In the far reaches of the Yunming Realm, where mountains touched the heavens and mists whispered forgotten names, there lay a village untouched by time.
Qingshui.
Nestled between jade hills and veiled by ancient forests, the village stirred to life with the sun's golden kiss. Water wheels creaked, rice fields shimmered, and the scent of steamed buns drifted from earthen homes. But beneath this tranquil surface, destiny simmered—quiet and unseen.
Liang Jun knelt by the edge of a rice terrace, fingers soaked in cool, muddy water. The morning sun lit his face—a youth neither tall nor imposing, with windswept hair the color of ink and eyes that held a depth far older than his sixteen years. He worked in silence, but his gaze often drifted toward the horizon, as if chasing something he could not name.
Most in Qingshui believed their paths ended where the forest began. But Liang Jun... he dreamt.
Raised by Elder Han, the village's aging lorekeeper, Liang had grown on a steady diet of legends—tales of sword-wielding immortals who tamed dragons, of cultivators who ascended beyond mortal shackles. At night, while others slept, he stared at the stars and wondered if they, too, watched him back.
"Some souls," Elder Han once murmured, his voice rustling like dried parchment, "are born to move mountains. But rarer still are those who awaken them."
Liang Jun never believed himself rare. Not until that night.
It began with a whisper.
As dusk bled into violet skies, Liang wandered beyond the village fields, guided by a pull he couldn't explain. The air was thick with summer fragrance—bamboo, pine, and the faint sweetness of wild plum. Fireflies blinked in the dark like drifting stars.
At the forest's edge stood an ancient oak, bent with age, its roots thick as serpents. There, something glimmered—half-buried beneath soil and moss, hidden in the embrace of time.
He crouched low. The object pulsed—soft, ethereal, like moonlight trapped in crystal. Gently, he brushed away the earth.
A relic.
Circular, no larger than a tea saucer. Forged from a strange metal that shimmered between silver and sapphire, its surface bore delicate runes that seemed to shift and swirl as if alive. The moment his fingers touched it, a cold shock surged through his body.
Thump.
A second heartbeat—one not his own—resounded in his chest.
Liang staggered back. The world tilted. Stars wheeled above like a celestial eye opening.
Then came the vision.
A dragon—immense, radiant, wreathed in cosmic flame—rose from the void. Its eyes, deep as galaxies, locked onto him. The roar that followed shattered the silence of his soul.
Flashes of forgotten battles. Shattered realms. A technique woven from starlight and storm.
The Dragon Soul.
And then—darkness.
Liang collapsed, breath ragged, fingers still clutched around the relic now pulsing against his palm. He lay there, heart pounding like war drums, the echo of the vision burned into his bones.
Above, the stars continued their silent vigil.
Something ancient had stirred.
And in the quiet village of Qingshui, the first spark of ascendance was lit.