Wang Lin had never claimed a destiny out of the ordinary.
At sixteen, soon to be seventeen, he already felt worn down by life, as if time itself had singled him out and aged him prematurely. Every morning, he dragged his body from one classroom to another, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes empty, surviving on hastily finished homework, mechanically repeated scoldings from teachers, and meals swallowed without taste.
His life was neither glorious nor tragic.
It was not even unhappy.
It was simply... linear.
Days stacked upon one another without relief.
Weeks faded one after the other, leaving no trace. Classes flowed by like indistinct blocks: mathematics, science, literature—always the same chalk-covered boards, the same weary voices reciting curricula no one truly believed in anymore.
Wang Lin watched his classmates talk about the future with an almost aggressive certainty. Prestigious universities. Clearly defined careers. Well-structured plans.
When asked what he wanted to do later, he nodded. He answered vaguely. He avoided details.
He had learned very early not to expect anything.
No revelation.
No miracle.
No inner calling.
Only the continuation of a world that moved forward without ever looking at him.
He did not dream of greatness.
He no longer even dreamed of happiness.
He dreamed of rest.
That evening, after an interminable day, he left the school as the sky was already darkening with heavy hues. The air was cold, dry, biting against his skin. Streetlights turned on one by one, casting an artificial orange glow onto the asphalt, oppressive in its uniformity.
People walked quickly. Headphones on. Eyes lowered to their screens. Each person locked within their own trajectory, impermeable to other lives.
Wang Lin walked without hurry.
He stopped for a moment in front of a small restaurant's window. Inside, a family laughed around a table too small to contain their joy. Their muffled voices passed through the glass, distorted and distant.
He lingered a few seconds too long.
Then he looked away.
Scenes like that no longer hurt him. They merely reminded him that he always stood just slightly outside the frame.
He went home.
The house was silent.
A deep silence—almost respectful—as if the walls understood his state and adjusted to it. His uncle was still away on business. He would not return until the next day. That absence was nothing unusual.
Loneliness was part of the fragile balance of his daily life.
In the kitchen, Wang Lin dropped his bag onto the floor. He turned on the kettle, opened a packet of instant noodles, poured its contents into a chipped bowl. The sound of boiling water mingled with the discreet ticking of the wall clock.
Steam rose slowly.
No particular smell.
No anticipation.
He ate standing up, barely tasting the food, eyes fixed on an invisible point. Each bite was identical to the last. Functional.
Then he went upstairs to his room.
A bowl of lukewarm noodles abandoned on the desk.
A chair pushed out of place.
A bed too narrow.
Nothing but the ordinary.
He turned off the light, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and let himself sink into the silence. The dark ceiling looked back at him without judgment.
The house seemed to hold its breath.
At times, Wang Lin had the strange impression that this place only existed when he was inside it—as if the walls waited for his return to take shape again, as if his absence plunged them into some indefinite suspension.
The thought crossed his mind briefly.
He dismissed it at once.
Then, the air changed.
A dull vibration spread through the room, almost organic. It was not a sound, but a sensation. The walls trembled imperceptibly. The silence twisted, stretched from within, like a membrane about to tear.
Wang Lin's eyes snapped open.
At the center of the room, space itself was ripping apart.
A circle of unstable light slowly swirled, radiating an energy no human science could define. It was neither a hologram nor any known luminous phenomenon. The colors were impossible—shifting, aggressive to the eye.
It was a portal.
The temperature dropped sharply.
His breath formed a thin mist in the air.
The floorboards creaked—not under his weight, but beneath an invisible pressure, as if the entire room were being drawn toward an inconceivable elsewhere.
"F... fuck..."
He sat up too fast, slipped, and fell off the bed. The black blindfold he always wore slid from his forehead and fell to the floor.
His eyes were revealed.
An abyssal blue.
Deep.
Alien.
Within his pupils, minute seals etched like primordial runes pulsed with a cold, living glow. They reacted to the portal's presence, as though an ancient mechanism had just been activated.
The room responded.
The luminous circle wavered briefly, as if it had recognized something. The runes cast a cold light across the walls, twisting the shadows into something sickly and unreal.
Wang Lin felt his heart race.
"No... not this..."
Since childhood, his eyes had never been a gift. Those who met his gaze felt an instinctive unease—a vertigo, sometimes even an irrational fear they could not explain.
The old man who had raised him had given him that blindfold one day, murmuring in a grave voice:
"Keep them hidden. Until the moment you can no longer do so."
He lunged for the cloth.
But the portal's light contracted.
A silhouette emerged.
The air vibrated under an overwhelming pressure, as if an entire world were forcing itself into another. The walls groaned. Objects trembled.
Then he appeared.
A man.
Tall. Upright. Motionless.
His mere presence crushed the room without a single movement. The air seemed to bow around him, and even the portal appeared unstable nearby, as if it could not sustain his existence for long.
His attire resembled that of ancient cultivators: heavy fabrics, old metallic embroidery, carried by winds that did not exist within the room. His white hair flowed like an eternal cascade of frost.
But his eyes...
They were identical to Wang Lin's.
With one difference.
In one burned a solar seal—incandescent, vibrating with crushing authority.
In the other rested a lunar seal—cold, silent, of terrifying depth.
Wang Lin's breath broke.
"W-who are you?!"
The man raised a hand.
Calm.
Imperial.
"Wang Lin. My time is limited. I am you... and you are me."
"What...?!"
A smile heavy with centuries slowly stretched across his lips.
"This blue. These seals. They are no coincidence. They are our fractured origin."
He did not give him time to respond.
"You were not born in this world."
Wang Lin's heart seemed to stop.
"And my family...?"
"The old man found you as an infant, abandoned near an ancient sanctuary. He gave you a life. His brother took over afterward. No blood ties... but true pillars nonetheless."
Silence fell. Dense. Crushing.
"The Cataclysm is approaching."
"What cataclysm?!"
"Tomorrow. Saturday, December 7th, 2050. Our birthday."
Each word fell like an inescapable verdict.
"The Blue Star will be destroyed."
The world wavered beneath Wang Lin's feet.
"No human will survive. Except you."
The portal crackled, unstable, its edges fracturing.
"After the collapse, an entity will offer you a pact. *The Fanuel Contract*. A system capable of reshaping consciousness. Mortally dangerous."
"Why me...?"
"Because your entire existence was nothing but a prelude."
The man slowly raised his hands.
"I will give you three things. This is not a gift. It is a burden."
"The first: a second spiritual sea, independent, meant to contain Fanuel.
The second: a partial unsealing of your abyssal eyes.
The third: a sealed scroll... and a technique."
"A method to force a system to bow before your will."
He placed his palm on Wang Lin's forehead.
An imperceptible hesitation crossed his gaze.
"If one day you come to hate me for what I impose upon you... then it will mean you survived long enough to earn the right to hate."
His voice grew heavier.
"When the Blue Star collapses... you must be the one who makes it be reborn."
Light exploded.
Pain came instantly.
Total.
Then—nothing.