It began with a dream.
No—a memory.
But not his.
It belonged to someone else… someone smaller, younger.
His son.
And in that dream, the boy stood atop a mountain of ash, hands trembling, clothes torn, and eyes glowing with an eerie, molten red. Before him stretched a sea of bodies—hundreds, maybe thousands—strewn like discarded marionettes, limbs bent at impossible angles, faces frozen in expressions of pain that would never fade. Not wounded. Not asleep.
Dead.
The air shimmered with strange, raw energy—ancient and volatile, the kind that bent the rules of space, that chewed at the edges of reality with every flicker. The silence around him wasn't peaceful. It was the silence of something broken, something irreversibly shattered.
And still, the boy stood barefoot in the stillness, chest rising and falling as though he'd just outrun a thunderstorm. His lips were parted slightly, confused, searching for breath in a world that suddenly felt too thin.
There was no fear in his face.
Only confusion.
Then, as if summoned by some twisted joke of fate, a reflection surfaced in the pool of blood at his feet—his own face staring back up at him.
But the reflection didn't look confused.
It smiled.
The boy woke up screaming.
His body jolted upright, sweat clinging to his skin, his fingers dug so deep into the mattress that the wooden frame beneath cracked with a sharp, splintering sound. His breath came in shallow gasps, more animal than human.
His mother burst through the door before he could form a single word. She crossed the room in a heartbeat, gathering him in her arms, cradling him against her chest. "Hey—shhh, it's okay," she murmured, over and over again. But her hands… her hands were shaking.
He noticed.
And when her eyes flicked to the figure standing in the doorway—her husband—she didn't have to say anything. They both knew.
It wasn't just a dream.
Not anymore.
Later, as the morning light filtered through the curtains, the boy told them everything. He spoke in fragments at first, his voice raw from screaming, his eyes unfocused. But the memories came back in bursts—bodies, the scent of ash, that smile in the blood, and the laughter that wasn't his own, echoing somewhere deep inside his skull like a distant, malicious chime.
His father said nothing.
No interruptions. No comforting lies.
Only the smallest shift in his expression when the boy mentioned the reflection and its grin. That was enough. That… wasn't normal. Not even for their bloodline.
When the story finished, the boy sat quiet, trembling. His father reached out and rested a hand gently on his head.
"Did you hurt anyone?"
The boy blinked slowly. "No… I don't think so. It was just a dream."
"But it felt real," he said, more statement than question.
The boy nodded.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
His son was awakening.
And too soon.
That night, after the house had gone quiet and the winds carried whispers that didn't belong to this world, he descended into the old cellar beneath their home. It wasn't a place of warmth or comfort. It had been sealed for over a decade, layered in dead languages and desperate prayers. His wife had sworn to never set foot inside again.
He stood before the vault, his fingers tracing the ancient markings burned into its stone surface. They pulsed faintly in response, alive and resentful.
A sigh escaped him. "I didn't want this."
The seal recognized him.
It opened with a soundless shudder.
Inside the vault was a chair, a mirror dulled with dust, and a small, stone box no larger than a loaf of bread. He knelt before it, opened it slowly, and stared into its contents.
Blood.
Thick, black, and still boiling.
Even after all these years.
It was a piece of what he had been.
And what his children now unknowingly carried.
He didn't touch it.
Only stared for a long time, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"It's starting…"
Miles away, in the lower realm's edge where fields turned to forest and stories still passed by firelight, his daughter faced a different awakening.
Hers came with uniforms.
And with cultivators from the Northern Branch Sect.
They marched into the village smiling with recruitment papers, cloaked in benevolence. But their eyes told another story. They were here to collect—to judge and to take.
She'd hidden her qi for years. Since she was five. Her father had never needed to frighten her into obedience; only a single look and one quiet phrase had shaped her discipline:
"Your strength is not for display."
But today, they crossed a line.
They touched her little brother.
And when she warned them, they laughed.
Mocked her.
Dismissed her.
Then they reached again.
And something inside her snapped.
Just a little.
But enough.
The earth cracked with a deep, angry groan. The air wavered like heat rising from sunbaked stone. The lead cultivator—an elder with three golden rings—was launched across the square, shattered a wall, and didn't get back up.
She hadn't even raised a hand.
Whispers followed. Then messengers. Then interest.
Not about the girl.
But about the power.
Raw. Untamed. Hidden in some forgotten village.
Something to conquer.
Or destroy.
He found her in the barn hours later. She hadn't fled. Just curled herself into the corner, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, staring ahead like she hadn't stopped seeing that moment.
He walked over without a word, sat beside her, and gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered, voice trembling.
"I know."
"They hurt Kai. I—I couldn't stop it."
"I know," he said again.
She buried her face into his chest. "I don't want to become like… like you."
That one cut deeper than he expected.
But he didn't flinch. Didn't argue.
He just held her tighter.
"Then you won't," he said quietly. "You'll become something better. But if anyone ever threatens your family again… you will protect them."
Inside the house, his wife watched from the window, unmoving. She'd heard it all. None of it surprised her—not the dream, not the girl's outburst. What did surprise her was that he still hadn't told them the truth.
Even now.
Even with everything unfolding.
That night, under the pale glow of the moon, she took him aside. Said nothing. Just handed him a letter—yellowed by age, sealed in black wax.
He froze.
"How do you have this?" he asked, voice low.
"I found it under your pillow," she said softly. "Seven years ago. I never opened it."
He stared at the seal.
The crest of the Ninth Heaven.
Only one person could've sent it.
He broke it open. Read the words slowly, line by line, the fire in his eyes dimming with each sentence.
By the end, his breath had stopped.
He didn't speak.
Just burned the letter to ash in his palm.
She waited.
"What did it say?"
"They're coming," he said at last. "Not just for me this time."
She nodded without fear.
"Then let's prepare."
The days that followed were quiet—but not peaceful.
He didn't run.
Didn't hide.
He taught.
From dawn to dusk, his children trained—not in destruction, but discipline. In control. In secrets passed down through forgotten bloodlines and erased scriptures.
He didn't raise killers.
He raised guardians.
But beyond the edges of their land, the shadows grew curious. Stirred by whispers and scents long banished. The feather from Heaven had already marked them.
Now others would come.
Demons.
They always came when the light failed.
And they came knowing Heaven's rules didn't apply to them.
One evening, as dusk swallowed the last of the sun, a massive shadow drifted silently over the forest. It landed without sound. Watched. Waited.
Then it spoke.
Not with a voice.
But with a thought.
He must return. He must choose. If not, we will take them.
He felt it immediately. Like cold steel sliding against the back of his spine. His blood turned to fire. His eyes darkened.
But he didn't storm out.
He didn't shout.
He turned instead to the darkest corner of the room.
"Shadow Fourteen," he said.
A man-shaped void opened its eyes.
"Eradicate it."
The void moved without a sound.
Ten seconds later, the forest was gone.
Not burned.
Not broken.
Just… gone.
That night, he sat on the porch again. Not watching for feathers this time.
But for flames.
Because now that the demons had arrived…
The heroes would follow.
And heroes always came with swords drawn, no questions asked.
His wife joined him in silence.
"You think they're ready?" she asked.
He didn't hesitate.
"No. But they'll become ready the moment they must."
She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
"I'm not afraid."
His answer came quieter than wind. "You should be. Because I'm not the one waking up anymore."
And when she looked at him—truly looked—she saw the glint behind his eyes.
Ancient.
Bottomless.
Still buried.
But listening.
The Glutton hadn't risen.
Not yet.
But he was stirring.