The stars above the Cloud Vein Pavilion blinked softly — cold, distant, eternal.
Zeravon lay still on the stone bed of his assigned quarters. The cracked ceiling above let moonlight spill onto his face, painting him in silver. His eyes remained open, unmoving, locked on the sky above.
But he wasn't seeing the stars.
Not really.
He was watching something **beneath** them — a whisper that vibrated through the air, through the soil, through his very breath. A rhythmless hum… like reality itself was trying to remember a melody it had forgotten.
> *"Why does the sky feel so close?"*
He lifted his hand slowly, fingers stretching toward the broken roof as if to grasp that invisible thread. For a second, the air around his fingertips **quivered** — not in power, but in rejection. As if existence didn't know what to do with his presence.
And then it stopped.
Zeravon exhaled and let his hand fall.
He didn't understand it. Not the whispers. Not the heat in his chest. Not the way everyone looked at him after the stone shattered.
But he wasn't afraid.
He couldn't remember what fear felt like.
---
**Early Morning — Sect Training Grounds**
Outer disciples gathered for their daily drills, forming long, uneven lines. The stone plaza was old and cracked, just like the discipline of most who trained here. Only a few took the routines seriously.
Zeravon stood silently at the edge of the crowd, still in his gray robes. No weapon. No cultivation aura. Just a calm figure in a restless world.
Instructor Wei, a mid-stage Qi Condensation cultivator with a permanently sour expression, barked at the group.
"Three formations today. Then spiritual flow meditation. Anyone slacking gets latrine duty."
His gaze landed on Zeravon.
"You. The new one."
Zeravon met his eyes without emotion.
"You think just because some damn stone exploded yesterday, you're special? You're not. That was a fluke. A bug in the formation, not your talent."
Zeravon said nothing.
"Get in formation," Wei snapped. "If you faint, don't bother crawling back."
---
The training began.
Basic stances. Basic footwork. Basic Qi breathing techniques.
Zeravon followed quietly, mimicking the motions without error. His body moved like water flowing into an already-carved path. No hesitation. No force.
Other disciples noticed. Whispers spread.
> "How is he copying it so cleanly?"
> "He's never cultivated before, right?"
> "He moves like… like he's done this a thousand times."
Instructor Wei scowled deeper with each passing minute.
---
**Elsewhere — Deep in the sect's inner mountain**
Elder Lin stood before a sealed stone chamber, ancient runes etched across the doorway glowing faintly in response to his Qi.
He had summoned someone. Someone who didn't belong to their sect… or even to this realm.
A figure stepped from the shadows — cloaked in black, face hidden beneath a jade mask, presence like still death.
> "You felt it too?" the masked figure asked.
Elder Lin nodded slowly. "The resonance. The seal… and something deeper. That boy—"
> "—should not exist here," the masked one finished. "He is not a cultivator. He is not even mortal, not completely."
Elder Lin's grip tightened on his staff.
> "Then what is he?"
Silence.
> "A thread that should have never been stitched into this world," the masked figure said. "If he awakens… it won't just be the Dao that trembles. *It will be rewritten.*"
---
**That Night — Zeravon's Quarters**
He sat cross-legged now, imitating the other disciples' meditation posture. No one had taught him. He had simply watched.
He closed his eyes, trying to "feel" Qi the way they described it in passing conversation.
Nothing.
Then something.
Not a thread. Not a flow.
But an **echo** — coming from within.
Like a voice from a canyon, calling his name… if only he could remember what his name once was.
Suddenly, a vision flickered behind his closed eyes:
A storm of stars collapsing into silence.
A hand stretching through nothing.
A voice, faint and without tone, whispering—
> *"You sealed yourself."*
His eyes snapped open.
Sweat dripped from his brow.
> *"I… sealed myself?"* he whispered aloud. *"Why?"*
No answer. Only moonlight and the quiet breathing of other disciples sleeping in their stone beds.
---
**Far Beyond — Realm of Forgotten Divinity**
The Silent Origin stood at the edge of a black ocean that had no waves. His body was formless, yet all-shaped — a being of echoes rather than sound.
He watched the mortal realm through the stream of timeless dust.
> *"He is remembering."*
The air around the Origin twisted into runes — fragments of Zeravon's soul, scattered through layers of forgotten heavens.
> *"The seal is holding… but not for long."*
Another voice emerged beside him, one not heard in eons.
**The Watcher of Ends.**
> "If he remembers too soon, the fabric will tear."
> "Then let them try again," the Origin replied. "Let them all come. One by one."
---
Back in the sect, as dawn approached again, Zeravon sat still… staring at his own palm.
And deep beneath his skin, **a second seal** began to pulse faintly — one even he didn't know existed.
It was not placed by gods.
Not by fate.
It was his own hand… locking away a truth even the stars feared.
---