The wind howled across the frost-covered cliffs of the northern border, where crimson banners danced like dying embers. Beneath them stood Huan Bai, clad in obsidian-black armor etched with golden runes. His spear, taller than most men, was stained in dried blood, its tip whispering for more.
At twenty-seven, they called him a monster. A war god. The Crimson General of Wan Shui Empire.
"General Huan," a voice called behind him, breaking the silence. "The enemy... they've retreated."
Huan Bai didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, where a single lotus petal floated gently in the air, untouched by war.
"Retreated?" His voice was calm—too calm. "They lost thirty thousand men. We lost eight."
The soldier shivered. Not from the cold, but from the voice that had once ordered the decimation of three armies in a single campaign.
"Yes, General."
"Then this war is over. For now."
He turned, his long silver hair fluttering behind him like the trail of a comet. But there was something different in his eyes—a storm calmed, a fury soothed.
---
Spring, two years later.
In the gardens of the Xiantian Sect, cherry blossoms fell like pink snow. Musicians played soft zither tones as disciples murmured praises under their breath.
At the center of the courtyard, she stood—Wu Hua, the sect's most beloved disciple. Draped in silks white as moonlight, her eyes closed, her hands guiding the final note of her solo. It was a sound that could calm beasts and make even swords pause mid-swing.
And in the crowd, dressed awkwardly in formal robes, General Huan Bai stood like a lost beast among butterflies.
"I did not come here to watch a performance," he muttered, arms folded.
"Then why did you come?" asked an old elder nearby, raising a brow.
Huan Bai didn't reply. His eyes never left her.
When the performance ended, and applause swept the garden, Wu Hua's gaze found his. Just for a moment.
That night, the moon hid behind clouds, and a war god confessed to a flower.
"I have slain kings and burned cities. My name is cursed across ten nations. Yet your voice silenced the storm in me."
Wu Hua smiled gently. "And yet I fear your love may bring storms to me."
He knelt before her.
"Then I shall raise walls high enough to break storms. Let the heavens weep. I've loved only the battlefield—until today."
---
Years passed.
On the 32nd spring of Huan Bai, the manor was alight with laughter for the first time. Servants bustled, and soft melodies played in the background. In his arms, wrapped in golden cloth, rested a boy with eyes like starlit lakes.
"What shall we name him?" Wu Hua whispered.
Huan Bai looked down. The child's small fingers gripped his thumb, already stronger than expected.
"Li Bai. A name for a poet… and a storm."
But joy is fleeting when the world fears peace.
---
That same winter.
Snow fell over the borderlands again. This time, Huan Bai did not return.
Captured—some say betrayed—by the Tiansha Empire during negotiations. His soldiers came back bloodied and silent. His spear was shattered. His horse wandered back without a rider.
And days later, Wu Hua vanished.
Some said she chased after him. Others said she was taken. A few whispered darker things.
But only one truth remained:
The boy, Li Bai, was alone.
---
Six years passed.
In the silent, shadowed halls of the Bai estate, now neglected and overgrown, a boy sat beneath the old peach tree. His robes were worn, his eyes too dull for a child.
Servants gossiped behind closed doors.
"That's the demon's child."
"Son of a coward and a witch."
"He won't live past ten. Mark my words."
Li Bai heard every word. And yet… he remained quiet.
Until the night of his seventh birthday.
The wind was wrong that night. The sky churned, clouds swirling like a brewing storm. Alone in the courtyard, Li Bai stared into the night. No cake. No warmth. Only silence.
He clenched his fists.
"I don't want power," he whispered. "I just… don't want to be nothing."
Then—
Boom.
The peach tree's blossoms burst into light. The ground trembled as a strange hum filled the air.
From deep within his body, something ancient stirred.
A spiral of primal light and darkness coiled through his veins, neither fire nor ice, sword nor beast. It sang to the stars and cracked the earth beneath his feet.
A voice—one not of man—echoed inside him:
"The Primordial Dao awakens."
And far, far away, beyond oceans and war and time… a broken spear trembled in a sealed vault, as if remembering its master.
---