The sun dipped low behind the jagged peaks of Mount Qingluan, bathing the world in molten gold. A light breeze carried the scent of pine and old incense through the crumbling stones of the Forgotten Graveyard, a place no sane villager dared to tread after sunset.
But Yi Zhen was no ordinary child.
At twelve winters old, his clothes were patched, his face smudged with dirt, and his eyes far older than his years. An orphan raised on scraps and silence, Yi Zhen had long since learned that the world favored the cruel and ignored the kind. The villagers of Linhua rarely spoke to him—he was the boy whose parents had vanished without a trace when he was just a baby, leaving behind only whispers and suspicion.
Still, something within him stirred each time he walked past the old graveyard. He would feel a pull in his chest, like a faint heartbeat from beneath the earth.
Today, that heartbeat became a call.
His feet crunched softly over the mossy stones as he stepped between crooked headstones, each etched with names weathered by time. It was quiet here, too quiet—even the crows refused to caw. The only sound was the rustle of wind in the grass and the thump of his heart.
Yi Zhen stopped before a tree, ancient and gnarled, whose roots clutched a crumbling grave like bony fingers. There was no name on the stone, only a spiral sigil carved into its center. The moment he looked at it, the sigil shimmered faintly.
His breath caught. "What is this...?"
As if in answer, the earth trembled. Not violently—but like a sleeping beast shifting in its slumber. The roots cracked apart, revealing a small stone box buried beneath the soil. Yi Zhen knelt and brushed it clean, his fingers trembling.
The box opened with a dry creak. Inside lay a simple silver locket, dull with age. Yet the moment he touched it, warmth flooded his fingers. The sigil on its face matched the one on the grave—an inward-spiraling vortex.
"A locket...?" he murmured.
A whisper brushed against his mind.
"Child of solitude... bearer of the void..."
Yi Zhen staggered back, dropping the locket. The whisper had no voice, yet it echoed within his bones.
He picked it up again—and the world shifted.
For a heartbeat, the graveyard faded. He stood in a place of silver mist, where shadows loomed and lights flickered like distant stars. A great gate loomed ahead, chained and cracked, held shut by glowing seals.
From behind the gate came voices—pleading, weeping, some screaming in fury. Spirits.
Then a shape stepped forward from the mist—a woman in crimson armor, her hair flowing like ink, eyes burning with grief.
"You are the Wielder."
Yi Zhen stared. "Wielder...?"
She raised her hand. The locket floated from his fingers and spun between them. "You carry the Locket of Echoes. It binds the broken spirits of this world, giving them form once more. We are the forgotten. The betrayed. The ones left behind. Fulfill our wishes... and we shall grant you our strength."
Yi Zhen opened his mouth, but the mist thickened. Her voice was the last thing he heard:
"Find me when the moon bleeds... I am the First Blade."
He awoke in the graveyard with a gasp. The locket was around his neck, pulsing faintly.
The wind had stilled. The sigil on the grave was gone.
Yi Zhen stood slowly, every hair on his body tingling. The air felt different—as if something ancient now watched through unseen eyes.
As he walked back toward Linhua, one thought burned in his mind:
He was no longer alone.
---
Back in the village, strange things began to stir.
Old Madam Jia claimed to see her dead son in a dream, whispering about a boy with the eyes of the spirit realm. A traveling cultivator paused by the village gate and muttered of cursed winds.
And in the graveyard, under the moonless sky, a crimson figure watched silently from the mist.
"Soon," she said. "He will remember our names."