The Dawnyu Sect remained oblivious.
In its bustling courtyards and sacred halls, disciples trained in neat formations, swords clashed in rhythm, and chants of zen cultivation drifted through the mountain air. No one spared a glance at the silent figure seated beneath the crooked blossom tree behind the west meditation pavilion.
There sat Zhen Hu.
The boy who couldn't cultivate.
The son of the Patriarch, pitied and shunned in equal measure.
But today, something inside him stirred.
He sat motionless, back straight, eyes closed, breathing slow. The sun filtered through the branches above, scattering golden light across his pale face. To anyone else, he seemed simply meditating—futilely, as always.
But beneath his skin, a storm had begun.
It wasn't zen.
It was Nytherion—a silent, cold current that did not hum or glow like normal energy. It slithered through his body like black mist, drawn not from the air, but from the essence of dying things.
Leaves that had fallen.
Bugs crushed underfoot.
Rotting roots deep below.
It flowed into him in threads, twisted and sharp, a kind of energy that resisted the rules of the world. His body, long rejected by zen, welcomed it. He felt it pool in the pit of his stomach—not warm, but alive. A whisper. A tremor.
A warning.
His fingers twitched. His heartbeat slowed to a crawl.
Then, with a soundless snap, something inside him cracked.
Zhen Hu gasped and fell forward, catching himself on his palms.
It was as though a locked gate deep within him had opened, ancient hinges groaning against age and resistance. The Nytherion flooded in—not like water, but like wind pouring into a vacuum.
His core had awakened.
The Kyrekh Realm – First Layer.
The lowest realm of cultivation—yet to Zhen Hu, it was everything.
He could feel the world now. The rhythm of life, the heat of breath, the dying of things unnoticed. His skin tingled with awareness, his senses sharpened. His body hadn't grown stronger—but he was finally connected.
He had stepped onto the path of ascension.
And the world noticed.
The blossom tree stilled. Wind froze mid-gust.
Then, a light descended.
It was not blinding, but soft—like dawn pouring through a misted window. The petals around him lifted gently, caught in a slow spiral. Zhen Hu turned, eyes wide.
From the air itself, she emerged.
Tall. Radiant. Her robes flowed like starlight stitched into silk, and her eyes shimmered with the reflection of forgotten heavens. Her presence was not warm—it was vast. Cold. Like standing before a divine relic that had seen empires fall.
She said nothing at first.
Zhen Hu's lips trembled. "You… you're real."
"I am," she answered, voice echoing in his mind rather than the air. "I am Aelira. The last breath of the celestial goddess whose legacy you now carry."
He bowed his head. "Why now?"
"Because you have touched Nytherion. And in doing so, you have broken the seal that silenced your core. You were never simply born defective, Zhen Hu. You were cursed."
His breath caught.
Aelira stepped closer, her form flickering like a dream at the edge of waking.
"Your soul was bound by a hex older than the sects. A tether to suppress those like you—chosen to inherit the forbidden power of Nytherion. It's why zen avoided you. Why every technique failed. Why no pill or artifact could help."
Zhen Hu clenched his fists. "So I was never broken."
"No," she said. "You were shackled."
He stared at the grass, vision blurring.
Aelira's voice hardened. "And now that you've tasted power, the curse will awaken to devour it. You have two years, Zhen Hu. Two years to reach the Ascendant Realm."
"Or I die."
She nodded.
"There is no mercy in this path. No second chance. The Nytherion sustains you now, but it is also poison to the weak. It demands growth—or it consumes you from within."
Zhen Hu exhaled.
For the first time, his breath left trails of cold air.
"I'll reach it," he whispered. "I don't care what it takes."
Aelira smiled faintly—not in comfort, but in approval. Like a ghost proud of the fire it had lit.
"Then begin. Quietly. Secretly. For not all who see you rise will cheer."
And with that, she vanished—dissolving into fading rays of starfire, as if she had neverV been there.
The wind resumed.
A single blossom fell onto Zhen Hu's shoulder.
He opened his eyes.
No longer a cripple. No longer a child beneath a tree.
A cultivator.