Within the palms of boundless entities, the Primordial Sovereigns, lay the vast expanse of innumerable astral rivers, their radiant currents forming the very lines etched across those ancient hands. Each astral river carried within it countless galaxies, spiraling worlds born and extinguished in the span of a single breath. And within one such galaxy existed a realm that was once radiant with laughter and immortal glory, now reduced to shattered fragments drifting through the starry sea.
It was known in the oldest records as the Ancient Celestial Realm.
In that distant age, the heavens there were complete, the Dao was whole, and the stars themselves bowed to the will of its immortals. Mountains pierced the firmament, celestial seas mirrored the endless sky, and laws were not studied but commanded.
Then the sundering arrived and no record speaks clearly of the cause. Some say the Sovereigns turned their gazes elsewhere, while others speak of a forbidden ascension that challenged the balance of the Dao itself. But all that remains is certainty, that the heavens cracked, that the astral rivers shifted, and the Ancient Celestial Realm was torn apart, its fragments scattered like broken glass across the vast expanse.
Yet beneath that shattered domain lived the descendants of those once-ancient celestials. They were no longer called immortals, but were now known as the Forsaken. Now stripped of their celestial lineage, now severed from the heavens that once acknowledged them, they were cast down into mortality. What once commanded laws now struggled against them. What once shaped the Dao now begged for a fragment of it.
And yet, the path was not entirely closed. Because the way of immortality was cultivation. To cultivate was to temper flesh and soul, to sever the chains of the Forsaken name. To shed mortality was to reclaim a lost divinity buried deep within broken bloodlines. Each realm ascended was a step away from abandonment, a step closer to the heavens that had turned their backs. Now, cultivation was not merely growth but purification. A slow, merciless cleansing of impurity, suffering, and weakness, until the Forsaken could once more stand beneath the stars and return to their rightful place, the heavens.
....
Red Leaf Village, Lingfeng Province, Vermillion Kingdom.
Across the mountains that lay behind Red Leaf Village stood the estate of the acclaimed Wang Family. Vast and imposing, it spanned an area comparable to four football fields, its grounds layered with towering pagodas, interwoven courtyards, elegant pavilions, and secluded living quarters.
And within one of those pagodas, seated on a red cushion, was a fatty named Wang Chen. He was munching on some grapes, which were being fed to him by peerless beauties dressed in skimpy, revealing red clothes.
"More! More! I need more grapes!" the fatty ordered as he scratched his potbelly.
Without a trace of shame on his face, he sat shirtless and utterly depraved, his gaze constantly wandering toward the exposed curves of his female servants.
Wang Chen then laughed, his fingers tightening around the servant's delicate hand as he leaned back against the cushion.
"Hah… look at you trembling already. Don't tell me you're nervous just because this young master touched you."
He then flicked her wrist lightly, eyes roaming without any restraint.
"Such soft skin! No calluses, no scars. That means you've been well kept. Good! Very good! The Wang Clan doesn't raise useless trash."
Wang Chen then gripped her with his other hand, as he laughed, loud and arrogant, as if the world itself existed only for his amusement.
"But you… you get to feed me. You get to stand this close. If you please me today, who knows? I might even remember your name tomorrow."
Then,
Wang Chen noticed a piercing stare directed at him. It came from one of the male servants assigned to fan him from a short distance away.
Like the female servants, who were tasked with more pleasurable duties, the male servants were also dressed in red garments, though far less revealing.
Fu Shen was his name, the servant who dared to look at Wang Chen with such contempt and disgust that it made the young master shiver slightly.
Fu Shen's expression clearly said, 'this perverted bastard,' and that alone was enough to strike a nerve with the fat young master.
Standing up, Wang Chen pointed his pudgy fingers at Fu Shen and quickly made his anger known.
"HAAAH?!"
"YOU DARE?! YOU DARE LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT?!"
"Do you know who this young master is?! One word from me and your entire family will be erased from the annals of history!"
"KNEEL! NOW! BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND!"
Nothing. Not even a single sign of movement, as Fu Shen stood in complete defiance of the young master.
He knew it. Everyone knew it. Disobeying the young master bordered on madness. Wang Chen was the aggressive type, quick to order punishment and slow to reason. Someone like that had to be treated with extreme caution.
But Fu Shen chose today to be the day he finally said enough to what most would call unbearable, shameless behavior.
Fu Shen confidently strode forward, dropping the fan as he walked toward the young master.
"You're a fatty. And a miserable one at that," he said coldly. "No peerless beauty will ever truly desire you in your hollow life. That's why you resort to corrupting them, forcing yourself upon others like a pig wallowing in mud. To be honest, I no longer need this place. I've earned enough to attend the Selection Ceremony at the East Demon Sea Sect grounds. So I'll be taking my leave."
Everyone began to gasp in shock, the words from Fu Shen weighing heavier than a lifetime.
Was Fu Shen foolish?
Why would he resort to such words?
Did he truly wish to court death?
Surely Fu Shen must have some kind of golden finger, something that would make him invincible for the next fifty years. Otherwise, if the young master did not kill him here and now, he would surely chase Fu Shen to the ends of the earth.
"IMPUDENT DOG! COURTING DEATH! YOU'VE TRULY GOT GUTS MADE OF IRON!"
"GUARDS! GUAAARDS! GET HOLD OF HIM!"
At Wang Chen's piercing shout, five broad-shouldered men stepped forward in unison. They were not ordinary servants but armored guards of the Wang Clan, each one armored and built like stone walls. They were covered in thick imperial style armor, which was layered with plates of dark iron overlapping from shoulder to waist. Their metal bore engraved cloud patterns and beast motifs, dulled by years of wear yet polished enough to reflect the faintest of light. Heavy red tassels hung from their pauldrons, swaying as they moved, while leather straps bound the armor tightly to their frames. At their waists rested weapons that had tasted blood more than once, their presence alone enough to make weaker men tremble.
Two made it to Fu Shen first. Their grips were rough and seasoned, hands clamping down on his arms like iron shackles. Fingers holding him tight, intent on digging into his muscle, crushing bones and forcing obedience under pain alone. Fu Shen's shoulders remained uptight, his body held wide and open. The last three surrounded him in what seemed like an all too familiar formation. One leveled a thick spear, its steel tip hovering inches from Fu Shen's chest. Another unsheathed a straight sword, the blade flashing coldly as it angled toward his neck. The last rested a broad saber against his shoulder, the edge heavy and ready to strike at the slightest signal. Together, they formed a cage of killing intent, sealing every path of escape.
The air slowly grew heavy. Servants held their breath. Even the distant wind seemed to hesitate.
And yet, Fu Shen smirked.
It was faint, barely there, but unmistakable.
His eyes lowered, not in fear, but in quiet amusement. In that moment, as the guards tightened their grip and Wang Chen's fury burned behind them, Fu Shen's thoughts drifted far away.
He remembered the nights.
Countless nights spent alone, long after the estate had fallen asleep. His body drenched in sweat, his muscles screaming as he pushed himself past exhaustion again and again. He remembered striking wooden posts until his knuckles split, grinding his bones through pain while his breath came ragged and raw. His stubborn will and a body forced to endure what it should not have.
He recalled sitting beneath cold moonlight, tempering his flesh through sheer repetition. Lifting stones until his arms shook. Holding stances until his legs collapsed. Circulating breath through aching limbs, forcing strength to settle into muscle and bone. Every night was the same. Pain, rest, repeat. While others dreamed of pleasure, Fu Shen carved his strength with blood and discipline.
For four years he did all of that in preparation for the East Demon Sea Sect selection. It would take place the following week, and it was no secret that one should begin martial cultivation long before entering a magical sect to pursue spiritual cultivation. Most ordinary men like Fu Shen did not know whether they possessed spiritual roots or not. Rather than remain idle and wait for fate, it was better to begin the martial path early and carve the road to immortality later.
Currently at the peak stage of the Second-Rate Warrior of the Body Tempering Realm, Fu shen has mastered his style's physical forms and has enough internal strength to fight all the five guards.
"HAHAHA! GOOD! VERY GOOD! THIS YOUNG MASTER HASN'T BEEN THIS ANGRY IN DAYS!"
"You think a mere ant like you can provoke the Wang Family and still breathe?!"
"I'LL HAVE YOU CRAWLING BACK, BEGGING FOR MERCY ON YOUR KNEES!"
"REMEMBER THIS DAY! REMEMBER THIS NAME! WANG CHEN!"
Fu shen then raised his head slightly, having an expression that immediately told the young master that he was mocking him, that he was just waiting for the fool to finish talking so that he could make his move. But to the young master and the surrounding onlookers, Fu Shen was like a trapped animal; but to Fu Shen himself, he was like a predator who had finally led his prey into a closed room.
As a peak Second-Rate Warrior, his muscles were like tightly wound springs of kinetic potential, and his 'Lightness Martial Technique' allowed him to effortlessly shift his center of gravity. Fu Shen didn't need to struggle against the tight grip of the two guards holding his arms; instead, he inhaled sharply, drawing his breath deep into his lower belly. In a sudden, violent burst of Internal Force, he expanded his chest and snapped his shoulder blades together with a crack like a whip. This sudden expansion, combined with a precise twist of his wrists, used the guards' own leverage against them.
The two men, caught off guard by the sheer density of his frame, felt their fingers slide off his skin as if it were oiled marble. Before they could re-adjust, Fu Shen dropped his weight into a 'Rooted Iron Stance,' his feet cracking the polished floorboards of the pagoda. With a roar that vibrated the very tea sets on the nearby tables, he drove his elbows backward into the solar plexuses of the two men behind him. The air left their lungs in a simultaneous wheeze as they were sent reeling back, their heavy armor clattering uselessly against the pillars.
The three guards in front didn't hesitate, but their synchronization was their undoing. As the spear lunged toward his chest and the saber swung in a horizontal arc, Fu Shen lunged forward, entering the 'dead zone' where their long weapons were useless. He caught the shaft of the spear with his bare palm, redirecting the momentum so it pierced the thigh of the saber-wielder to his right. In the same breath, his trailing hand rose in a 'Shatter-Palm' strike, catching the swordsman under the chin. The impact was sickeningly solid—a Second-Rate Warrior's strength focused into a single point. The swordsman's head snapped back, his helmet flying off as he collapsed on the floor.
The remaining guards scrambled to regroup, but Fu Shen was quick. He swept the legs of the spearman with a low kick that carried the weight of a falling log and finished the encounter with a series of rapid-fire palm strikes to the chest plates of the remaining men, the vibrations of his internal energy bypassing their iron to rattle their ribs and leave them gasping on the floor.
Silence fell over the pagoda, broken only by the heavy breathing of the defeated guards and the frantic, wet gasps of Wang Chen. The 'peerless beauties' had long since scattered like frightened birds, leaving the fat young master alone on his red cushion, his grapes spilled across the floor like discarded marbles. Fu Shen walked toward him as the arrogant mask of the Wang family heir had completely vanished. Wang Chen tried to scuttle backward, his potbelly wobbling pathetically, but he found himself pressed against the cold wood of a decorative screen.
Fu Shen reached down, grabbing a handful of Wang Chen's hair, forcing the young master to look into eyes. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he delivered a resounding, open-palmed slap that echoed through the entire estate. The force sent Wang Chen spinning off his cushion, his cheek instantly swelling into a purple welt that mimicked the color of the grapes he so loved. As the young master blubbered in the dirt, clutching his face in disbelief, Fu Shen turned his back on the wealth of the Wang family. As he walked out of the pagoda and toward the gates of Red Leaf Village, his heart already set on the distant, crashing waves of the East Demon Sea.