The village of Nine Barrows was nestled in the mountains like a forgotten stone. Green peaks clawed at the sky on all sides.
Legend said a headless Warlord lay buried somewhere deep in these peaks, his followers having forged him a skull of pure gold so he might rest whole. They called the place "The Nine Ridges and Thirteen Slopes."
A place no one had ever found.
Alaric shifted the weight of the bamboo basket on his back. The path was steep. His washed-out robes, though clean, couldn't hide the scholar's air about him—tall, fair-skinned, with a face that seemed carved for quiet libraries, not rugged trails.
He was the pride of Nine Barrows, the only one to have passed the provincial examinations. Now, he was on his way to the capital for the final Imperial Trials.
But first, a detour into the mountains.
Five miles from the village, hidden in a deep valley, stood a crumbling monastery the locals called Whisperwind. Its days of glory were long gone.
He was there to find its master.
The mountain path was a treacherous thing. Alaric paused, catching his breath, and wiped sweat from his brow. The basket stayed on his back. He wouldn't dare set it down.
Inside it lay a secret. Something his father had passed to him on his deathbed.
A relic, his father had whispered, connected to the Celestials themselves.
He was still climbing the last stone steps below Whisperwind when the sounds reached him. A series of thuds and grunts—the unmistakable sound of a fight.
What now? He pushed himself up the remaining steps, heart pounding.
The first thing he saw was the monastery's strange black iron spire, stark against the sky. The second was the monastery itself, looking even more dilapidated than he remembered. White mourning banners from the old master's funeral three months ago still hung in tatters. Weeds sprouted from the roof tiles.
The place was falling apart.
Stepping into the main courtyard, Alaric froze. Three monks, their faces bruised and swollen, were groaning on the ground. A fourth, a young man with a wild ponytail, had his foot planted firmly on one monk's chest. He was rummaging through the man's robes, pulling out a small coin purse and stuffing it into his own tunic.
Moss grew over the couplet carved into the main gate:
All the world's glory is not mine.
The mountain's age is peerless time.
Against the backdrop of a mugging, the words felt like a bad joke.
The young man with the ponytail was Corbin. The new Master of Whisperwind Monastery. And Alaric's childhood friend.
This was why Alaric had refused the villagers' offer of an escort. He and Corbin had a deal. Corbin, a trained fighter, was to be his secret bodyguard on the dangerous road to the capital.
But Corbin had missed their meeting time at the foot of the mountain. After waiting for hours, Alaric had feared the worst. Or maybe he'd just forgotten?
Now he knew. The monastery was in the middle of a civil war.
The three men on the ground were Corbin's seniors in the order. The oldest was over fifty. And Corbin, barely a man himself, had beaten all three of them?
Alaric wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it. He never knew Corbin had this in him.
It finally made sense why the old master had named Corbin his successor, skipping over men with decades more experience. He hadn't chosen the wisest or the most pious.
He'd chosen the one who could fight.
Corbin finally pocketed the last of the coins. He looked up, saw Alaric, and the vicious scowl on his face vanished, replaced by a wide, toothy grin. There was a wild, untamed energy about him, a spirit forged in the mountains. A new, scraggly beard did little to hide his youth.
He lifted his foot off his brother monk's chest, walked over to the gate, and slung a sword and a satchel over his shoulder. Ignoring the pained groans from the men on the ground, he strode past them, grabbed Alaric by the arm, and started dragging him away.
"Corbin!" the oldest monk roared, struggling to sit up. Blood dripped from his lip.
"You rob your own brothers for personal gain! You are unworthy to be Master! Unworthy of this monastery! When our Younger Uncle returns, he will have your hide!"
The old master had a younger brother in the order, a man their generation called Younger Uncle. He was a wanderer, rarely seen. With him gone, Whisperwind was home to just these five men. A dying order in a forgotten corner of the world.
Dragged down the mountain path, Alaric finally found his voice. "Were you actually robbing them?"
Corbin snorted. "Don't listen to their whining. Whisperwind is broke. I was… reorganizing our assets."
He gave Alaric a sideways glance.
"You know they don't respect me as Master. I gave an order to pool our funds. They refused. So, I had to persuade them."
"Persuade them? Is that what you call it?" Alaric was genuinely stunned. He knew Corbin had always been greedy, but mugging his own brothers? That was a new low.
"This is beneath you," Alaric said, his eyes flicking to the pathetic attempt at a beard on Corbin's chin. "Trying to look older won't save you. You remember how Younger Uncle used to thrash you as a kid? He'll skin you alive when he gets back, Master or not."
Corbin just gave a dismissive "Tch," but he seemed to lose some of his swagger. He glanced at the heavy basket straining Alaric's scholar-thin frame. Without a word, he lifted it off Alaric's shoulders, stuffed his own satchel inside, and slung the whole thing over his own back.
They skirted around Nine Barrows, taking a lesser-known trail. By the time they reached the main road leading out of the mountains, Corbin had changed out of his monk's robes and into plain traveler's clothes.
The road was quiet. The air was still.
Just as they neared the junction with the Imperial highway, the silence was broken by the steady clop of horse hooves.
A carriage was approaching. An unusual sight in these poor, remote parts. They stepped to the side of the road to let it pass.
But it didn't pass. It slowed to a stop right in front of them.
Corbin instantly tensed, his hand moving towards the hilt of his sword.
The driver, a man dressed like a common farmer, lifted his wide-brimmed hat. His face was that of a man of authority—square-jawed, with long eyebrows and an intense gaze. He looked to be near fifty. He jumped down from his seat and bowed respectfully to Alaric.
Alaric's eyes widened in surprise. "Master Valerius? What are you doing here?"
They knew each other? Corbin's gaze darted between the two men.
Master Valerius glanced at Corbin, a stranger, and hesitated.
"He's with me," Alaric said. "You can speak freely. Is something wrong?"
Valerius's voice dropped to a low, serious tone. "I've come to stop you from going to the capital. I urge you, my lord, postpone your journey. The next Trials are only a few years away."
What? Corbin's head swiveled back and forth, trying to make sense of it all.
Alaric frowned. "The reason?"
Valerius pulled his hat lower, as if to hide from unseen eyes. His expression was grim. "My lord, you've been secluded in your studies. The world outside has grown dark. The six southwestern prefectures are plagued by… abominations. Twisted creatures, moving with a strange purpose."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"For some reason, they are targeting candidates on their way to the Imperial Trials. Several have already been found dead. For your safety, you must wait."
"That makes no sense," Alaric murmured. "Why would they do such a thing?"
"We don't know the specifics," Valerius admitted. "The official order is to suppress the news. But there are whispers... rumors that this is connected to the **[Compass Directorate]**. That they stirred something up they shouldn't have. And I believe it. Only the Directorate has the power to silence the magistrates."
**[Compass Directorate]**.
The name sent a jolt through both Alaric and Corbin. Everyone knew of the Directorate. They were a power unto themselves.
***
Long ago, the legends said, the Celestials walked the earth. Then they vanished, returning to their own realm, leaving only their hidden sanctuaries—the **[Celestial Ruins]**—behind. These ruins were said to hold unimaginable power, artifacts, even the secrets to eternal life.
For an Emperor obsessed with his own mortality, such a prize was irresistible.
To find these ruins, free from the politics of the court, the Emperor had created a special agency, accountable only to him: The **[Compass Directorate]**.
Filled with scholars, mages, and explorers, the Directorate's sole purpose was to hunt for Celestial secrets. Their power had grown immense, rivaling that of the official government.
Hearing the name, Corbin couldn't help but glance at Alaric. His friend's late father had deep ties to that shadowy organization.
It was a secret Corbin had only learned three months ago, from his master's dying words. Alaric's father, Lord Valerius—the quiet, crippled man in a wheelchair the village had known for years—was not just a retired scholar.
He had been the head of the **Warden's Office**, one of the four divisions under the Ministry of Works.
A position of immense influence.
The hunt for **[Celestial Ruins]** often led into treacherous, untamed wilderness. And when it came to navigating and taming the wild mountains, no one in the Empire was more skilled than the Wardens. They sourced the timber and stone for all the Empire's great projects. It was their job to know the mountains.
And so, it had become their duty to assist the **[Compass Directorate]**.
As a key player in the Emperor's favorite obsession, and a close ally of the powerful Directorate, Lord Valerius had once been a man of staggering importance.
And Whisperwind Monastery owed him a great debt from those days. A debt that had forged the bond between their two families.