In the quiet suburbs of a sprawling city that never quite slept, where sodium streetlamps bled orange into the night and the low growl of distant traffic formed a constant, indifferent heartbeat, lived a young man named Eron. Eighteen years old, teetering on the razor's edge between boyhood and whatever came next, he had already mastered the art of disappearance in plain sight.
To the world—teachers, classmates, neighbors, even his own family—Eron was perfectly, predictably average. His report cards arrived like clockwork: C's and B-minuses arranged in neat rows, never high enough to draw praise, never low enough to invite concern. In class he sat near the back, head slightly bowed, voice soft when called upon, answers correct but stripped of any spark that might make someone remember them. He finished exams with time to spare, then carefully erased or left blank just enough questions to keep his scores safely mediocre. No one ever suspected the storm of intellect raging behind those calm, downcast eyes.
In the privacy of his room, late at night when the house creaked and the city hummed beyond the window, the mask fell away. Complex integrals resolved themselves in his head faster than he could write them. Quantum mechanics unfolded like a familiar story; he could trace particle-wave duality across disciplines, link thermodynamics to economic cycles, decode ancient poetry through game theory. Literature, biology, history, philosophy—every subject surrendered its secrets to him without resistance. He understood. Deeply. Instantly. And he hid it all with the same meticulous care a fugitive might use to erase footprints.
Physically he matched the fiction he presented: narrow shoulders, slight frame, posture curved from years of hunching over textbooks no one knew he'd already mastered. Bullies saw an easy mark. A hard shove in the corridor earned only a murmured apology and a sidestep. Mocking laughter followed him down hallways; the word "pushover" drifted behind like smoke. Eron never raised a fist, never raised his voice. Logic was his shield: conflict was inefficient, attention was dangerous, survival meant letting others believe they had already won.
His family was the only place the mask ever softened, though never fully dropped.
They lived in a modest two-story house on a street lined with identical roofs, warmed by the smell of his mother Lira's cooking and the gentle cadence of her voice. Lira worked part-time at the local library, surrounded by books she loved but never had time to read. She believed in quiet perseverance. "You're doing just fine, Eron," she would say, setting a plate of steaming rice and curry before him while he pretended to puzzle over algebra he'd solved years ago. "Your own pace is the right one."
His father, Harlan, was different—tall, silent, always immaculately dressed even on weekends. He worked for something he called only "the organization," disappearing for days or weeks with nothing more than a suitcase and a tight nod goodbye. When he returned he carried shadows under his eyes and an invisible weight on his shoulders. Harlan spoke little of his work, offered only cryptic half-smiles when Eron probed gently. Yet there was love in the silence—love in the way he ruffled Eron's hair when no one watched, in the rare, rough hugs that smelled of airports and gun oil.
Family life moved in gentle tides: festival lights and laughter one month, pinched budgets and worried glances the next. Harlan's absences stretched longer each time. Eron balanced the household in secret—recalculating expenses in his head, suggesting small economies without ever seeming clever, soothing his mother's fears with carefully chosen words. He kept the peace. He kept them safe. And no one ever knew how easily he did it.
Then came the night that broke everything.
It was a humid summer evening, the air thick and restless, shortly after Eron turned eighteen. He woke to the soft, deliberate creak of his bedroom door.
Moonlight sliced through the half-open curtains. His father stood framed in the doorway—motionless for a heartbeat—then stepped inside with the practiced silence of someone who had done this before. Harlan crossed the room without a sound. He paused beside the bed, looking down at his sleeping son. In the dim light Eron saw something flicker across his father's face: sorrow, determination, perhaps both.
Harlan's hand moved slowly, deliberately. Something small and cold touched Eron's chest—just above the heart. A faint metallic click, a whisper of pressure, then a sudden bloom of warmth that spread through his ribs like liquid starlight. Whatever it was—a vial, an amulet, a needle, a seal—Harlan held it there for several long seconds. Eron's breath caught, but he kept his eyes closed, instincts screaming to stay still. His father exhaled once, a sound so quiet it might have been imagination.
Then Harlan withdrew. The door closed with the softest click. The scent of his cologne—cedar and steel—lingered, undercut by something sharper, almost electric.
In the morning Harlan was gone again. No note. No explanation. Eron said nothing. He wasn't even sure it hadn't been a dream.
But over the next seven days his body betrayed the lie.
Shoulders widened. Muscles corded beneath skin that suddenly glowed with health. Posture straightened as though an invisible string had been tied to the crown of his head. Classmates stared. Friends laughed nervously and slapped his back too hard, calling it a "glow-up." Girls who had never noticed him before now looked twice. Strangers turned in the street.
Eron felt it too: strength humming in his limbs, senses sharpened to a razor's edge, vitality like fire in his blood. Yet the fear remained. Confrontation still twisted his stomach. His mind still whispered retreat. The mask held.
Until the sky itself refused to pretend anymore.
It started with an earthquake—low, grinding, as though the planet had groaned in its sleep. Windows rattled. Plates slid. The news called it minor. People laughed it off.
Eron didn't laugh. Something inside him—some new, animal instinct—recognized the tremor as wrong. The sky afterward looked bruised, heavy with crimson undertones. He buried the unease, retreating to his room to solve equations no one would ever grade.
Weeks crawled by. Harlan did not return.
Then the red sky came in earnest—two days of unrelenting scarlet that turned noon to bloody twilight. On the third day the heavens cracked open.
Scarlet rain fell in sheets—thick, warm, alive. It soaked through clothes, stung skin, burned lungs. People collapsed in streets. Animals screamed. Hospitals drowned in bodies wracked with fever and convulsions.
Eron was at the hospital—routine checkup, Lira's worried insistence—when the first miracle occurred.
The man in the next bed sat bolt upright. His eyes ignited with unnatural silver light. He raised one trembling hand—and a chair flew across the room, smashing against the wall. Screams erupted. More patients rose: flames licking from fingertips, wind swirling around a child's small form, stone cracking beneath a woman's furious glare.
Powers. Raw. Impossible. Born from poison rain.
Eron's heart hammered. "This can't be real," he breathed.
He turned to the nearest nurse, wide-eyed and shaking. "Pinch me. Hard."
Her fingers dug into his arm. Pain flared—bright, honest.
Not a dream.
Then the sky finished breaking.
The last veil tore away. Atmosphere vanished. Stars burned too close, planets loomed like silent judges. The universe stared back, naked and merciless.
Before every face, screens of pale blue light appeared.
Stats. Affinities. Talents.
And at the center of each: *Cultivation Level*.
Most: *Mortal*.
The sick, the dying, the changed: *Qi Level 1*.
The system remained—permanent, unblinking. Quests scrolled across visions: daily training for Qi pills, beast hunts for rare drops, realm breakthroughs for secret arts, elixirs, bloodline awakenings, companion spirits. Endless incentives. Endless paths.
Eron saw nothing.
No screen. No numbers. No quests. No mercy.
He ran home through streets already warping—concrete twisting into timber, glass becoming paper screens.
The house was empty.
No mother. No trace of struggle. Only the generational pendant on his dresser, silver runes pulsing faintly like a dying heartbeat.
Before the last broadcast died, the anchors spoke of a new age: murim reborn. Strength ruled. The weak knelt.
Then came the *boom*—a sound that shook reality itself.
Technology perished in an instant. Lights. Phones. Engines. All gone.
The city reshaped itself into ancient wooden halls and tiled roofs.
In Eron's transformed room, on a desk that had not existed moments before, lay a single book.
*The Eternal Path of the Martial Artist*.
Days bled into one another. The world embraced its new order. Sects rose. Schools opened. Systems guided the strong higher.
Eron had none of it.
He saw only curse.
Unbeknownst to him, it was the greatest blessing of all.
He opened the book with trembling fingers.
Traced the first form.
For one blinding second, qi roared through him—wild, pure, limitless.
Then it vanished.
He stood in silence, breathing hard.
Failure.
But logic whispered: failure is data.
Persistence is the only variable that matters.
He closed the book. Gripped the pendant until the runes pressed into his palm.
Outside, the murim world waited—cruel, beautiful, unforgiving.
Eron stepped toward the door.
His solitary path had begun.
Characters
Eron (Main Protagonist, 18 years old)
Exceptionally brilliant but deliberately hides his genius in every subject (math, physics, logic, etc.) to stay invisible and avoid attention.
Physically was average/slight/pushover-looking before the change; now has a visibly stronger, more defined body after his father's mysterious ritual.
Extremely logical, cautious, conflict-avoidant; prefers retreat and analysis over confrontation.
Currently alone, family missing, no system screen, in possession of the family pendant and the book The Eternal Path of the Martial Artist.
Status: Unbound by the system, beginning his solitary journey in the new murim world.
Lira (Eron's Mother)
Gentle, kind-hearted, supportive homemaker who works part-time at a local library.
Believes in quiet perseverance and encourages Eron to go at his own pace.
Deeply caring; insisted on his recent hospital checkup out of worry.
Status: Missing since the world transformation — house empty, no trace.
Harlan (Eron's Father)
Tall, reserved, sharply dressed, enigmatic.
Works for a secretive "organization" he never discusses; frequently disappears for long periods.
Performed a silent, mysterious nighttime ritual in Eron's room (pressed something cold/metallic to his chest, causing warmth and later physical transformation).
Left shortly after the ritual and never returned.
Status: Missing (vanished before the red rain and world change); his actions seem connected to Eron's unique condition.
The Family Pendant (Heirloom Object — not a person, but treated as a character-like element)
Ancient silver pendant passed down through generations, etched with runes.
Left behind on Eron's dresser when the family vanished.
Faintly glows/pulses at key moments; seems tied to bloodline or hidden power.
Status: In Eron's possession — currently his only physical link to his family.