The Creator's Path–A Cosmic Odyssey

Darkness.

Not the soft dark that lulls one to sleep, nor the gentle hush where dreams bloom.

This was deeper. Endless. A crushing, absolute void that swallowed all sensation. All sound. All self.

He had died. That much was certain.

The rain.

The sharp sting of betrayal.

The cold kiss of steel sliding between his ribs.

The gritty pavement beneath his cheek.

Then—stillness. A slow drift into not-being.

Yet something remained.

No breath. No body. No voice. Only awareness—thin and flickering, like the last ember in a forgotten brazier. A stray consciousness adrift in a sea of silence.

Then it came.

Not a figure. Not a voice. A presence—vast, ancient, unmoving.

Its existence pressed against the void like the weight of a collapsed star. Watching. Waiting.

His soul trembled.

It wasn't fear. Not quite. It was the unbearable, humbling certainty of insignificance.

A grain of dust beneath an eternal sky.

And still… it lingered.

Then—warmth.

A flicker, distant. Gentle. Like a star being born in the cold. It pulsed. Called. Pulled.

He followed.

The void cracked.

The presence faded, drawn back into infinity. And then—

Pain.

A scream tore from him. Not from memory. From now.

Cold air slammed into fragile lungs. His skin prickled as if a thousand needles danced across it. A crushing pressure squeezed his chest, forcing a cry from his newborn throat.

His first breath in a world that wasn't his own.

Mine?

Shapes blurred. Light and shadow danced wildly. The scent of blood, damp stone, and sharp herbs carved into his senses. Words floated above him—foreign, yet somehow understood.

"It's a boy! The firstborn, Patriarch!"

A woman's voice—sharp, reverent. Then a man's, low and commanding.

Flames flickered on stone walls, casting shadows across a vaulted chamber. This was no hospital. No city. No world he knew.

He had the feeling he was no longer in his world.

But there—beside him. Another presence. Gentle. Warm.

Beating in rhythm with his own. Not in thought, but in something deeper. A shared tether.

Another heartbeat.

A cry. Softer. Higher. Not his.

They were separated.

Movement. Cloth brushed his skin. Arms—firm and impersonal—lifted him.

Light grew stronger. Voices quieted.

"Bring them."

A man's voice. Firm. Measured. But cold—colder than the stone floor.

He was carried into a hall of silence.

A ring of robed figures stood around a polished pedestal.

Atop it sat a mirror—no, not a mirror. A void carved into stone. Obsidian-dark, devouring even torchlight. Cold. Unwelcoming. Waiting.

They placed the girl before it first—the one born with him.

The mirror reacted instantly.

A golden flare burst outward, flooding the room in warm light. It pulsed like the heartbeat of the world itself. Elders gasped. Eyes gleamed.

"Unparalleled purity!" an elder rasped, voice trembling.

"She sensed Qi at birth! A divine spiritual root"

The Patriarch's stern face broke into a rare smile.

"The heavens have truly blessed the Arden Clan," he declared.

"She will reach Foundation Establishment young—and beyond that, far beyond what we imagined. Her name will be Lian"

The whispers swelled with awe. Hushed predictions of glory danced through the chamber. The girl lay still, composed—already wearing the weight of destiny.

Next, it was the child of the grand eldet the patriarch senior brother, he was placed before the mirror.

Born on the same auspicious day.

The mirror responded with a strong, steady golden glow—deep and resolute.

Not blinding like Lian's, but clear and firm. The elders nodded.

"Excellent spiritual roots," one murmured.

"A strong pillar in the making."

Bran was lifted, his fate secured. The clan's hopes wrapped around him like invisible armor.

Then, it was the boy's turn.

The third child.

He was lifted.

Placed before the same obsidian mirror.

The air grew colder.

His small chest rose and fell in sharp, panicked motions. There was no understanding. Only instinct. Dread. A soul laid bare.

The mirror rippled once.

And then—nothing.

No light.

No warmth.

No sound.

Only his reflection in black glass.

Alone. Dull. Voiceless.

A silence heavier than death settled over the chamber.

Even as an infant, he felt it.

The shift.

The retreat.

The disappointment.

The woman—his mother, though he would never know her warmth—glanced at him once. Then turned away.

Not in anger.

But in indifference.

His father said nothing. He stared at the black mirror, fists clenched, jaw tight.

And then—his voice, low and final:

"From this day forward, one child was born to me. The girl. She is our future.

The others... never existed.

Speak otherwise, and you defy the Clan's will."

No one objected.

The elders bowed.

His fate was sealed.

He had been weighed—and found wanting.

The mirror, the symbol of divine fate, had spoken.

He was nothing.

And so he was carried away.

Unnamed.

Unclaimed.

Unwanted.

Fifteen Years Later

Time passed. Seasons shifted. He grew—not strong, not cherished. Just... larger.

He was not taught. Not guided. No elder spoke his name—because none had ever given him one.

So he gave himself one.

Kai.

A name that felt quiet. Steady. Real.

His own.

Kai existed on the very edge of the Arden Clan's estate—an afterthought in stone corridors, a shadow passing between footsteps. Not quite a servant. Certainly not a disciple. Just there. Always hungry. Always silent. His patched clothes hung loose from a body hardened by hunger and habit.

He learned to move like a shadow—no sound, no ripple. The world passed around him like a tide that never touched the shore.

He had learned not to hope. Hope was fragile. Hope shattered.

So he didn't cry. He remembered.

He remembered every glance that looked through him.

Every voice that never called his name.

Every kindness denied.

Only two souls had ever truly seen him.

Aunt Mei, a bent old servant with soft eyes and cracked hands.

She found a discarded fable book and taught him to read—one stroke at a time.

"Words are power, little one," she whispered. "A different kind of power. Yours."

Even two years after her quiet death, he could still hear her voice when he held the brittle pages.

And sometimes Lina, a servant girl with ink-stained fingers, left him a warm bun or milk when no one watched. She never asked why he was always hidden. She never said his name. But sometimes she'd sit nearby and read aloud, her voice quiet and comforting.

But mostly, he was alone.

Alone with his hunger.

Alone with his thoughts.

Alone with the memory of black glass.

He watched from behind slats and cracked doors.

He saw Lian, his twin, her blade trailing golden arcs as she sparred.

She was already a Core Formation cultivator, shining like the future itself.

He saw Bran, the grand elder son, focused and fierce, nearing Core Formation himself.

He had entered the Foundation Realm at seven. Praised. Honored.

Kai watched with a cracked flask of cool fruit nectar in his hand.

He took a slow sip—sweet and stolen—his only luxury.

He was nothing.

But in the dark, his eyes burned.

And behind him, in a dusty corner, the shattered edge of a broken mirror caught the fading light.

This world has forgotten me, he thought.

Good.

Let them.

Because I will remember everything.

And when the day comes...

They will remember me, too.