At the foot of Mount Gathering Spirit, a name long faded by time, no one remembered the days when spiritual energy here was once abundant. All that remained were barren forest patches and dry streambeds. There, the tiny Mộc Loan village nestled like a faint speck of light amidst nature's harshness. Mộc Phàm, sixteen years old, was one of the many silent figures in this place.
He didn't possess the handsome features of youths in stories, nor did he boast any special talents. In a world where rumors of immortals, magic artifacts, and cultivation techniques floated like vibrant butterflies, Mộc Phàm was merely a speck of dust, a true mortal. Spirit roots? He didn't even know what a spirit root looked like. He only knew that whenever esteemed guests from distant sects passed through the village, their gaze, as they swept over him, carried an air of indifference, tinged with a hint of pity.
Mộc Phàm's family was so poor they had nothing but a leaky roof and meager meals. His father, a worn-out man, clung to a few plots of infertile land year-round. His mother, a resigned woman, constantly worried about the future of her spirit-root-less son. Mộc Phàm's life flowed on, as placid as the dry stream at the foot of the mountain.
Yet, fate sometimes enjoys playing tricks on the most ordinary of people.
One fateful morning, as the dawn still slumbered behind the mountain range, Mộc Phàm, carrying his old bamboo basket, trudged deep into the Gathering Spirit Forest. A gnawing hunger urged him to search for wild vegetables or a few small animals to improve their meals. Lately, demonic beasts had occasionally appeared near the village, making survival even harder.
He walked on and on, until he stumbled into a jagged, rocky valley, a place few dared to set foot due to rumors of ghosts. In a large crevice of the cliff face, beneath a thick layer of damp moss, Mộc Phàm's eyes suddenly stopped. Something was glinting in a strange way.
Curiously, he brushed away the moss, and then, a gray, dull stone appeared. It wasn't beautiful or sparkling like a precious gem; it was just a rough, irregularly shaped piece of rock, the size of a child's fist. However, what caught Mộc Phàm's attention was a cold yet remarkably pleasant aura, gently emanating from the stone. It seeped through his fingertips and permeated his body.
An unprecedented feeling of exhilaration washed over him. All fatigue seemed to vanish, and his mind became unusually clear. Mộc Phàm unconsciously brought the stone to his nose and sniffed. No smell. He tried to scratch it with his finger, but it left no mark.
"That's strange," Mộc Phàm muttered. He had never seen a stone like this. It wasn't ordinary pebble, nor was it the kind of ore villagers usually dug up.
His instincts told him that this stone was far from ordinary. Without overthinking, he carefully placed the stone into the old cloth pouch he carried, considering it a lucky charm bestowed upon him by the heavens. After all, it made him feel much better.
That day, Mộc Phàm returned home with an empty basket, but in his heart, he carried a faint hope, a strange seed just sown in the barren land of his life. He didn't know that this nameless stone was the first gate, opening a completely different path of cultivation, a path that a mortal like him had never dared to dream of.