The city of Nythros, though not the capital of the Hypnus Galaxy, pulsed with a singular energy. Located at the intersection of three great spiritual veins, it was a constant whirlwind of life, conflict, and progress. Famous for its cultural and spiritual diversity, Nythros was a true mosaic of civilizations, where ancient temples coexisted with sky-piercing technological towers.
There, among narrow streets paved with ancestral black stone, young cultivators crossed paths with robed alchemists, vibrant-Qi blacksmiths, and wandering monks carrying sealed scrolls and forgotten wisdom.
Icarus navigated this sea of the powerful and desperate like a fish swimming against the current.
He lived in the lower district, a poor area almost forgotten by the dominant clans. The buildings were simple—crafted from second-grade spiritual wood and repurposed stone.
Yet even among ruins, hope found fertile ground in the eyes of the most persistent.
Icarus was one of them.
His routine was marked by absolute discipline—not the kind shaped by masters, but the kind born of pain, loss, and rejection.
Every day, before the sky brightened and before the first temple bells rang, Icarus already wielded his cracked spiritual-iron sword, performing hundreds of movements. His slight but resilient body trembled with effort—not merely from the weight of the blade, but from what it represented.
With each strike, he remembered his older brother who died protecting him. With every stance, he recalled his mother, who, before being devoured by a spiritual beast, whispered, "Survive. Fight. Even if it hurts."
He never forgot.
Despite the invisible wound—his damaged spiritual origin—he persisted. Because somewhere, deep in his soul, Icarus felt that something still slept within him. Something greater. Something that not even his failures could kill.
After finishing his morning training, he walked to the central market. Although his appearance was humble, the merchants recognized him. Some smiled, others merely let him pass. They respected his stubbornness. He never begged. He never accepted alms. He paid for everything, even if only with copper spirit coins.
"Hey, crooked-sword boy!" a butcher once shouted, tossing him a bright red apple. "Eating is part of cultivation too, you know?"
Icarus smiled, accepting the gift with a nod.
But not everyone viewed his efforts kindly.
The young scions of noble families considered him an aberration—someone who once stood atop divine expectation and now languished at the bottom of the spiritual hierarchy. To them, Icarus was a reminder that not all talent is born to shine. And they hated it.
That afternoon, as he returned with his basket of provisions, he passed the Plaza of Ancestral Statues. It was there that clans recorded their most powerful ancestors. There, the shadows of arrogance took shape.
Darian stood there.
Son of the patriarch of Clan Sunvar, Darian was everything Icarus was not: handsome, wealthy, promising, protected. He wore a spiritual garment embroidered with jade threads and held a fan he used more as an ornament than a weapon.
When he saw Icarus, his smile grew with disguised cruelty.
"Well, well… the broken genius comes from the market? Bought humility on sale?"
Laughter exploded around them. Three other young nobles accompanied him. One, feigning distraction, bumped into Icarus and knocked over his basket. The dry thud of fruits and grains rolling across the ground cut the air like a slap.
"Careful, Icarus. You almost lost your fortune!"
Icarus bent down and quietly gathered the scattered food. But his eyes… they were alive. Burning.
"You're like shadows on a cloudy day," he said calmly. "So convinced of your light… you forget that you do not shine alone."
Darian glared at him, defiant.
"And you, Icarus, are just stardust. Burned out before you ever lit."
The two stood face to face.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Icarus spoke something enigmatic.
"When the universe turns… when chaos chooses its next piece… it won't be your names it remembers. It will be mine."
And he turned.
Did not run.
He walked away.
Left their arrogance behind.
Left their egos to devour themselves.
That night, training under the bluish moon of Hypnus, every swing of his sword cut the air with redoubled intensity. His body ached. His hands bled. But his soul… burned.
Not for vengeance.
But for the justice of his own destiny.
Night cloaked Nythros like a silver veil, reflected in the city's windows, on the blades of nocturnal cultivators, and in the still waters of its canals. Icarus, seated on the ancient walls, watched the stars as he cleaned his sword with a rough cloth. There was something different that night—a sense of expectation, as if the very sky awaited an announcement of change.
In the distance, spiritual bells tolled. Not for any ritual… but because destiny pulsed.
Icarus took a deep breath, concentrating for one more attempt at cultivation. He felt his spirit sea still unstable, like a lake with deep cracks. But… for a brief second, the impossible happened.
He felt it.
Not just energy but something beyond.
A subtle thread of warmth, a whisper in the dark, as if the world's very essence acknowledged his pain.
His breath caught for a moment.
And then it vanished.
It was quick, almost imperceptible—but real.
He opened his eyes.
Smiled.
For the first time in years, his hope did not feel childish.
Perhaps he was not broken. Perhaps… he was only being forged.
Beyond the Stars…
Thousands of kilometers above, where space folds and worlds become luminous points, Orion watched. Seated on a floating rock covered in spiritual moss, the guardian beheld the universe as one might read an ancient forgotten poem.
He had felt it.
That spark in Icarus.
So small.
So… dismissible to almost anyone.
But not to him.
Because that flame was not just resistance. It was resonance.
"A subtle call," he murmured, raising his hand.
In his open palm, the thread of destiny that linked Icarus to the vast tapestry of the multiverse flickered.
Orion brought it closer to his eyes.
Tiny.
Cracked.
But glowing.
"You have no future," he said in a low voice, as one might speak to a mirror, "…and therefore, you may have more possibilities than anyone."
He stood.
His hair danced around him like cosmic veils.
The space around him rippled with faint energy crackles.
A stellar dragon soared in the distance, recognizing his presence and bowing its head before continuing its journey between dimensions.
Orion did not react. His eyes were fixed on a specific planet—technological, advanced, yet profoundly spiritual. A world where science and magic did not compete… but intertwined.
With a gesture, he vanished, as if he had never been there.
The sky was ever in motion: constellations rotated faster, like cosmic clocks, while artificial moons maintained gravitational balance.
It was a civilization mastering black holes as energy sources and domesticating thunder to power meditation towers.
Orion appeared atop the Tower of Harmony—the highest point on the entire planet.
Made of living crystal and golden roots, the tower pulsed in unison with the planet itself.
It was considered one of the Seven Wonders.
There, beings of all races came to understand the fundamental laws of the Dao. They studied light, the soul, the hidden codes of matter. It was a place where Fire masters and Reality engineers shared tables, rituals, and circuits.
Orion watched it all with curious eyes.
"A world that advances with balance… but still doesn't know where it's going," he murmured.
Then he saw it.
Down below, among crystal corridors and suspended gardens, a child walked clumsily, holding a book far larger than himself. His eyes were bright, hungry for knowledge. His parents followed him—beings with gentle faces and translucent robes.
Orion smiled faintly.
"The universe lives in these details…"
But his gaze trembled again.
The thread.
It still glowed.
It wasn't in that tower.
Nor in that city.
Nor on that planet.
With a snap of his fingers, Orion returned to the lower multiverse. His clothes changed: from a black-and-gold mantle, he assumed a simpler garb of translucent spiritual fabric, like that of a wanderer.
He appeared on the outskirts of Nythros, disguised as an ordinary traveler.
No aura.
No pressure.
Just a tall, calm man whose eyes reflected stars.
And as he walked through the streets, he already sensed that something would change soon.
Meanwhile, in Nythros's Upper District
Darian, the arrogant heir, was irritated.
There was something in Icarus's gaze that afternoon which unsettled him. It wasn't defiance—Darian loved being challenged by those beneath him.
It was… something different.
Icarus seemed… confident. As if he knew something Darian did not.
Gathered with his friends in the Hall of Stellar Skies, Darian tapped his fingers against the crystal table, listening to a symphony play in the background.
"He needs to be reminded who the real cultivators of this city are," Darian said, his eyes narrowed.
"You want us to invite him to the Tournament of a Hundred Blades?" suggested one of his cronies.
Darian laughed.
"Invite? No. We'll register him by force. When he falls in the first round… everyone will know that the broken genius will never return."
They toasted with lotus wine.
Little did they know… that fate had already changed hands.
On the other side of the city
That night, Icarus dreamed.
But it was no ordinary dream.
He stood in a golden plain, where suns floated in the sky like enormous lanterns.
At the center lay an altar of black stone and jade.
When he touched it, an explosion of heat coursed through his body.
From the sky, a blue flame descended, wreathed in undefined shapes.
It was no common fire—it was alive, conscious.
And, even without words, he understood:
You have not been forgotten.
You have been prepared.
Rise.
The world is about to change.
And you…
are the spark.