The southern winds howled like wounded beasts, carrying dust and sorrow over the broken remnants of the once-proud Eastern Capital.
Night had already swallowed the sun, and the streets, once vibrant with the laughter of scholars and the clamor of merchants, lay silent under a shroud of decay.
Yang Xuan, cloaked in a simple black robe, moved through the labyrinthine alleys like a phantom.
Every step he took echoed against crumbling walls and abandoned stalls, the echoes twisting and fading as if even sound itself feared to linger. His keen eyes, sharp as a hawk's, missed nothing—the shifting of a shadow behind a toppled cart, the gleam of a dagger hidden under a beggar's ragged sleeve.
They watched him.
They always watched him now.
But he paid them no mind.
Ahead, beyond the shattered remains of a temple gate, rose the Ashen Pavilion.
In its prime, the Pavilion had been the jewel of the capital's Southern District—a place where poets, martial sages, and wandering monks once gathered under banners of peace and unity. Lanterns had once hung from every beam, casting a soft glow over gatherings that shaped the fate of dynasties.
Now, it was a tomb.
The roof had partially caved in. Vines choked the stone pillars. The great murals of dragon emperors and phoenix queens had faded into smudged, ghostly outlines.
And yet… beneath the rot and ruin, Yang Xuan could feel it.
Ancient, stubborn, slumbering power, buried deep beneath the decay, like embers refusing to die.
He tightened the leather wrappings around his palms and strode forward.
Each step was a memory.
He remembered, though the faces blurred and the names had long since been drowned by the river of time, how the loyalists had fought here during the final siege. They had refused to surrender even as the city burned, choosing death over betrayal.
He passed the broken statues of heroes now forgotten, their faces cracked and their arms shattered.
"One day," Yang Xuan thought, "your names will be remembered again."
The Pavilion's heavy wooden doors stood ajar, hanging on broken hinges. A faint, golden light seeped from within—unnatural, pulsating softly like a heartbeat.
Without hesitation, Yang Xuan entered.
---
Inside, the air grew thick and heavy, carrying the scent of incense, blood, and old, old dust.
The interior was vast and hollow, the ceiling soaring into darkness. Moonlight spilled through gaping holes in the roof, pooling like silver lakes on the cracked marble floor.
Figures awaited him.
Cloaked in tattered robes, faces hidden in the shadows, they sat in meditation across the grand hall, arrayed in silent ranks like tomb guardians.
At the far end of the hall, where the Altar of Oaths still stood, a single figure rose.
Master Kong.
No longer the frail, smiling old tutor he had appeared to be. Tonight, Master Kong stood as a titan cloaked in authority, his every movement resonating with invisible strength. His beard, once gray, now shone like woven silver threads. His simple robes fluttered in a non-existent breeze, embroidered with sigils of ancient power.
And his eyes—those sharp, ancient eyes—gleamed with the weight of a thousand years of knowledge.
"You came," Master Kong said, his voice rolling across the hall like thunder muffled by silk.
Yang Xuan approached slowly, each step deliberate.
"You summoned me," he answered.
The cloaked figures stirred slightly, murmuring in languages long forgotten, as if in approval.
Master Kong inclined his head.
"And so the river of fate flows once again," he said, smiling a slow, knowing smile. "Come, Yang Xuan. Let us peel back the veil."
He raised a hand.
The world rippled.
---
In a single breath, the illusion of ruin shattered.
Where crumbling stone and rotted wood had been, now stood a magnificent hall of jade and gold, its ceiling stretching beyond mortal sight, constellations painted in living colors across its vast canvas. The air shimmered with vitality; every breath Yang Xuan took filled his lungs with a richness that made him dizzy.
The cloaked figures were revealed as celestial warriors, clad in armor of starmetal, their helms crowned with blazing halos. Their silent ranks pulsed with divine aura, pressing down like a mountain upon the soul.
Yang Xuan felt his heart pound.
"Illusion… no, not merely illusion," he realized. "This is memory. A fragment of the true Pavilion, preserved beyond time."
He knelt instinctively, not from submission, but from respect.
Master Kong descended from the altar steps, the ground trembling with each stride.
He stopped before Yang Xuan, studying him with the piercing gaze of one who had seen countless heroes rise and fall.
"You carry the blood of dragons," he said. "And yet you walk among rats."
Yang Xuan smiled faintly.
"Even a dragon must crawl before it flies," he replied.
Master Kong barked a short laugh. "Well said! But tell me—do you remember who you are?"
Yang Xuan's eyes hardened.
"I remember enough."
Master Kong's smile faded into solemnity.
"Then remember this also," he said. "The world that betrayed your ancestors, that crushed the Eastern Dynasty, that laughs now at your weakness… it must be broken. Remade."
The old master reached into his sleeve and drew forth a small, crystalline shard.
It pulsed with the same golden light that now lived within Yang Xuan's veins.
He extended it toward him.
"Will you awaken?" Master Kong asked softly. "Will you claim what is yours—not merely by birth, but by right?"
Yang Xuan looked at the shard.
At his future.
At his destiny.
And without hesitation, he reached out.
As Yang Xuan's fingers brushed the crystalline shard, a storm erupted within him.
The world around him shattered like glass, plunging him into an abyss of swirling light and sound.
For a moment, he felt as if he were falling through endless time, stripped of flesh, of thought, of will — reduced to a single burning spark.
Then came the visions.
Before him, vast empires rose and fell.
He saw a young emperor, clad in robes of white and gold, standing atop the Heavenly Terrace with sword in hand. Behind him, an endless army of beasts, immortals, and gods bowed their heads. The heavens themselves had once favored the Eastern Bloodline, crowning them as the stewards of mortal realms.
Dragons coiled through the clouds, phoenixes sang atop sacred trees, and the stars bent their course to the emperor's will.
"That is your ancestor," a voice whispered in Yang Xuan's mind.
"The first Dragon Sovereign. The founder of your line."
Pride surged within him.
But the vision darkened
Jealousy. Fear.
The gods who once exalted the Eastern Bloodline turned upon them.
From the highest peaks, the Celestial Assembly decreed the Eastern Empire too powerful, too dangerous. And so, they plotted.
Blades forged from the bones of fallen stars.
Curses crafted in the depths of the Netherworld.
Divine armies rallied under banners of betrayal.
In a single night, the skies rained blood, and the Eastern Empire was shattered.
The Dragon Sovereign fell, pierced through the heart by a blade laced with immortal poison, betrayed not by gods alone — but by his own blood.
"Remember this," the voice intoned.
"The heavens are false. The only truth lies in your own power."
The last heirs of the Eastern Bloodline fled into obscurity.
Some hid among mortals, masking their divine blood.
Some fled into the spirit realms, waiting for a savior.
Some… chose eternal sleep, locking their bloodlines behind seals no ordinary man could break.
And now, after countless centuries, Yang Xuan had come to awaken it.
Not to restore the past — but to forge something greater.
Something unstoppable.
The visions ended.
Yang Xuan gasped as his senses returned, collapsing to one knee. Sweat streamed down his face. His muscles convulsed, his bones burned.
Master Kong watched silently, arms folded.
"You glimpse but a fraction of what you are," he said. "Now, claim it fully."
The shard dissolved into motes of light, sinking into Yang Xuan's chest.
Pain ignited every nerve in his body.
The True Awakening had begun.
Yang Xuan screamed — a raw, primal sound — as golden veins erupted across his skin, tracing ancient sigils and sacred scripts in patterns older than language.
The Pavilion trembled.
The celestial warriors bowed their heads, murmuring words of an ancient rite:
"Blood of the Dragon,
Heart of the Sovereign,
Rise, and reclaim the heavens!"
Master Kong slammed his staff into the marble, activating the Awakening Pool.
From the floor, a wellspring of mist burst forth, coiling and writhing like a living beast.
It was no ordinary mist — it was the distilled essence of countless loyal spirits, martyrs who had perished defending the Pavilion.
The mist engulfed Yang Xuan.
Inside the mist, Yang Xuan fought for his life.
Invisible chains lashed at him, trying to drag him down into oblivion. He roared, tearing free with sheer willpower, only for new chains to bind him.
Demons of doubt whispered in his ears.
"You are nothing."
"A discarded child."
"You will die forgotten."
But within Yang Xuan, something ancient stirred.
A pulse.
A heartbeat.
A memory not his own — yet intimately familiar.
The blood of dragons.
With a roar that shook the pillars, Yang Xuan exploded with golden light.
Chains shattered.
The mist recoiled.
The golden veins on his body flared, and from his back burst forth an ethereal image — a colossal dragon, its scales shining like a newborn sun.
It coiled protectively around him, roaring a challenge to heaven itself.
The Pavilion shook to its foundations.
Master Kong nodded in satisfaction.
"Good," he murmured. "Very good."
The transformation continued.
Yang Xuan's mortal body strengthened beyond human limits.
Muscles condensed like tempered steel.
His bones hardened into crystalline matrices.
His meridians expanded, forming rivers capable of channeling divine energies.
A sigil blazed onto his back — a blazing sun crowned by a golden dragon — the Dragon Sun Sigil.
It was not merely a symbol.
It was a declaration.
Yang Xuan was no longer merely human.
He was becoming something more.
Something divine.
Finally, as the first light of dawn seeped through the ruined Pavilion roof, the mist dispersed.
Yang Xuan rose to his feet.
His black robe hung in tatters, his body emanating a faint golden glow.
His eyes, once merely sharp, now blazed like twin suns.
He clenched his fist — and the air trembled.
Power.
Real power.
Not borrowed, not stolen, but his by right.
He turned to Master Kong.
"I am ready," Yang Xuan said simply.
The old master smiled.
"You are ready," he agreed. "But your path is far from over.
To reclaim your destiny, you must forge a foundation that even the gods will fear."
He gestured toward the altar.
Three relics now floated above it, radiating irresistible power.
And so began the next trial.
The Pact and the Selection.
The three relics hovered in the golden light above the ancient altar, each radiating a different, profound aura that could tear the soul asunder if stared at too long.
Yang Xuan stood before them, heart pounding not with fear, but with pure, electric anticipation.
Master Kong's voice echoed through the vast, shimmering Pavilion:
"Choose, Yang Xuan.
The relic you bind today will shape the foundation of your future immortality.
Choose with courage.
Choose with wisdom.
Choose with strength."
The relics called out to him, each singing a song only the depths of his soul could hear.
The First Relic: The Void Dragon's Scale
A single scale, blacker than night itself, floating silently.
Its surface seemed to swallow all light, like a window into an endless abyss.
It pulsed with a slow, inexorable beat — the heartbeat of the Void.
Legend had it the Void Dragon had existed before even the Heavens were formed, a being of pure primal chaos.
The price?
An eternal struggle against the Void's pull toward nothingness.
A wrong step — and his very soul could be erased.
The Second Relic: The Sunfire Crown
A golden crown, burning with an undying flame.
It floated majestically, its flames wreathing around it in patterns that resembled roaring phoenixes and leaping lions.
The Sunfire Crown had belonged to the Solar Emperor, the immortal ruler who once commanded the Fire Courts of Heaven.
The cost?
An endless hunger to burn — a fire within the heart that could consume even the wielder's sanity.
The Third Relic: The Sovereign's Bone
A fragment of pure white bone, faintly etched with shifting runes.
It resonated with a deeper, subtler power — not destructive, but commanding.
It was the remnant of the First Sovereign, a mortal who had defied the gods and carved his name into the heavens through will alone.
The danger?
To shoulder the Sovereign's burden was to battle destiny itself.
Failure would result in his existence being erased from all timelines — past, present, and future.
Yang Xuan stood still.
Each relic called to a different part of him.
The Void Dragon's Scale whispered of unparalleled mobility, unmatched assassination, the ability to defy even the heavens' grasp.
The Sunfire Crown sang of glorious battles, unconquerable life, and the burning passion of creation and destruction.
The Sovereign's Bone pulsed with silent, absolute dominance — the slow, inevitable crushing of all resistance under the weight of his will.
Master Kong watched without speaking.
He knew the boy — no, the man — had to make this choice alone.
This choice would define him forever.
Yang Xuan closed his eyes.
He thought of the betrayal carved into the marrow of history.
He thought of the gods' false justice.
He thought of a future not built on fleeting power or flashy destruction — but on unchallenged dominion.
He opened his eyes.
Stepped forward.
And without hesitation —
reached out to grasp the Sovereign's Bone.
The Selection
The moment his fingers touched the fragment, the Pavilion exploded in blinding light.
A hurricane of golden wind tore through the hall.
The celestial warriors fell to one knee, weapons planted into the marble, shielding themselves.
Master Kong smiled faintly and bowed his head in approval.
In that instant, a billion chains of destiny, stretching across countless realms, twisted and howled — and shattered.
Yang Xuan roared as the Sovereign's Bone fused into his very spine, branding his soul with a mark invisible to all but the most ancient of beings:
Zang Xuan — The Sovereign Beyond Fate
The ground split.
The heavens cracked.
The universe itself took notice.
In a realm far beyond mortal understanding — where the gods of the Celestial Assembly resided — an ancient bell began to toll.
The gods stirred in their golden palaces.
Some laughed.
Some wept.
Some trembled.
An oracle spoke, his voice trembling:
"The Sovereign has returned."
And across the mortal realms, hidden powers, old sects, and forgotten clans all felt the same stirring — an ancient, unavoidable destiny rolling toward them like an unstoppable tide.
Yang Xuan rose from the altar.
He was no longer merely a man.
He was a sovereign seed, planted deep within the heart of the crumbling world, destined to split apart the heavens themselves.
Master Kong approached, a faint gleam of reverence in his eyes.
"From this day forth," the old master said, "you are no longer bound by fate."
He knelt on one knee — the first to do so — and pressed a fist over his heart.
"We await your command, Sovereign."
The celestial warriors followed suit.
One by one, they knelt, their armor clashing like thunder, their heads bowed.
But fate, though broken, was not silent.
Even now, beyond the borders of the ruined capital, forces moved against him.
Enemies ancient and new stirred in their crypts and palaces.
Whispers of the awakening began to spread.
And soon — very soon — the world would learn:
A sovereign had returned.
A dragon had awoken.
The age of gods and mortals alike was about to end.