On the eastern edges of the continent of Arkarenn, where the mountains whisper legends to the wind and the trees grow twisted as if bowed by time itself, there lies a village forgotten even by the maps: Valek, the Vale of the Broken.
There, no martial school opens its gates. No sect sends envoys. The world's qi is weak, scattered, as if the very spiritual fabric had been torn into a thousand invisible threads. In those arid fields of energy, the dreams of cultivation became stories whispered by the fire — tales to entertain, not promises to pursue.
For centuries, the people of Valek lived in the shadow of the great martial powers, offering humble tributes and keeping their distance. Generations were born, aged, and passed without ever seeing a Spirit Beast or forging a single Core. But even in parched soil, sometimes, a forgotten whisper decides to bloom.
His name was Astreon. Born of no one. Raised by all — or by none.
He was found as a baby beneath the Tree of Memories, wrapped only in thin cloth and a dark necklace with a cracked stone. Some said he had been left by the gods. Others, that the earth itself had rejected him.
"He's a crack in the cycle," murmured the washerwomen as he passed.
Astreon pretended not to hear. But he always did.
Since childhood, his qi felt... wrong. When he tried to meditate with the others, the energy wouldn't mold — it trembled, fled, sometimes even made others feel unwell. When he looked at the Breath Stone, it fogged. It was as if even the tools of cultivation feared him.
"You're like smoke on a day without embers," one elder once said. "You exist… but you're no good for lighting anything."
He stayed silent, as always. But those words cut deeper than he'd ever admit.
Still, he never stopped trying. He cultivated in solitude, mimicked the elders' gestures, listened to every word spoken in the circles, even when pretending not to care. Sometimes, he sat atop the hills just to breathe deeply and wonder why the world felt stitched together without the piece where he should belong.
At sixteen, he was finally summoned to the Tracing Ritual. The hall was full. Children and adults surrounded the central platform, where the Soul Stone awaited the initiates. One by one, the village youths touched the glowing surface. Flames, breezes, soft lights… each revealed their affinity.
When his turn came, Astreon hesitated.
What if today is the day? What if… something awakens? Maybe I was just… late.
He placed his hand on the stone. Closed his eyes.
Nothing.
No warmth. No pulse. No glow.
The stone remained gray. Still.
The silence was broken only by whispers.
"Not even a spark?" someone murmured.
"He shouldn't even be here…" said another.
Elder Keiros, eyes weary and voice heavy, let out a long sigh.
"Astreon. By unanimous decision of the Council of the Three Branches, the village of Valek ends all expectations of development with you. From this day forward, you are exempt from future rituals. May your journey be silent."
He said nothing. But inside, each word opened a new scar.
After the ceremony, he tried to speak with Erven, his childhood neighbor. But the boy looked away. On the way home, a woman shut her window as he approached. Even old Albek — one of the few who treated him kindly — merely shook his head as he passed, like someone mourning something that could not be changed.
That night, Astreon packed his bag. Took only what he could carry. The old necklace, once thought useless, now felt... heavier.
Before crossing the village gates, he stopped before the Tree of Memories. Its leaves crackled softly in the wind, as if whispering among themselves.
"They rejected me twice," he murmured. "First at birth… then for trying to exist."
Then he walked on. No one stopped him. No one waved. Only silence — the one friend who had never left him.
For days, he wandered aimlessly. Slept under open skies, hunted poorly, ate little. But something strange stirred: a sensation… a tickle beneath the skin. Whenever he moved eastward, it was as if something whispered just beneath the surface. Something ancient, or perhaps… familiar.
On the sixth night, he dreamed of roots dancing in flames, and a mouthless voice saying:
"You were not forgotten. Only… delayed."
On the twelfth night of his journey, the rain poured. Seeking shelter, he stumbled upon the ruins of a temple swallowed by the forest. Broken columns. A floor covered in roots. A collapsed roof. Yet even in ruin, the place felt sacred — as if the forest itself held its breath.
He sat down with difficulty. His muscles ached, his stomach growled. And yet, strangely, he felt... at home.
He lay against a mossy wall, the necklace cold against his chest. Closed his eyes.
Then the stone pulsed.
Once. Then again. Rhythmic, like a heartbeat he never knew existed.
Astreon clutched the necklace, breath catching.
"This never…" he whispered, swallowing hard.
The stone glowed faintly, and for the first time, he felt something calling to him — and from him — at once.
From the back of the chamber, wrapped in the sound of rain filtering through stone, a voice — broken, muffled, full of distant echoes — whispered:
"Astreon…
Cycle… eighty-nine…
You… found me… again."