Before he became the Colorless One—
Before exile.Before whispers.Before the mountain path and falling snow—
He had a name.
No one remembers it now.
Perhaps even he has forgotten.
But once—
He was just a child.
Qinghe County rested between two mountains like a bowl forgotten by the gods.
Poor soil.
Harsh winters.
Thin spiritual energy.
The kind of place cultivators passed over without a glance.
To the great sects, it was nothing more than a dot on a map.
To the villagers—
It was the entire world.
Children ran barefoot through the mud streets.
Roosters screamed at dawn.
Smoke rose from clay chimneys.
Life was simple.
Small.
Predictable.
Which meant everyone looked forward to only one thing.
The Spirit Root Selection Day.
Once every five years, a minor sect would send an elder down the mountain.
Not out of kindness.
But to collect talent.
Children with spiritual roots would be taken away to cultivate.
The rest would stay behind.
Farm.
Marry.
Grow old.
Die.
Forgotten.
It was the only chance to escape fate.
That morning, the village square was louder than a festival.
Parents adjusted their children's clothes nervously.
Some prayed.
Some bribed the messenger with eggs and dried meat.
Others simply stared at the sky, lips moving silently.
As if heaven could be persuaded.
He stood at the back of the crowd.
Alone.
Watching.
He wasn't nervous.
Wasn't excited.
Didn't really understand why everyone's hands trembled.
To him, today felt like any other day.
Cold air.
Dusty wind.
Empty stomach.
Nothing special.
"Next."
The sect elder's voice was dry and impatient.
Children stepped forward one by one, placing their palms on the Spirit Stone.
The crystal orb would glow—
Green.
Blue.
Yellow.
Sometimes bright enough to make the crowd gasp.
Each flash meant a different future.
Each glow meant value.
"Wood root. Take him."
"Water root. Acceptable."
"Low-grade fire. Hm… fine."
Names were written down.
Destinies decided in seconds.
Just like that.
When it was his turn, some villagers frowned.
"Whose child is that?"
"I don't see his parents."
"He's the quiet one, isn't he?"
"Oh… that boy."
Even back then—
People had trouble remembering him.
He stepped forward.
The ground crunched softly beneath his worn shoes.
The elder barely glanced at him.
"Hand."
He obeyed.
His palm touched the Spirit Stone.
Cold.
Smooth.
Heavy.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
The elder frowned.
"Channel your breath. Focus."
He did.
Just like the others.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Imagine warmth flowing into the stone.
He tried.
Really tried.
Still nothing.
The crystal remained dull and lifeless.
Like an ordinary rock.
Murmurs spread.
"Maybe he's just nervous."
"Give him a moment."
"Even trash roots glow a little…"
The elder's eyes sharpened.
He poured a thread of spiritual energy into the stone himself.
The orb instantly lit up.
Brilliant.
Proof it wasn't broken.
Which meant—
The problem wasn't the stone.
It was him.
"Impossible…" the elder muttered.
He grabbed the boy's wrist.
Spiritual sense swept through his body.
Meridians.
Bones.
Blood.
Dantian.
He checked everything.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
His expression slowly changed.
Confusion.
Then disbelief.
Then something close to unease.
"There is…" the elder whispered.
Then stopped.
Because there was nothing to describe.
No spiritual root.
No qi circulation.
No resistance.
No emptiness either.
Just—
Absence.
Like examining a body that technically existed, yet didn't.
Like touching a shadow.
Before anyone could speak—
Crack.
A sharp, brittle sound.
The Spirit Stone split down the middle.
A thin fracture racing across its surface.
Then—
Shattered.
Fragments scattered across the ground.
Dead.
Silence swallowed the square.
Even the wind stopped.
The elder stepped back.
Actually stepped back.
From a child.
Fear flickered in his eyes.
Just for a second.
But everyone saw it.
"…Take your hand away," he said hoarsely.
The boy obeyed.
He didn't understand what he did wrong.
He only knew everyone was staring.
Like he had suddenly grown horns.
"Elder… what is he?" someone asked.
The old man didn't answer immediately.
His gaze felt heavy.
Like weighing a curse.
Finally—
"…Heaven did not give this child a root."
"…What does that mean?"
"It means," the elder said quietly,
"he was never meant to cultivate."
A pause.
Then colder—
"Perhaps… never meant to exist."
The words weren't loud.
But they struck harder than any shout.
People slowly moved away from him.
Step by step.
Like avoiding disease.
Like he might contaminate their children just by standing too close.
He looked down at his hands.
Same as always.
Small.
Dirty.
Normal.
So why—
Why did everyone suddenly look at him like that?
That evening, when the selected children left with the sect elder—
No one said goodbye to him.
No one patted his head.
No one told him "next time."
It was as though he had already been erased.
And for the first time in his life—
He felt something strange.
Not sadness.
Not anger.
Just—
A hollow space inside his chest.
Wide.
Endless.
Cold.
That night, lying alone beneath a leaking roof, he stared at the dark ceiling.
And asked the question he would ask for many years to come:
"…Why was I born?"
The heavens, as always—
Did not answer.