The call came again just before dawn.
Low, thrumming — like the heartbeat of the earth beneath Thornehold. Darian had heard wind, beasts, even mana howling through cracked stone. But this… this was different. It wasn't heard with ears. It was felt.
By the time the first light of morning touched the western cliffs, he was already at the old grove behind the ancestral shrine. The trees here were ancient — twisted and massive, their roots so deep no one dared cut them. Even the cultivators claimed the grove was "not to be disturbed."
He didn't know why he came here.
Only that the sound grew stronger near the earth, beneath the mossy roots where a recent storm had split one of the larger trees. The bark had cracked, revealing soil and stone once sealed away for centuries.
He crouched low.There — beneath the roots — something glinted.
A slab of black jade, etched with a sigil. He brushed the soil away slowly. The image revealed itself: a dragon, spiraled around a lotus in bloom, its wings flared wide and horns crowned with flame. The carving was old, faded, but precise — imbued with the artistry of cultivators far beyond his understanding.
When his fingers brushed the surface, the wind died.
And the world changed.
The scent of moss vanished.
The trees above shimmered, and for the briefest moment, he stood not in a grove — but in a palace of floating stone islands beneath a sky of gold fire.
A vision? No — it was too real. His spirit shuddered, yet part of him felt at home.
Then, a voice. Clear. Calm. Terrifying.
"You have blood of flame… and roots of ash. The gate may open for one such as you."
The image flickered. His knees buckled.
Darian fell backward into cold soil. The light vanished. The wind returned.
But something was different.
His skin tingled. His pulse had quickened. And deep within his dantian, something stirred. Not qi — something older. A whisper of presence.
He looked down at the sigil again. But the jade was now dull. The image gone. Buried beneath layers of earth once more, as if it had never existed.
He returned to the keep before breakfast, brushing dirt from his hands. The courtyard was already alive with activity — guards drilling, retainers shouting commands, the occasional thump of a training dummy exploding under a too-zealous cultivator's strike.
At the training grounds, his cousin Mira was already mid-spar against two instructors. Her sword flashed with wind-aligned qi, cutting through one opponent's guard and ducking under another's strike. She landed lightly, unruffled.
"Still crawling around in the dirt?" she asked, noticing Darian watching.
"I was meditating," he replied.
"Of course you were," she said, turning away. "Maybe try it standing up next time."
Inside, breakfast was a quiet affair. Too quiet.
His grandmother was absent — likely at the silent peak, a place reserved for her deepest cultivation. His mother eyed him, noting the dirt-streaked sleeves, but said nothing.
Only his younger sister, Lira, spoke. "Did you sneak out again? I saw your boots by the side gate."
Darian blinked. "You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep. There was… buzzing. In the walls."
He stiffened. "Buzzing?"
"Like… humming. Faint, but deep. I thought it was bees at first."
He and his mother exchanged a glance.
Lady Elyra sipped her tea slowly. "It's the forest," she said at last. "When old seals weaken, the land hums. It's happened before."
Darian frowned. "When was the last time?"
"Before your birth."
Her gaze shifted toward the high arched windows. "And before that… during the war."
Later that day, Darian found his father in the inner war room, hunched over a scattering of parchment — patrol reports, cultivation supply requisitions, ward stability charts. The room smelled faintly of ink, leather, and damp stone.
He hesitated at the door.
Aric looked up. "You're quiet today."
"Just thinking," Darian replied.
"About your cousin?" His father's mouth twitched. "Or about the pressure we keep pretending not to put on you?"
Darian stepped forward. "Neither," he lied.
Aric leaned back and studied him. "You've had that look in your eye lately — the kind your grandmother had before she left for war." He gestured toward one of the older maps on the wall, faded and creased with age.
"See this?" he said, pointing to a cluster of hills near the western cliffs — close to where the forest met the sea. "This whole stretch used to be sacred ground."
Darian frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Before Tyvros unified, before the old wars, there were dozens of sects scattered across the continent. Some were cults. Some were armies. And a few… a very rare few… were something more."
He stepped closer to the map, tapping a faint glyph inked into the border. "This was the seat of the Jade Dragon Sect. That's what the old records say, anyway. Founded by a True Monarch, or so the legends go."
Darian's breath caught, but he said nothing.
"They say the founder cultivated to such a height he no longer needed a body. He became a spiritual sovereign, leaving behind a realm forged entirely from will. His disciples trained within it — dream and reality merging."
"And what happened to them?" Darian asked, voice low.
Aric's expression darkened. "They stood in the way when the Demon Realm tore into the world. Held their ground while the kingdoms scrambled to defend themselves. For a time, they were winning."
He paused, voice quiet. "But then something changed. The spiritual kingdom collapsed. The True Monarch vanished. And the sect… burned."
He returned to his desk and began gathering the papers. "You know how many explorers have gone hunting for their ruins? Treasure-seekers, glory-hunters, even cultivators hoping for long-lost techniques."
"Did they find anything?"
"No. Or if they did, none of them returned."
He gave Darian a long look. "Whatever remains of the Jade Dragon Sect, it's buried for a reason. Some legacies aren't meant to be inherited."
Darian nodded, trying to keep his face still.Inside, his heart pounded.
He said nothing about the stone beneath the roots. Nothing about the whisper in his blood. Not yet.
Not until he understood what it was that had called to him.
That night, Darian stood once more at the grove's edge.
The air had changed. The wind no longer howled.
It watched.
He knelt beside the earth and placed his hand on the soil. Nothing stirred.
But within him, something now responded. A quiet rhythm. A pulse, faint, but present.
A path had opened.
And though he didn't yet know where it led, he understood one truth with bone-deep certainty:
He could no longer turn back.