In the primordial era, long before the rise of any empire or immortal sect, some fifty thousand years before the common era, the mortal world was still a savage, untamed furnace of creation. Ice sheets thicker than ancient mountain ranges crawled across the land like the frozen breath of forgotten chaos gods. Vast plains of snow and jagged rock stretched endlessly beneath a sky that bled crimson at dawn and bruised purple at dusk. Colossal spirit beasts, remnants of a bygone age when qi flowed wild and untamed, roamed these frozen wastes; woolly mammoths whose footsteps shook the earth, dire wolves with eyes glowing like hellfire, and saber-tooth tigers whose roar could split boulders.
Humans were few, fragile sparks of life clinging desperately to existence in small nomadic tribes. They carved meager shelters into the rocky hillsides, caves draped with stitched hides of slain beasts, warmed by flickering fires fed with dried dung and bones. The air reeked of damp earth, woodsmoke, dried blood, and the sharp musk of unwashed bodies. Survival was the only dao they knew. By day they foraged bitter roots and frozen berries; by night they hunted with crude stone-tipped spears, their bodies painted with red ochre to invoke the protection of ancestral spirits whose whispers sometimes echoed on the howling wind.
In this brutal age, desire was as raw and necessary as hunger itself. Reproduction was not wrapped in shame or sacred vows; it was the tribe's defiant answer to extinction. Bonds were loose as drifting snow. A mother nursed her child with milk still warm from the hunt's spoils, while a father taught spear-throwing with calloused hands. Yet no one claimed exclusive ownership of another's flesh. Partners shifted with the seasons, shared when it strengthened bloodlines or alliances. After a successful hunt, when bellies swelled with roasted meat and the danger of the night felt momentarily distant, the tribe surrendered to primal urges without hesitation.
Laughter and guttural moans would rise from the caves and flickering firelight. Bodies, sweaty, scarred, painted, entwined openly on furs or against cold stone walls. A hunter might press a woman against a boulder, thrusting deep with raw, animalistic grunts while others watched or joined. Groups formed in the shadows, limbs tangled, hips slapping rhythmically as gasps and cries mingled with the crackle of flames. Rape and gang takings occurred without judgment or lasting grudge; they were simply the strong claiming what their blood demanded in the moment. Strength ruled. Desire ruled. The weak either submitted or died. It was the natural flow of life in a world that showed no mercy.
Into this merciless realm, the divine soul of the Pure One was hurled by his father's curse.
He was reborn as a boy the tribe named "Raven".
From the moment he tore free from his mother's womb in the dim, smoky glow of the birthing cave, he was different. His skin was unnaturally smooth and fair, almost glowing like fresh snow under moonlight. His eyes shone bright and clear, reflecting the firelight with an otherworldly depth. Even as a squalling infant, his beauty drew every eye. Women of the tribe crowded around, cooing softly as they cradled him against their warm, milk-heavy breasts. Rough-handed hunters patted his tiny head with surprising gentleness. "Look at little Raven," they murmured in awe, voices thick with wonder. "He shines like the morning sun on fresh snow… a gift from the spirit ancestors."
Raven did not need to cry or reach out. Pure, unconditional warmth wrapped around him like the softest fur. His parents were respected members of the tribe, his father a tall, battle-scarred hunter whose body bore claw marks from dire wolves and mammoth tusks; his mother a strong woman with long dark hair braided with eagle feathers, who sang low, soothing songs while grinding nuts and roots into paste. They loved him in the simple, fierce way of their people, feeding him the choicest marrow from fresh kills, shielding him from biting winds with their own bodies.
In the quiet moments by the fire, as his mother's calloused fingers stroked his hair, fragments of immortal memory stirred within Raven like distant thunder. "This… this is how love should be," the young mind whispered to itself. "Pure. Selfless. Without the filth of craving more."
But the ancient wild spared no one.