Darkness.
It was not the simple darkness of a closed room or the faint veil of night that could be pierced by streetlamps. This darkness was absolute, thick, and suffocating, as though all of existence had been swallowed by a void.
Han Mo drifted within it, weightless, suspended like a speck of dust in a vast ocean without surface or bottom. Time lost meaning; seconds and hours melted together until they became indistinguishable. There was no sound, no light, only the faintest echo of his own thoughts, which slipped away the moment he tried to seize them.
*Am I… dead?*
The question arose sluggishly, like a bubble floating up from the depths of his mind. But no answer followed. Only silence.
He strained to recall. His last memories were fragmented: the dim glow of his phone screen on his desk, the monotonous hum of traffic outside his apartment, the faint bitter taste of instant noodles lingering on his tongue. He remembered the loneliness of his small rented room, the chill of the early morning air slipping through the cracked window. And then…
Nothing.
Had he collapsed? A sudden illness? Perhaps he had fallen asleep at his desk and was now dreaming. The thought comforted him briefly—until a strange coldness slithered down his spine, too sharp, too real for any dream.
Suddenly, he gasped.
Air rushed into his lungs like fire, stinging his chest. His eyes snapped open, and the world exploded into being.
He found himself standing in a vast stone hall. The ceiling soared high above, its arching beams carved with intricate patterns of beasts and clouds. Rows of lanterns hung suspended in the air, their orange flames swaying without wind, casting long shadows that danced across the engraved walls. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and damp stone.
All around him, youths stood in orderly lines. They appeared to be around his age—fifteen, perhaps sixteen—dressed in plain but well-made robes of dark blue and gray. Some looked nervous, others proud, their eyes glittering with excitement. Their attention was fixed on the front of the hall.
Han Mo—no, *who was he now?*—turned his gaze forward.
There stood a stone altar, square and imposing, its surface etched with mysterious runes that pulsed faintly like veins of light. Beside it stood an elder in gray ceremonial robes, his back straight, his eyes sharp beneath white brows. Power radiated from him, invisible yet undeniable, making the air feel heavy.
"Next!" the elder's voice boomed, echoing across the chamber like thunder.
A boy stepped forward from the line. His hands trembled as he placed his palm upon the altar. At once, light surged—golden threads twining up from the stone, seeping into his body. Gasps arose from the watching youths.
Then, above the boy's head, a shape flickered into existence. Translucent light gathered, forming the outline of a bird. Wings spread, sharp eyes glinted, and a sleek hawk of shimmering radiance hovered proudly.
"B-grade affinity. Wind Hawk," the elder declared, his tone calm yet resonant.
Excited murmurs broke out. The boy's face lit up, his chest puffing with pride as he stepped back into line.
Han Mo's breath caught in his throat. His mind struggled to grasp what he had just witnessed. A hawk formed from light? Was this some sort of holographic projection? But the weight pressing against his skin told him otherwise—this was not a trick of technology.
Before he could gather his thoughts, another youth stepped forward. This time, flames erupted in a coiling pattern, forming a serpent with scales like molten copper.
"A-grade affinity. Fire Serpent!" the elder announced.
The hall filled with awed exclamations. Even the elders standing at the sides nodded with approval. The boy grinned so widely that it seemed his face might split.
Han Mo blinked rapidly. His pulse hammered in his ears. None of this made sense. A hawk, a serpent, affinities? What ceremony was this? Where was he?
His gaze fell upon his own hands.
They were not his.
Gone was the pale skin of a tired office worker, the faint scar on his left knuckle from a careless cut while cooking. In its place were slender, tanned fingers, the knuckles faintly calloused, the nails neatly trimmed. His arms were thinner yet filled with a wiry strength he had never possessed.
An icy realization struck him.
*This… this isn't my body.*
Panic welled within him, but before it could overwhelm, something stirred deep in his mind. Memories—fragmented, blurred—rose unbidden, like pages torn from a book and scattered in the wind.
**Mo Han.**
**Fifteen years old.**
**A son of the Mo Clan.**
**Today is the Awakening Ceremony.**
The words echoed within, foreign yet strangely natural. They felt like they belonged to someone else, yet they nestled into his consciousness as though they had always been his. Snippets of unfamiliar lives flickered before his eyes: running through clan courtyards, bowing to stern elders, studying crude cultivation scrolls. None of them were his, yet he *remembered*.
Han Mo—Mo Han—staggered slightly, his vision spinning.
*What's happening to me? Where am I?*
"Next!" the elder called again, his voice jolting Mo Han from his daze.
Another youth approached the altar, his expression tense. This time, the light above him flickered weakly before forming a dull gray rat.
"C-grade affinity. Stone Rat."
Disappointed murmurs rippled through the crowd. The boy's shoulders slumped as he returned to the line, shame burning on his face.
Mo Han's mind whirled. He could not understand the classifications or the meaning of these affinities, but the difference in the crowd's reaction was obvious. Some beasts brought awe, others ridicule. Pride and despair rose and fell like tides in this strange ritual.
One after another, the youths stepped forward, each revealing an affinity—some radiant, some pitiful. A wolf of shadows. A vine of emerald light. A sparrow with golden feathers. Each new manifestation twisted Mo Han's confusion tighter.
At last, a pause came. The elder's gaze swept over the crowd, sharp and commanding. His voice rang out.
"Mo Han!"
The name struck him like a hammer. For a heartbeat, his thoughts blanked. Then, with sudden clarity, he realized—it was his turn.
Every eye in the hall turned toward him. The weight of their expectation pressed down like a mountain.
His feet felt heavy, as though rooted to the ground. His palms were slick with sweat. He did not know what would happen when he touched that altar. He did not even know what he truly was anymore. But the name called was his. The body he inhabited belonged to this Mo Han.
And so, step by trembling step, he moved forward.
The hall grew silent. Only the echo of his footsteps filled the air.
He stopped before the altar. The runes glowed faintly, pulsing as if waiting.
The elder's gaze bore into him. "Place your hand upon the stone."
Mo Han swallowed hard. His heart pounded in his chest, threatening to break free. His fingers shook as he slowly raised his hand.
And with a deep, shuddering breath, he pressed his palm against the cold surface.
The runes blazed.
Light surged upward, swallowing his vision.