The rooster crowed.
Zeke did not move.
Sunlight spilled through the cracks in his wooden shutters, warming his face. The rooster crowed again, louder, as though it had taken offense to his existence. Somewhere in the distance, a pot clanged, a woman shouted, and the rhythmic chop of an axe echoed through the sleepy village of Ashbourne.
Zeke groaned and rolled over in his straw bed, pulling the blanket over his head. "Five more minutes," he mumbled. The rooster, unimpressed, crowed again right outside his window.
Zeke sat up with a start, hair sticking in every direction. "Alright, alright! I get it—you win!"
He grabbed the nearest object—a worn boot by his bed—and tossed it half-heartedly at the rooster outside his window. The bird squawked, flapped its wings indignantly, and strutted a few steps away, thoroughly unimpressed.
Zeke rubbed his eyes, blinked at the sunlight, and then realized something dreadful.
He was late. Again.
He tumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over the loose floorboard he had been promising to fix for months. Pulling on his boots, he burst out of his little wooden hut into the bustle of the village square.
"Zeke of Ashbourne, late again!" called Old Marta, who was already sweeping her porch with a broom that looked older than time itself. Her wrinkled face folded into a grin as she shook her head.
Zeke pointed at her broom as he jogged past. "One day, that broom's going to fly, and when it does, you'll have to apologize to me for calling me lazy."
"Pfft. The day I apologize will be the day pigs sprout wings," she cackled.
Children laughed as they chased each other down the dirt path. Farmers shouted as they led oxen to the fields. The blacksmith's hammer rang like a heartbeat. From the bakery drifted the warm smell of bread, making Zeke's stomach growl in betrayal.
It was the same rhythm every morning—except for Zeke, who seemed permanently out of rhythm.
He dashed toward the well, praying no one had noticed how late he was.
Of course, everyone had noticed.
"Zeke! You were supposed to fetch water an hour ago!" cried Harrod, the blacksmith, sweat gleaming on his bare arms as he hammered a glowing horseshoe. Sparks leapt from his anvil in defiance of Zeke's existence.
"I was, uh…" Zeke searched for an excuse. "Testing gravity. Still works, by the way!" He flashed a grin and grabbed a bucket.
Harrod snorted. "One of these days, boy, your dreams are going to get you into trouble."
"Dreams? No, no," Zeke said, lowering the bucket into the well. "Dreams are free. Trouble's the one charging rent."
The villagers laughed, but it was fond laughter. They always laughed at Zeke—the boy with his head in the clouds.
It had been early spring. He was just a child, too small to carry even a proper bucket of water. The sky had been clear, the air crisp.
And then… they appeared.
Figures streaking through the heavens, robes billowing, hair streaming, qi shimmering like sunlight on water. They glided above the clouds as though the sky itself had bent to serve them.
The entire village had stopped and stared. To the elders, it was a reminder of something they could never touch. To the children, it was magic made real.
To Zeke… it was everything.
He remembered the pounding of his little heart, the way his throat tightened, the way he whispered under his breath: "I'll fly too. One day."
The cultivators disappeared into the horizon, leaving behind only the aching emptiness of an unreachable dream. But that single glimpse had burned itself into Zeke's soul.
And it never left.
Ashbourne wasn't big. A cluster of houses, a few shops, fields of grain, and the deep green forest at its edge. A river cut nearby, feeding the land with fresh water. There were no sects, no cultivators, no grand techniques here. Just sweat, earth, and laughter.
And for Zeke, there was family.
Not one mother. Not one father. But all of them.
He had been found as a baby at the forest edge, wrapped in a ragged scrap of cloth. No one knew who had left him or why. But the village had taken him in without hesitation.
Old Marta had fed him milk when he was an infant. Harrod had taught him how to swing a hammer, even if he bent more nails than he forged. The farmers had shared their food, the children had shared their games, and the elders had shared their stories.
The whole village raised him.
So when they scolded him, it was with love. When they teased him, it was with warmth.
"Eat, Zeke," grumbled a baker's wife once, shoving an extra roll into his hand. "Skinny boys don't chop firewood."
"Teach the little ones to climb trees, Zeke," an elder had said, shoving him into a pack of squealing children. "You're the only one foolish enough to get stuck with them."
He had no parents, but he had something better: an entire village that was his family.
By midday, Zeke was chopping wood at the edge of the village. Sweat dripped down his back, his arms ached, and he muttered to himself with every swing of the axe.
"Chop… chop… chop… and still no wings. At this rate I'll be the world's first lumberjack immortal."
As the axe bit into another log, something strange happened.
A voice. Not a voice exactly, but a presence. It echoed inside his skull, crisp and cold, as though the heavens themselves had spoken.
[System Initiated.]
Welcome, Zeke of Ashbourne.
Cultivation Progression: Locked.
Method of Advancement: Quests → Points → Realm Ascension.
Zeke froze, axe half-buried in the log. His eyes darted left and right.
"…Marta? Is that you? Because if this is a prank, I swear—"
[Quest Assigned: Chop 50 logs before dusk.]
Reward: +5 Points. Advancement possible: Early Stage, Body Tempering Realm.
Zeke blinked. "Wait. What?"
He rubbed his ears. No change. The message was still glowing faintly inside his head.
[Progress: 23/50 logs chopped.]
He stared at the pile of wood he'd already cut. "This… this counts?!"
He dropped the axe, laughed nervously, then picked it up again. "Alright, heavens. If this is some sort of joke, I'll play along. Worst case, I get buff arms."
He chopped until his shoulders burned, until his palms blistered, until sweat stung his eyes. He counted logs out loud, as if daring the System to keep up:
"Thirty-seven… thirty-eight… thirty-nine… if this doesn't make me immortal, I'm suing the heavens."
By the time dusk fell, he slammed the axe down one last time, splitting the fiftieth log clean in two.
[Quest Completed.]
Reward: +5 Points.
Congratulations, Zeke. You have reached Early Stage: Body Tempering Realm.
Zeke stumbled back, panting. A strange warmth surged through him—his muscles tightened, his lungs expanded, his senses sharpened. The aches faded into a strange, buzzing strength.
He stared at his hands. "I… I feel…" He clenched his fist, grinning. "…stronger. Actually stronger."
Then he threw his arms up at the sky. "Wait. That's it? I chop wood and become a cultivator? Are you telling me immortality is just manual labor?!"
Somewhere in the distance, villagers turned their heads at his outburst. Zeke waved at them sheepishly. "Uh… don't mind me! Just… conversing with the heavens."
That night, Zeke lay on the grass outside his hut, staring up at the stars. His arms still hummed with strength. His body felt lighter, sharper.
And in his mind, the System glowed quietly, showing him a ladder of realms:
Body Tempering → Qi Gathering → Foundation Establishment → … → Eternal.
He chuckled to himself. "So… chopping wood can get me to the heavens, huh?"
The memory of the cultivators flying across the sky came back, as vivid as ever. His dream burned anew.
He whispered, soft enough that only the stars could hear:
"If chopping wood gets me closer to flying… then I'll chop down the whole forest if I have to."
The System pulsed faintly, and for the first time, a new line appeared:
[New Quest: Protect what is yours.]
Zeke blinked at the words. "Protect what's mine? What's that supposed to mean?" He chuckled nervously, rolling onto his back. "Heaven's got a funny sense of humor."
He closed his eyes, unaware that the forest beyond Ashbourne stirred with shadows.
And so began the journey of Zeke of Ashbourne—the boy who was everyone's son, and who would one day touch the heavens.