The storm lasted three days.
Xu Yan wandered the outer mountains, surviving on wild roots and rainwater. Fever burned through his body, yet he did not die.
On the fourth night, he collapsed before a ruined altar half-buried in vines.
A cracked stone tablet lay there, carved with words no one remembered.
"Heaven recognizes names.
I recognize only will."
Xu Yan laughed weakly. "Then recognize me."
His blood dripped onto the tablet.
The world froze.
Pain exploded through his skull as something ancient awakened.
Not Qi.
Not cultivation.
But hunger.
A voice echoed—not from outside, but from his bones.
"You have no name."
"Good."
"Heaven will not notice you when you eat it."
Darkness swallowed him whole.