Chapter 1 – The Eternal Struggle
The universe was never silent.
Before mortals first drew breath, before stars dared to shine, two forces waged a ceaseless war: Light and Darkness.
They were not gods, nor spirits, but laws given form. Neither born, nor created—simply existing.
Their clash raged across the endless void, shattering galaxies, drowning realms, and leaving chaos in their wake. Mortal kingdoms vanished like dust. Immortal sects crumbled like sand. Yet the war continued, eternal and without reason.
Light surged like blazing suns, each strike burning away all shadow in its path. Darkness swirled like endless night, swallowing stars whole, devouring light until nothing remained.
Countless times, it seemed one side might triumph. Yet neither victory nor peace ever came.
The universe screamed. The heavens cracked. And still, no answer was found.
Why must there be light?
Why must there be darkness?
Why must the strong crush the weak, and the weak yearn endlessly for strength?
The beings of heaven and earth could not answer. Even the creator who first set the cosmos into motion watched silently, as though waiting…
Waiting for something. Or someone.
Then, amidst the chaos, a child was born.
Not of divine will.
Not of heavenly fate.
But of chance.
He cried not beneath golden skies, nor amidst a godly altar. He was born in a small wooden hut, deep within an ancient mountain range, hidden from the eyes of heaven.
His name was Ming.
He carried no blessing, no mark of destiny.
The heavens ignored him, and the earth forgot him.
And yet—within his heart, something stirred.
Not ambition. Not greed. But curiosity.
The same question that haunted the cosmos whispered in his soul:
Why?
Why must the world be divided into light and darkness?
Why must there be winners and losers, strength and weakness?
Though only a child, Ming's eyes carried a clarity that unsettled even grown men. Those who looked too long into them swore they could glimpse reflections of stars—distant, unreachable, yet ever burning.
Unaware of the shadows hidden within his own soul, unaware of the storm waiting beyond the stars, Ming's life began quietly, in the house of an old teacher atop Silent Peak Mountain.
The old man taught him letters, numbers, and the ways of survival in the harsh wilderness. To outsiders, Ming was just another orphan, another fragile life destined to vanish unnoticed.
But fate—though silent—had already begun to stir.
For though Ming was no chosen child of destiny, he was different. He did not bow to the flow of the world. He questioned. He observed. And he remembered.
The spark within him would one day set fire to heaven and earth.
And so began the tale of a boy—
A tale that may one day shake the balance of all existence.
Silent Peak Mountain lived up to its name.
The towering ridges were draped in mist year-round, their jagged edges cutting the horizon like blades. Birds seldom sang here, and even the wind passed softly, as if fearful of disturbing something ancient slumbering beneath the earth.
At the heart of this quiet mountain stood a lone wooden hut. Smoke curled gently from its chimney, carrying with it the faint fragrance of wild herbs and old parchment. Within this humble home, the boy Ming grew.
His teacher was a man known only as the Old Scholar.
No one knew from where he came. Some whispered he was a hermit abandoned by his sect. Others believed he was a failed cultivator, broken by the weight of ambition. Yet in the boy's eyes, the Old Scholar was neither fallen nor forgotten—he was simply teacher.
The Old Scholar's back was bent, his hair silver, but his eyes remained sharp, carrying a depth Ming could never fully grasp. When he spoke, his voice was slow, measured, as though each word had been weighed against the weight of the heavens.
Every morning, Ming woke before dawn. He would fetch water from the mountain spring, chop firewood, and sweep the small courtyard. Only then would he sit cross-legged on the worn bamboo mat as the Old Scholar taught him.
The lessons were unlike those told in villages below the mountain.
"Words are tools," the Old Scholar often said, "but tools can build or destroy. A dull blade is safer than one wielded without thought."
Ming listened carefully, though his heart was restless. Other boys his age dreamed of swords, heroes, and the fiery path of cultivation. But Ming's questions were different.
"Teacher," he once asked, his dark eyes fixed upon the clouds drifting above, "why do people fight?"
The Old Scholar did not answer immediately. He set down the brush in his hand, gazing at the boy. A long silence followed, filled only by the crackle of the oil lamp.
Finally, he replied, "Because they believe something belongs to them—power, honor, survival. And when belief clashes, so too do men."
Ming frowned. "Then what belongs to me?"
The Old Scholar's gaze softened. "That is what you must discover."
---
Despite the quiet life, Ming's days were not without struggle. Silent Peak Mountain was beautiful, but it was also merciless. Wolves prowled the lower slopes, venomous insects hid within the underbrush, and the winters froze bone and marrow alike.
Ming's body bore the marks of hardship. His palms were calloused from woodcutting, his legs scarred from missteps on jagged paths. Yet with each wound, he grew sharper, tougher—like steel slowly tempered by fire.
The Old Scholar guided him not by force, but by riddles.
"Strength without wisdom," he once said while watching Ming struggle to lift a bucket of water, "is like a bow without a string. Loud, but useless."
Another time, when Ming asked about cultivation, the Old Scholar only smiled faintly.
"Do not rush. The mountain is patient. The river flows without end. When the time is right, the path will appear before you."
These words frustrated Ming. He wanted answers, yet his teacher gave him only more questions. Still, he endured, for he trusted the old man in ways he could not explain.
---
One evening, as the sun bled crimson across the horizon, Ming sat outside the hut, his gaze fixed upon the sky. Stars had begun to emerge, faint glimmers against the fading light.
He whispered to himself, "Light and darkness… do they fight up there too?"
The Old Scholar, standing behind him, overheard. He studied the boy's silhouette, the faint ember of determination burning in his small frame.
"Perhaps," he murmured, more to himself than the boy, "you will be the one to answer."
Ming turned, puzzled. But the Old Scholar had already gone inside, leaving only the faint sound of turning pages.
The mountain fell silent once more.
Unaware that far beyond the stars, the war between Light and Darkness raged on.
Unaware that in time, their endless struggle would reach even Silent Peak Mountain.
And when it did, the boy named Ming would no longer be able to hide in the shadows of his teacher's hut.
The spark within him had only just begun to burn.