A young boy sits cross-legged on a cold stone floor, his thin body trembling with each slow circulation of Qi.
Every movement of energy through his meridians brings stabbing pain, as if knives twist beneath his skin—the curse within him reacts violently to his Qi.
He should not cultivate, yet without cultivation, the curse will devour his life; to survive, he must continue.
Only by reaching the Core Formation Realm can he break the curse that clings to his soul.
A young girl steps quietly into the dim chamber, her eyes softening as she sees the boy's face contorted in agony.
Her heart sinks, and sorrow flashes in her gaze.
The elders and seniors have failed Aunt Xiaoyu.
At the last moment of her life, Aunt Xiaoyu had traded the Death Fruit for a Life Fruit from the sect to save her son Mingyu's life.
But after the exchange, with both of Mingyu's parents dead, greed overcame compassion—he was fed only a small piece of the Life Fruit instead of the whole.
That fragment merely prolonged his life, leaving the curse intact.
Now, only by reaching the Core Formation Realm can Mingyu hope to truly be free.
Far away, in a void that shimmers like a field of distant stars, golden lights appear and take shape.
Each light holds a consciousness—the High Priests and the Chief Priest of the Heavenly Puppet Sect—an ancient council stirring from long silence.
A hush falls across the shining void before the Chief Priest's voice, grave and resonant, breaks it. "Is everyone present?"
The First High Priest answers, measured: "The Ninth High Priest is missing."
A colder note from the Seventh: "He is very likely dead."
Silence stretches for a moment, heavy as a tomb.
"What happened?" the Chief Priest asks at last.
"I heard from the Tang Kingdom," the Seventh replies, "that one of our sect's men was killed by a demon at the border juncture between Tang and the demon territory."
The Chief Priest's light dims with thought. "I will send someone to investigate."
The Second High Priest offers quickly, "If he is dead, I have a member who can take the Ninth's position."
"And I," the Fourth counters, "also have a subordinate fit for the post."
Voices rise, then tangle, the High Priests quarrelling over succession and territory as old ambitions surface.
"Silence," the Chief Priest commands, the single word cutting through their bickering like a blade.
"If the Ninth is dead, I will organise a competition for the position," he says. "Now—begin the annual meeting."
A brief pause, then the Third High Priest reports, "I have completed my assigned task. Shall I proceed to the next step?"
"Not now," the Chief Priest replies, cautious and cold. "We cannot fail."
He leans—if a consciousness can lean—into a plan. "Before we start the second step, spread the techniques and news of our sect. Let our subordinates become active and reveal themselves, but you—remain hidden and ready to withdraw. This is to gauge the reaction of the devils. If they do not react, then expand—the ruin, and then the third phase."
"Understood," the Third High Priest answers, his light steady.
The golden council shifts, silent once more, and the void holds their plotting like a wound waiting to open.
------
The teenager paints from morning until sundown, his brush never still, capturing smiling faces and proud merchants on parchment worn thin.
When the last customer leaves, he gathers his equipment, his hands stained with colour and oil, and counts his earnings—seventy-four copper coins, more than he has ever held in one day.
A grin spreads across his tired face as he skips lightly down the cobblestone road, the cool evening air brushing his cheeks.
Today is the harvest of White Lotus dew, a day when travellers and nobles crowd the town square, each wanting portraits to mark the celebration.
Usually, he earns no more than four copper coins, barely enough for food, but tonight, hope burns bright in his chest.
He clutches the coins close, thinking, I can finally buy the medicine for my sister.
His sister waits at home, frail and quiet, her cough echoing through the tiny house they share.
Their parents vanished three years ago after leaving town for work, swallowed by the road, and since then, it has been only the two of them.
The boy hums softly as he turns into a quieter street, the alley ahead darker than he remembers.
Before he can react, rough hands seize his arm and drag him into the shadows.
Pain blooms as fists strike his ribs, his stomach, his face—each blow stealing the breath from him.
The world blurs; he hears laughter, the jingle of his coins scattering on the ground, then footsteps fading into silence.
Bruised and bleeding, he slumps against the cold stone wall, vision swimming, his right eye swollen shut.
He opens his uninjured left eye and meets the unblinking gaze of a crow perched above him.
Its dark eyes glimmer like mirrors, reflecting his broken form.
Suddenly, the air thickens, and a weight presses against his chest.
He gasps as the world dissolves, his body growing light, his pain fading into nothing.
When he opens his eyes again, he is no longer in the alley but floating in a vast black space that stretches endlessly in all directions.
Fear tightens his throat, his heart pounding in the empty void.
His voice trembles as he shouts, "Anyone?"
Only his echo answers, fading into the darkness like a whisper swallowed by the abyss.
Then, a voice rises from everywhere and nowhere, calm and deep: "Do you want revenge?"
The teenager freezes, the question echoing inside his mind like a ripple through still water.
Yes, he wants revenge—but more than that, he wants his money back, for his sister's medicine, for her life.
He clenches his fists and answers, voice trembling yet firm, "I want my money back."
The voice chuckles, low and amused, its tone slithering through the void.
"Money, you can get that back… and even more."
The boy hesitates, then drops to one knee, desperation tightening his chest.
"What do I need to do?" he asks, his voice almost breaking.
"Smart boy," the voice says, its tone soft yet unsettling. "Cultivate this technique, and you can have everything you desire."
His breath catches. Cultivation?
He knows he has no spiritual roots to refine Qi and no money to become a martial artist.
Before he can protest, the void trembles and twists, the blackness spiralling into a whirlpool beneath his feet.
He sinks helplessly into the swirl, his thoughts scattering like ash in the wind.
When he opens his eyes again, the alley returns—cold stone, dim light, and the scent of dust and blood.
Evening hasn't yet faded.
With a grimace, he pushes himself upright, wincing as pain shoots through his ribs.
He picks up his torn painting tools, spots two copper coins glinting weakly near the wall, and gathers them in silence.
With slow steps, he walks home, clutching the coins tight.
He buys a small portion of rice and a single potato from a street vendor, the smell of food faintly comforting.
At last, he reaches his small house at the edge of town and knocks softly.
The door creaks open, revealing his little sister—pale, thin, coughing softly, her eyes widening in worry.
"Brother, what happened to you?" she asks, pulling him inside with trembling hands.
He forces a weak smile and closes the door behind them.
"Nothing," he says, avoiding her gaze. "I just fell down."
She frowns, her eyes glistening. "Don't lie, brother."
A couple of hours later, he lies on the cold floor, hunger gnawing at his stomach.
The food he brought home was barely enough for one, yet he and his sister had split it quietly, pretending it filled them both.
He turns on his side, staring at the dim ceiling, and mutters inwardly, Now, let's look at that technique.
After waking in the alley earlier, he had noticed something strange—an extra memory nestled inside his mind, clear and sharp like an ink stroke.
He hadn't had the time to study it then; the sun was setting fast, and he had to hurry home before darkness swallowed the town.
Since returning, he had been occupied with cleaning the dirt and blood from his body, wrapping his bruises, and preparing their meagre meal.
Now, with his sister asleep beside him and silence blanketing the house, he finally closes his eyes to examine the memory.
The technique is called the Crow Meditation Technique.
Its first instruction: visualise a crow formed entirely from runes, each line of its body an intricate weave of power.
There are over a thousand runes in the full diagram, but the first step is to visualise only the outline—nine foundational runes that define the crow's shape.
He exhales slowly, his painter's instinct awakening as he begins to draw within his mind.
The first rune forms easily, clearly and balanced.
The second and third flow naturally, as though his brush dances across an invisible canvas.
The fourth and fifth take more focus, yet his hand—no, his mind—moves with precision born of years spent painting for survival.
But as the sixth rune begins to take shape, a sudden heaviness floods his skull.
The world around him sways, his vision blurs, and the lines of the crow scatter like ink spilt across water.
Then everything fades to black as consciousness slips away.