The Creator's Path–A Cosmic Odyssey

The Arden Clan compound buzzed with tension far thicker than the usual morning mist. This wasn't the tranquil peace that normally settled over the mountain estate—today, the air was tight with anticipation, humming like a drawn bowstring.

The annual Young Generation Competition was near—a crucible where the clan's brightest talents would clash, their spiritual energies flaring like miniature suns.

From the mist-veiled training grounds, where the sharp shouts of sparring disciples echoed through the crisp air, to the bustling inner kitchens, where the rhythmic chopping of herbs met the clang of iron pots, excitement throbbed like a heartbeat. Teenage disciples in flowing robes bearing clan insignias honed their moves with practiced precision—fluid strikes, perfect footwork, unwavering focus.

Even the servants moved with urgency, stealing glances toward the training fields, eager to glimpse a rising star.

Near a steaming outdoor stove, where the rich aroma of simmering broth mingled with pine, two servants whispered, voices low but heavy with awe.

"She's entering this year, right? The Patriarch's daughter?" asked a younger man with eager eyes, stirring a pot of grain.

The older servant, a woman with gnarled hands and sunken eyes, nodded slowly, a soft smile touching her lips. "Yes. Lian. She's fifteen now—already at the Core Formation Realm. They say she reached Foundation Establishment at six, and Core Formation before she turned ten."

She shook her head in wonder. "The Black Mirror never shone brighter for anyone."

"Core Formation at fifteen…" the young man whispered, shaking his head. "Most geniuses struggle to reach Foundation Establishment by that age. She's practically sacred."

He hesitated, lowering his voice. "And Bran? Also born on the same day as her—and… the other one. What about him?"

The older servant's tone grew respectful. "Bran is a prodigy in his own right. Foundation Establishment at seven. Now almost at Core Formation. Smart, composed, ruthless when he needs to be."

She paused, then sighed. "But next to her…"

The sentence trailed off into silence.

No one mentioned the third child born that day. The son the mirror had rejected. He didn't exist in their stories, not in their hopes. Only silence followed his name.

Kai sat crouched behind a stack of firewood, the rough bark scraping against his faded tunic. He nibbled quietly on a stolen crust of flatbread, its dry texture familiar. His clothes, though clean, were worn thin. His bare feet were dusted white from wandering forgotten paths.

Fifteen years old.

Unseen.

Unclaimed.

Untrained.

He wasn't a servant, nor was he a disciple. No master called his name. No one corrected his form or guided his path. He was a ghost inside the walls of his clan—present, but never acknowledged.

He listened.

Words floated past like the mountain breeze.

"Her name will be remembered for centuries."

"Core Formation at fifteen."

"She might be the youngest to reach Nascent Soul…"

Kai swallowed the bread. The words were bitterer than the crust.

Core Formation. Nascent Soul. Words that opened worlds. Worlds barred to him.

He had never spoken to his sister. Not once. She walked halls lined with silk and guards, protected by layers of visible and hidden power. Even her aura made others lower their eyes. Kai knew—from hours of silent observation—that she had already been approached by a powerful sect.

To the clan, it was only a rumor.

To Kai, it was truth.

A truth that widened the chasm between them.

He turned away and slipped behind the training fields, heading toward his refuge.

A steep path—barely more than a goat trail—wound behind the outer stables, disappearing into jagged ridges above the compound. The climb was brutal. Loose stones shifted underfoot. Roots clawed at the legs. But he knew every twist, every hidden handhold.

The air grew sharper as he rose. Pine. Bark. Moss. Cold.

Halfway up, nestled beneath leaning ancient pines, lay a small clearing—a patch of stone scoured clean by wind and time. This was his sanctuary. His forge.

No one looked down on him here. No one whispered. No one told him what he couldn't be.

Here, the silence listened.

He dropped into a stance. Shoulders rolled. Legs flexed.

He began.

His training was unorthodox, born of sheer need. He had no Qi, no root, no guidance. But he had eyes that memorized, a body that endured, and a mind that refused to forget.

He recalled movements demonstrated by Renn—an older disciple—fluid sequences of strikes and dodges executed with effortless grace. He tried to mimic it.

His stance faltered.

His punch veered.

He stumbled, fell.

Pain bloomed in his shoulder, but he rolled back to his feet. Started again. Slower. Deliberate.

One punch. Again. A hundred times.

His knuckles bruised.

His legs burned.

His spine ached.

He grabbed heavy stones and pressed them overhead until his arms shook. His sweat soaked the ground. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. Still, he pushed on.

Even with this discipline, something was missing.

A feeling.

A layer of energy he couldn't touch.

A piece the world had kept from him.

But he trained anyway. He would forge a path where none existed.

Later, his hunger gnawed at him, sharp as a blade. He slipped behind the outer kitchens, weaving through shadows. A loose panel in the storeroom wall opened like an old secret. He took only what he needed—half a bun, a sliver of fruit, a cold slice of meat.

Then—

"Oi. You rat."

Kai turned.

Renn stood in the doorway. Eighteen. Tall. Broad. A Foundation Establishment cultivator. His robes were spotless. His expression, smug.

"You again," he sneered. "Still sniffing around the bins?"

Kai said nothing. His grip tightened on the bun behind his back. His gaze was calm. Focused.

Renn stepped forward. "Did your mother not teach you manners? Oh, wait. That's right. She looked at you once—and never again."

The slap was sudden.

It cracked across Kai's cheek, jerking his head sideways.

He didn't fall.

He didn't flinch.

He simply looked up—eyes clear, calculating. Not afraid. Not angry. Watching.

Every twitch. Every shift. The pivot of the foot. The angle of the wrist.

Qi had enhanced the blow. A subtle pulse. A flex of unnatural power.

Kai noted it all.

Renn scoffed. "Next time I see you near the fields, you'll eat dirt. Understand, useless?"

He turned and walked off.

Kai sat down slowly, cheek throbbing. The bun had fallen. He picked it up, brushed off the dust, and ate.

When the sun dipped low and painted the peaks in fire, Kai returned to his ridge.

Muscles aching. Legs raw. Cheek swollen.

He planted his feet.

He mimicked Renn's strike.

Adjusted.

Tighter coil. Sharper pivot. Cleaner release.

Still wrong. But better. Closer.

He would get it.

Eventually.

That night, he returned to his usual place—beside the woodshed, half-buried in shadow.

A soft sound.

He looked up.

Lina.

She stepped from the dark like a wraith, silent and calm. She placed a cloth-wrapped bundle beside him—still warm.

Fried yam.

She didn't speak. Just sat. Her ink-stained fingers rested on her knees.

He ate slowly.

Then she offered something else.

A small bell—intricately carved wood, worn smooth with age. No bigger than his thumb.

She placed it in his palm.

"This place doesn't belong to you," she murmured. "Not if you wish to change things."

Her fingers brushed his.

Then she vanished into the night.

Kai sat in silence.

The bell in his palm.

His muscles hurt.

His blood hummed.

The fire in his chest refused to dim.

He didn't know what the bell meant.

Not yet.

But he would find out.