The autumn wind sighed, tearing crimson maple leaves from their branches. They danced a mournful ballet above the blood-soaked courtyard stones. Five-year-old Fu Huan stood motionless, a jade statue amidst the carnage, her empty gaze fixed on the two fallen figures. Only yesterday, their warm voices, brimming with life and invention, had filled this house, their words weaving daring dreams. Only yesterday, her small hands had been clasped in theirs, guided by their genius across intricate designs.
Fu Shan and Fu Mei... Their names were whispered with reverence even beyond their city's walls. Talents that bloomed too briefly – renowned scholars, Great Spirit Masters whose power (levels thirty-seventh and thirty-second) could have earned them lordship in any corner of the land. Their insights into meditation, their spirit-fueled lamps that could banish darkness for months with a single charge, shook the foundations of a stagnant world. They were a radiant dawn, piercing the suffocating gloom of ignorance.
But such brilliance attracts envious shadows.
On that fateful day, little Fu Huan played far from home, chasing the whisper of rustling leaves. The assassins, cloaked in darkness, deemed her no threat. When she returned, humming a cheerful tune, the world she knew lay shattered. A cry of horror choked in her throat, and scalding tears, like molten grief, streamed down her face.
Now, lost in a chilling daze, she spoke words too heavy for her years: "Without strength… intellect is but a fragile blossom… easily crushed, leaving no trace, no memory..."
These were not the words of a child, but the lament of a solitary mind, one that had always felt adrift among the shallow games of her peers. Only her parents had truly understood her thoughts, her audacious visions. Now, they were gone. Their research, their legacy, vanished as if it had never been, their triumphs claimed by others. Whether petty clans or ruthless hegemons stole their work for their own gain, the truth remained shrouded in darkness.
For a fleeting moment, the embers of vengeance flickered in her young heart, but were quickly extinguished by the cold wall of ignorance. Who were the enemy? Her parents, perhaps to shield her, had never spoken of those who lurked in the shadows. She was blind.
Then, a touch on her shoulder, as dry and brittle as fallen leaves. Her grandfather. A man untouched by spiritual grace, his awakened spirit – a humble sickle – a tool of the mundane, offering no path to power. Destined to be lost in the ordinary, like a grain of sand in the desert.
He was unremarkable – lacking both wisdom and warmth. After her parents' death, after their home was stripped bare, he alone remained. In that desolate silence, Fu Huan did not seek his comfort. Her heart was consumed by a singular purpose – the pursuit of strength. A strength that could shatter mountains, mend the broken, and avenge the fallen.
And so, half a year bled into the next. Each day, Fu Huan forged herself anew in the crucible of relentless training. She ran across treacherous paths, sharp stones biting into her tender skin, yet she never yielded. She scaled crumbling walls, her young muscles screaming in protest, yet she never faltered. She meditated, clinging to fragments of knowledge whispered by her parents, seeking the elusive path to inner power. Though her spirit remained dormant, her body, not yet six, endured.
Pain became her constant companion, a bitter draught mixed with the ache of loss. Yet, in that suffering, a fragile seed of hope took root. She knew the risks, the fragility of her young form, but despair was a whip, driving her onward.
Another month withered away.
Six years old, Fu Huan stretched towards the heavens like a delicate sapling yearning for the sun. The subtle lines of her veins pulsed with a newfound vitality, a testament to her resilience. Her beauty, innocent yet poignant, drew admiring glances from those who passed. Her hair, the soft hue of lavender mist, flowed like a silken waterfall, framing a face of ethereal grace. Though she posed no threat to seasoned warriors, among children whose spirits still slumbered, she moved with the quiet power of a fledgling dragon.
The dawn of Awakening Day arrived, and the city held its breath.
Noblemen, adorned in shimmering silks, and proud parents, guiding their children by hand, converged upon the majestic Hall of Spirits. This was no mere ceremony, but a crucible of destiny, where potential was revealed and futures were forged.
Those touched by fortune, those who awakened powerful spirits, would become the cornerstones of their clans. Those left untouched would fade into the background, their names swallowed by the sands of time.
The Hall of Spirits hummed with anticipation. Nearly forty children had gathered, their hearts pounding with a mixture of hope and trepidation. But their numbers were dwarfed by the assembly of noble lords and influential spirit masters, their gazes sharp and calculating.
They exchanged polite greetings, their smiles masking shrewd assessments. Alliances were whispered, futures weighed, and destinies bartered in the silent language of power.
A quarter hour passed before a figure emerged from the inner sanctum, his presence commanding attention.
A young man, barely thirty-five, with an air of unwavering confidence and a gaze that seemed to pierce through pretense. His very bearing commanded respect.
"I am Yan Jun, Overseer of this Hall of Spirits," he announced, his voice resonating through the hall like a striking gong. "My spirit is the Blazing Vine, Yan Teng. I have reached Spirit Power Level 56, a Control-type Spirit Master. Today, I shall guide your heirs as they take their first steps on the path to greatness."
Silence descended, heavy with anticipation. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the unfolding of destiny.
"Children, step forward," Yan Jun gestured, his voice both authoritative and gentle.