar glow.
And the hidden son of a Grand Prince, revealed by Heaven's light, his imperial root brighter than even some of the Emperor's children.
The empire would never be the same.
DAY 3
The third morning of the Spiritual Root Ceremony dawned beneath an overcast sky, as if Heaven itself was holding its breath.
Today belonged to the martial clans, the wealthy merchants, and the great houses of the empire. Where scholars had prestige, and farmers had Heaven's sympathy, the martial lineages had something else: power sharpened by steel, and pride born of bloodline legacies.
The plaza outside the Divine Stone overflowed with banners bearing sigils of swords, halberds, bows, and spears. Unlike the quiet order of the previous days, this crowd thrummed with raw energy. Young warriors whispered of testing their roots, while patriarchs stood tall, eager to see their legacies shine before the throne.
---
The First to Step Forward was the son of the Ironblade Clan, famed for their mastery of twin sabers. He was broad-shouldered, his aura already fierce. When his blood touched the Stone, a scarlet glow roared forth like fire—Bellicine roots, fierce and thick. Not the pure white of the Crown Prince, not the golden brilliance of Tao, but a martial path strong enough to raise generals.
The Ironblade elders cheered, their voices shaking the pavilion.
---
Next came the scion of the Jade Spear family. A girl with calm eyes, her grip firm on the ceremonial blade. Her blood struck the Stone, and a faint blue light shimmered—a cultivator's root, rare among her martial bloodline. Murmurs spread; some praised Heaven's will, others whispered that it was a break from tradition. But the Crown Prince only nodded faintly, eyes unreadable.
---
The great merchant clans followed. Dressed in silks, dripping with wealth, their children bled before the Stone one by one. Most received faint roots, some martial, some Tao. Ministers muttered that wealth does not guarantee Heaven's favor. Yet one merchant's son—a quiet boy with cold eyes—sent ripples through the crowd.
His glow was faint, yes… but it flickered oddly, neither martial nor Tao, as though veiled by something hidden. The Divine Stone itself pulsed in a strange rhythm before dimming. The priests declared it inconclusive. Some dismissed it, but others frowned, sensing danger yet to come.
---
But the true storm came when the War God Clan stepped forward.
Their eldest son was famed already for wielding the halberd at only twelve years of age. When his blood struck the Stone, a deep crimson-gold aura surged forth like a battlefield sun, strong enough to make even the generals present go pale. His glow did not merely declare a martial root—it declared a future Bellicine Sage.
The martial clans erupted in cries of triumph, while ministers looked uneasy. After the shock of Day Two, a figure like this promised that the balance of Heaven's favor was still shifting wildly.
---
And then… the unexpected.
From among the lesser clans came a thin, overlooked boy of the Wolf Fang family, often mocked for his weak health. The elders hardly expected much. He bled upon the Stone—
And the glow that burst forth was silver-white, colder than moonlight, yet sharp enough to pierce the marrow of every man present.
The chamber fell silent. This was not the scholar's white of the Athanjan, nor the Tao's golden flow, nor the crimson blaze of martial roots.
It was something else.
Something rare.
Something almost forgotten.
The priests froze, then whispered in trembling voices:
"…This is the Path of Dharma."
The crowd gasped. The Dharma Path—born from Buddhist and ascetic teachings, the fourth way rarely seen in centuries. The path of renunciation, of compassion and transcendence.
And from a martial clan's child? Unheard of.
The boy, dazed, stared at the glowing Stone. His father shouted in outrage, "No! My son is no monk!" But the glow did not fade. Heaven had spoken.
---
By midday, Day Three had shaken the empire once again:
The Ironblade son, rising as a future general.
The Jade Spear daughter, breaking tradition with a cultivator's root.
The War God heir, blazing like a coming Bellicine Sage.
And the frail Wolf Fang child, touched by the forgotten Dharma Path.
As dusk fell, the Crown Prince stood once more to dismiss the gathering. His gaze swept across nobles, ministers, and commoners alike. His words were calm, yet heavy with meaning:
"Heaven's will does not bow to lineage, nor wealth, nor ambition. It chooses as it will. Let us not forget this."
But deep within the court, whispers already grew. About rivals. About threats. About the day when all these children, chosen by Heaven, would one day clash.
The third day had already shaken the empire with Dharma's return, yet Heaven was not finished.
As the Divine Stone gleamed beneath twilight's veil, the final group of martial heirs approached. Among them walked two figures who would be remembered for centuries.
---
First stepped the boy known to few, but feared by those who had seen him practice in secret—the younger brother. He was quiet, his gaze steady, his presence neither boastful nor meek. Whispers rippled through the clans as he approached:
> "Is that not the younger brother of the one hailed unrivaled?"
"I thought he was hidden away… why is he here?"
"He's nothing compared to his elder brother."
But the Crown Prince's eyes lingered on him with a trace of recognition, as though he had been expecting this moment.
The boy sliced his fingertip, letting a drop fall upon the Divine Stone.
At first, the glow was faint—then it blazed forth with such brilliance that the heavens themselves seemed to tremble.
A radiant golden sun burst from the Stone, burning so brightly that shadows fled the plaza. Within that brilliance lay not one path, but two: the ferocity of Bellicine flame, and the flowing depth of Tao.
A dual destiny. Warrior and cultivator both.
The priests fell to their knees.
Ministers gasped.
Even the generals clenched their fists in awe and dread.
> "Sun brilliance…" whispered the Crown Prince. "The destiny of one who may rival Heaven itself."
Never before had a root glowed with such dual harmony. The child of both steel and spirit. The destined Sun Brilliance Sovereign.
---
Yet before the thunderous awe could fade, another boy stepped forward.
He was unremarkable in appearance—hair disheveled, clothes simple, expression detached, almost mocking. Few recognized his lineage, fewer still paid him respect. But when his blood touched the Divine Stone—
The world darkened.
The sun's brilliance dimmed beneath a chaotic maelstrom of light and shadow. The Stone shook violently as if rejecting what it had been forced to reveal. Colors clashed: black, red, violet, gold—an unstable storm of power that no mortal path could contain.
The priests cried out in terror:
"…Chaos fate! The mark of a Heaven-breaker!"
Chaos fate—the destiny of one born outside the order of Heaven's laws, destined to bring upheaval, perhaps even destroy what sages uphold. Some whispered that such beings were cursed, others that they were chosen by Heaven's hidden hand.
The glow twisted into the vague silhouette of a sage's crown—then shattered into fragments, scattering like starlight.
The boy smirked, unfazed by the fearful silence that followed.
> "Sun and Chaos… destined rivals," murmured an old scholar with trembling hands.
The younger brother's brilliance blazed defiantly, as if to suppress the storm, while the chaos-born boy's smirk deepened, his eyes sharp with challenge.
---
By the end of Day Three, the empire had been shaken beyond recognition.
The Dharma Path had returned.
A future Bellicine Sage had been revealed.
The younger brother, destined to walk both martial and cultivation paths, shone like the rising sun.
And from the shadows, a boy marked by Chaos and Sage destiny stood ready to oppose him.
The ministers could scarcely breathe beneath the weight of Heaven's signs.
The Crown Prince, however, only smiled faintly, as though he had foreseen this chaos all along.
THE LAST DAY
The fourth and final day dawned quietly.
No banners flew, no drums roared.
Most nobles had already left, believing all true talent had already been revealed. Only a sparse audience remained—slaves, overseers, a few ministers who still lingered, and the Crown Prince who chose to stay.
The Divine Stone stood solemn and unyielding, yet as the lowliest of the empire's children came forth, Heaven was preparing its cruelest and kindest surprises.
---
The first miracle came with a girl no older than ten.
Her tiny arms struggled under the weight of her mother, whose breath was shallow, life hanging by a thread. Many scoffed.
> "Why let such wretches touch the Stone?"
"Pointless. The Heavens bless only the worthy."
Yet the girl's eyes burned with quiet resolve as she cut her finger and pressed blood against the Stone.
At once, a glow surged forth—not martial, not Taoist, not even Bellicine.
It was the glow of numbers—clear, refined, calculating.
An aptitude for the path of Athanjan beyond even ministers. The light formed patterns, equations, constellations of logic, orbiting around her like an unseen abacus. A destiny of mathematics and strategy—a Heaven-born tactician.
The ministers gasped in outrage, whispering of scandal, of insult. But the Crown Prince raised his hand, silencing all. His gaze lingered on the trembling girl.
> "Talent knows no chains," he declared. "This one belongs to me."
He ordered the imperial physicians to save her mother's life, and the girl was lifted from slavery into the protection of the Crown Prince himself. Whispers spread like wildfire—of a lowly slave child snatched from despair to stand one day among ministers.
---
But Heaven was not yet done.
A boy stepped forward, lean and silent, scars across his arms from a lifetime of toil. He cut his finger without hesitation.
The moment his blood touched the Stone, a chill wind swept across the plaza.
The glow that emerged was strange—half-light, half-shadow, carrying with it the stench of curses and the whispers of spirits.
The priests recoiled in horror.
The ministers shouted in panic.
> "Shaman fate…!"
The mark of the cursed Shamans—the outcasts who lived between the empire and the grassland barbarians, feared by all, yet also the only reason war had not devoured the frontier.
The boy's eyes did not flinch at the fearful glares.
The Crown Prince's gaze grew sharp. He raised his hand, and with calm authority said:
> "Send him to the Shaman village."
At once, imperial guards stepped forward, escorting the boy away—not in chains, but in solemn respect.
The ministers erupted in debate, but the Crown Prince silenced them once more.
> "The pact was made before even my father's reign," he reminded. "Every child marked by the Shaman path must be delivered to their village, no matter their rank. That is the cost of peace."
The audience shivered. The Shaman Village—an isolated, cursed settlement that neither empire nor barbarian dared to destroy. To send the boy there was both law and mercy.
---
Thus ended the fourth day.
Where nobles had boasted and princes had shone, slaves had revealed Heaven's hidden seeds:
A girl born to be the empire's mind of numbers and strategy.
A boy cursed to walk the Shaman's path, feared yet vital to peace.
The crowd dispersed with unease, whispering that perhaps the Heavens did not favor lineage nor wealth, but something far deeper.
And the Crown Prince, watching the fading glow of the Stone, murmured softly to himself:
> "The ones who change Heaven are never the ones we expect."