The moon hung high in the night sky, pouring down a silver light so intense it seemed almost tangible. Through the tall windows of the martial arts hall, its glow filtered in like a sacred mantle, illuminating the polished wooden floor and casting long, defined shadows. The stars, more numerous and brighter than usual, watched in silence, as if witnessing something not yet born.
At the center of the hall, a young man wielded his sword.
Wei Han.
He was around twenty-five years old, with the lean, solid build of someone who had trained since he first learned to walk. Every movement was precise and clean, free of unnecessary gestures. The sword danced in his hands with hypnotic grace, tracing perfect arcs through the air and slicing through the stillness of the night with a faint whistle. There was no opponent before him, yet each thrust carried the gravity of a fight to the death.
His mind, however, was elsewhere.
While his body followed a sequence carved into the deepest layers of his bones, his thoughts wandered aimlessly. He did not think about techniques or forms, nor even about victory. He simply let the sword move, as though it were not a tool but a natural extension of his own existence.
As far back as he could remember, he had always wielded a sword.
A genius, they called him. A prodigy of kendo.
Since childhood, Wei Han had traveled from tournament to tournament, accumulating victories with a ease that inspired admiration… and envy. He had never lost a single competition—regional, national, or international. Even at world championships, his name appeared again and again at the top of the podium. To the world, he was someone destined for greatness.
The sequence ended. The sword stopped abruptly, and silence once more invaded the hall. Wei Han closed his eyes and slowly exhaled the breath he had held for a long time, as though releasing more than air.
When he opened them, his gaze swept across the room. The walls were lined with display cases filled with trophies and medals—gold, silver, engraved with dates and competition names that any martial artist would recognize instantly. Irrefutable proof of a life devoted to the sword. Proof of success, glory, and recognition.
And yet, Wei Han felt empty.
A silent void in his chest that no victory had ever managed to fill. Everything others desperately longed for, he already possessed, yet he found no satisfaction in it. It was as if he had reached the end of a road he had never consciously chosen to walk.
He tightened his grip on the sword's hilt.
Something was missing. Something he could not even name.
The emptiness gave way to a memory. His master's face appeared clearly in his mind, as if summoned by the moonlight. A man whose back remained straight even in old age, with a piercing gaze and hands covered in scars that told stories he never needed to speak aloud. To Wei Han, that old man was not merely a kendo instructor—he was the very embodiment of the sword.
Powerful. Undeniably powerful.
His master had reached a level few could comprehend. Even at an age when others could barely stand, his mere presence inspired respect. When he wielded a sword, the air itself seemed to grow heavy, and every movement carried an invisible weight, as if it contained decades of understanding and will.
And yet, time spares no one. Not even the strongest.
Old age had finally claimed his life, silently and inexorably. There were no enemies, no final battles, no crossed blades beneath a blazing sky. Only a quiet bed, a final breath… and the void left behind.
It was then that a somber question took root in Wei Han's heart, one he had never dared to voice aloud.
Why?
Why devote one's soul to the sword?
In a peaceful world, where wars were distant memories and conflicts were settled with words and treaties. In a world where humans, no matter how fiercely they struggled, were destined to age, weaken, and vanish without ever reaching anything beyond that inevitable cycle.
Not even his master—someone so formidable—had escaped.
The sword had not changed his fate.
The hall fell into absolute silence. Only the faint creak of wood beneath his feet and the distant murmur of the night wind accompanied his thoughts. For several seconds, Wei Han remained motionless, gaze lowered, allowing that corrosive doubt to pierce him.
Then his eyes hardened.
Without warning, he swung the sword once more. Steel cut through the air with a clean, decisive sound, as if seeking to tear apart not only the night but also any unnecessary thoughts daring to cloud his mind. One movement, then another—fast, precise, absolute.
He stopped thinking.
The sword danced beneath the moon, and with every strike Wei Han forced himself to keep moving forward, even though he still did not know where that path would lead.
The scene shifted abruptly.
Far from the silent martial arts hall, on the outskirts of a forest where the moon and stars reigned unchallenged, the city stood alive and bustling. Though night had fallen, the noise showed no sign of diminishing. The constant hum of cars, overlapping conversations, laughter, distant music, and hurried footsteps filled the air, forming a chaotic symphony befitting a great metropolis.
Neon lights and streetlamps illuminated the streets, reflecting off wet asphalt and the windows of tall buildings. In one of those apartment complexes, several floors above the ground, a single room remained lit.
Inside was a young man of about twenty-five.
His body was robust, muscles perfectly sculpted by countless hours of training. Even at rest, his figure radiated contained strength. He reclined calmly, holding his phone in one hand as he scrolled with an irritated expression.
"Why are the characters always so useless…?" he muttered, frowning. "And why do the protagonists always do the same thing?"
His voice carried fatigue and disappointment, as if he had seen the same patterns repeated too many times. A few seconds later, he clicked his tongue and turned off the screen.
Jin Yuchen closed his eyes briefly and let out a long sigh. Then he stood and stretched, tightening and relaxing his muscles with the natural ease of someone accustomed to physical strain. The noise of the city continued to drift in through the open window. Life went on, indifferent.
After stretching, he let his arms fall and allowed his gaze to wander around the room. It was not particularly large, but every corner bore clear signs of its owner. Makeshift shelves and cabinets packed with books occupied much of the space. There were old volumes with worn corners and yellowed pages alongside newer editions with satin covers; titles that spoke of immortals, ancient sects, forbidden techniques, and heroes who defied the heavens.
As long as he could remember, he had been obsessed with cultivation stories.
Popular myths, ancestral legends, tales passed down through generations… and, of course, xianxia novels. He had devoured every story with near-obsessive passion, imagining himself walking through those impossible worlds where humans shattered their limits and transcended fate.
But lately, nothing filled his soul.
Each new book felt emptier than the last. Flat characters, recycled plots, protagonists who seemed to advance without conviction. Stories that once would have quickened his heartbeat now barely held his attention before leaving a bitter aftertaste.
Jin approached the window and gently pulled the curtain aside. The moon shone high above, bathing the city in soft, cold light. Beyond it, the stars stretched in vast numbers—too many. For some reason, they seemed far more numerous than on any other night, as if the sky itself had grown deeper and closer.
A faint unease stirred in his chest.
He looked away, shook his head, and let out a quiet laugh.
"I'm overthinking things," he murmured.
Even so, he knew staying cooped up would not help. He slipped his phone into his pocket, grabbed a light jacket, and decided to head out. A nearby park, quiet at this hour, would be enough to clear his mind.
As he closed the door behind him, the city continued its eternal murmur, unaware of the stars silently watching from above.
The park was nearly empty. Jin Yuchen stopped beside a low railing and gazed at the city stretching before him. From there, the night spectacle was hypnotic: buildings lit like artificial constellations, avenues turned into rivers of light, glowing windows concealing thousands of different stories. The city never slept; it simply changed its rhythm.
For a few seconds, he allowed himself to watch in silence.
Then he stepped back.
He spread his feet, bent his knees, and lowered his center of gravity, assuming a perfect horse stance—stable and solid, like roots buried deep in the earth. He kept his back straight and his fists clenched at his waist, breathing deeply and steadily.
Jin had always been passionate about martial arts. Since childhood, he had forged his body with near-obsessive determination: weights, endurance, flexibility, control. He had pushed every muscle, every tendon, every boundary to the limit again and again, striving to surpass what was considered "human." Pain was familiar to him. Fatigue, an old companion.
But reality had been cruel.
Lately, the same question rose in his mind again and again, like a shadow impossible to dispel.
Why?
Why had he done so much?
Was it worth it?
In this world, it did not matter how much he trained. It did not matter how strong his body became or how unbreakable his will was. He would never reach anywhere. There would be no transcendence, no shattering of fate, no hidden paths leading to something greater.
Humans were destined to go nowhere.
As these thoughts pierced him, he felt heat gathering in his muscles: the slight tremor in his thighs, the tension in his lower back, the controlled burn that signaled real effort. He remained motionless, enduring, as if challenging the world itself to bring him down.
Then—
A thunderous roar.
The sound was deep and unnatural, as though the sky itself had split apart. Jin's eyes widened as he lifted his head.
For a single instant, he saw it.
A star.
It did not fall—it plummeted downward, leaving behind an incandescent trail that tore across the sky. Its brilliance was too intense, too close.
Time seemed to freeze.
Jin did not even have the chance to scream.
A blinding flash engulfed the entire park, devouring the city lights, the ground beneath his feet, even his thoughts. Everything was swallowed by absolute white.
And far away…
In an ancient martial arts hall, isolated from the world, beneath the same moon and the same unnaturally brilliant stars, a strikingly similar scene was unfolding