The young boy slammed into a tree, his bones cracking from the impact. He let out a pained groan as blood soaked half his face, blurring his vision. He struggled to breathe, his chest rising in sharp, uneven motions, his legs barely able to hold his own weight.
A second later, his feet were swept from beneath him. He hit the ground hard, the air punched from his lungs causing them to sting. Before he could react, a heavy knee crashed into his chest, his bones shattering beneath the weight.
"Pl... Please, stop," he whispered, barely audible through the haze of pain flooding his body.
Standing over him were two figures cloaked in black from head to toe. His vision, veiled in blood and dizziness, failed to make out their faces. He had been returning from the village when they attacked and dragged him from the road like prey caught by hunters.
He never imagined someone would have the audacity to harm him. He was the son of the clan leader after all.
For as long as he could remember, he had been hated—by his father, by his brothers. By his clan and even the village.
"Yes. Beg, you wretched scum," boomed one of the attackers. "When you reach the Grey Passage, tell your ancestors that Ri Yuan sent you."
The second spat on him before slamming a boot into his skull. His head hit the earth with a dull, jarring thud, a faint shockwave rippling from the impact.
"Leave him. Let him die here," said the first voice flatly. "It's what we were paid for."
The second nodded and turned. "I find no pleasure in wasting strength on vermin."
He wanted to scream—to curse them, to deny them their cruel dismissal. But he choked on his own blood and fell into darkness.
He should have expected this.
He was the fifth son of Sky Dragon, leader of the Sky Clan. In a family of seven sons, each was expected to be a paragon of strength, guardians of the village's honor. The clan leader and his bloodline were the village's face, its sword and shield. But Sky Ling was neither.
He had no title like the eldest three, no glory to chase. He was a placeholder—an afterthought among giants. Not strong. Not remarkable. Just expected to survive and serve the clan's calling.
And even in that, he failed.
Sky Ling was the only one in the family born with "closed veins"—a rare, damning condition that marked him a disgrace.
Chi flowed through all living beings. It danced through the air, the soil, the stars. Yet only a few—Veinbound—could mold it through the natural channels in their body to practice martial arts.
As a noble-born, Sky Ling should have been Veinbound by birth. But his veins were sealed. He could not absorb Chi, could not train, could not fight. His existence was marred by this flaw, this invisible chain choking him of his very existence.
He was born a warrior and denied the right to become one.
His father turned away from him. His only protection, his mother, had died from an illness just months ago. With her gone, the others descended—other queens, rival sons. They tormented him in her absence, stripping him of dignity and safety.
Even the maids once loyal to his mother now served higher queens, leaving him in silence. The boy who once shared meals with brothers now watched them grow beyond him, each passing year widening the chasm of strength.
The younger princes too had begun to eclipse him.
The clan leader said nothing. He saw no value in weakness.
Sky Ling had only seen his father three times—all on ceremonial occasions. The man spoke little to his wives or sons. He ruled by distance, and all feared his silence more than his wrath.
Sky Ling always thought he'd be exiled—or quietly executed one day. No one would weep. No one would stop it. Until now, no one had taken the initiative.
But now, here he was, dying.
It wasn't hard to guess which queen had sent the assassins. Perhaps it didn't even matter. The act was done, the pain real, and they had made certain he suffered for it.
A pale light bloomed in the distance, soft and strange. He groaned, eyelids fluttering open.
"Is that the afterlife?" he asked himself weakly.
He had heard the stories of the Grey Passage—the tunnel the soul walked to meet its ancestors. There, warriors recounted their lives: the battles they fought, the deaths they endured.
What would he say? That he died without even getting the chance to lift a finger? That he brought shame upon his lineage from the day he was born?
The only thought that brought him comfort was the hope of seeing his mother's face again.
He didn't care if the ancestors scorned him. If eternity meant her embrace, he would endure it.
He felt a hand touch his face— it was gentle, foreign. A finger pried one of his eyes open. Through the haze of vision, he saw a figure: short white hair, a strange robe, and a soft glow that pulsed from their very skin. The light made them almost otherworldly.
"You're still alive. That's good. It would be a shame if you died now," the figure said, voice deep and calm. "How would you like a second chance? One with enough power to stand at the summit of this world—untouchable, indomitable?"
Sky Ling wanted to laugh, but his body refused. The words felt distant, absurd.
A second chance?
"Power…?" the word came out as barely a whisper. His voice failed him. His lungs ached.
"I cannot give it to one who does not desire it," the figure continued. "That fire—you will need it in the time to come. But if you wish for the power I offer, it comes with a single condition."
Something in the voice rang true. Not warm, not cruel. Simply honest.
Sky Ling, for reasons he couldn't name, found the last ember of his will brought back to life by the words of this stranger. Whether they be true or not they gave him the one thing he was devoid of in life— hope. "What… is it?" He asked in a bare whisper.
The figure extended a hand, voice rising slightly with purpose. "In the future, this world will stand at the edge of ruin. Nations will fall. Countless lives will be taken. I want you to save it—with the power I give you."
"That is the only condition."
"Do you accept this offer, Sky Ling—fifth son of the Sky Clan?"
Sky tried to speak but gurgled blood instead.
The figure knelt, drawing forth a strange needle. It shimmered like crystal. With careful precision, it stabbed the point into his chest, piercing his heart.
"I will take that as a yes."
The figure said without taking into consideration what Sky Ling really wanted, making it clear that the figure did not care either way.
"Be reborn as a go—"
Agony tore through Sky Ling's body. His nerves screamed. His vision dimmed once more.
By the time his senses returned, it was morning and he was dead.