The Hidden in Myth

Vern sat beneath the sprawling shade of an ancient tree, its roots twisted deep into the earth as if trying to anchor themselves in truth. One foot flat on the ground, the other knee bent, his arms resting upon it with the quiet stillness of contemplation.

Before him, the river flowed in silence — gentle, unhurried, unknowingly profound.

The sky above was calm, the wind soft, and for the first time since awakening in this new, unfamiliar body, he allowed himself to breathe. Not just with lungs, but with thought. With intention.

His eyes, sharper now, watched the flow of water, the shimmer of light dancing upon it like fleeting dreams.

"Fate…" he muttered to himself.

"You've given me a new beginning."

There was no bitterness in his voice — only quiet resolve.

He remembered everything now: not just the boy Vern's life, but his own.

Markin Pigeon — the warrior, the wanderer, the old man who had sought strength until the very end. The man who had given up everything and found truth in surrender.

Now… his soul sat in the body of a scorned boy who had died alone.

"And I won't waste this chance," he whispered.

But something gnawed at him, an itch beneath the skin of logic — the body was strange.

He had inspected it already. Touched the points where the Essence Threads should awaken. He knew the feel of energy, of Essence. There were no activated threads. No signs of awakening. No Node Core, the very foundations of any cultivator's path.

And yet… he felt it.

Deep within.

Like a drumbeat behind a wall, something pulsed.

Subtle. Distant. Alive.

"This body has no Node Core… and yet, why does I sense one?"

His fingers tensed around his knee. The large wound on his back had sealed unnaturally fast. Regeneration beyond normal comprehension. Not just healing — evolution. This wasn't ordinary, even in the most gifted bloodlines who does not even awaken his essence threads

Could it be… the remnants of the strange energy he had absorbed in the lake beneath the Lost Veil?

Could those threads have woven themselves into this new vessel?

Transformed it from within?

He didn't have the answer.

Not yet.

But he knew what had to be done.

He pushed himself to his feet, body still sore, but fire stirring in his chest.

According to the boy's fragmented memories — his memories now — the Wind Blossom Clan was powerful and wealthy, its vaults rich with cultivation materials, its grounds blessed with ancient formations. Varn may have been scorned there in life… but now, Markin wore his skin.

And he would return.

Not to beg.

Not to plead.

But to claim what was needed.

He would walk back into the place that cast this boy aside… and begin again.

"I must start everything from the beginning," he said quietly, watching the river.

"But this time, I walk the path with eyes wide open."

A breeze stirred the leaves above him. The river continued to flow — forward, never backward.

He looked up to the sky and let his thoughts drift for a moment, his voice low and thoughtful.

"Fate is strange. It never walks a straight path. Sometimes it crushes you. Sometimes it gives you wings. But that is the beauty of life — its unpredictability. Its cruel, tender poetry."

He smiled faintly.

"I have to go to the Wind Blossom Clan with Vern's identity ."

He looked towards the forest from which Vern had come.

"I don't know what lies ahead. Hardship will follow, like always. But so will beauty. So will strength. And this time… I'll shape fate with my own hands."

Vern walked beneath the forest canopy, the light dimming to gold as the sun leaned westward, casting long shadows through the trees. The forest was thick with moss-covered trunks and the scent of earth and wildflowers, and every footstep crunched softly over fallen leaves and broken twigs.

After some time, his eyes caught the glint of metal half-buried beneath a patch of tangled grass. He bent down and drew it free: a small sword, worn, its blade chipped and crusted with dried blood.

He turned it in his hand, his expression sharpening.

"This must be from the ambush… The trail is still fresh."

It was a sign — perhaps left behind when the boy Vern had fled for his life.

It meant he was moving in the right direction.

Toward the clan.

Toward the life that abandoned him.

He continued, following subtle signs — a broken branch, a splash of old blood on a stone, the faint imprint of feet dragged across soil. As the sun sank further and evening crept in, the colors of the world softened, dulled, and faded into the grey calm of dusk.

Eventually, he stopped at a quiet clearing. Wild grass swayed around the edges, and a still silence hung in the air. Not oppressive — just present. He sniffed the air, listened for movement, then set his focus.

A rabbit. Quick-footed but careless. Caught with a stone and swift hands.

Soon, he had gathered dry wood and kindling, and as twilight deepened into night, a fire crackled to life — small, warm, comforting.

He roasted the rabbit slowly, the scent of sizzling meat rising into the trees.

The forest was quiet, but not hostile. He had wandered far — but this part was still alive with small creatures. Wild boars, wildcats, insects humming their endless songs.

He sat before the flames, legs folded, elbows resting on his knees, eyes staring deeply into the dance of firelight. It flickered against his face, warming his skin, but his thoughts… drifted elsewhere.

Into memory.

---

A different forest. A darker time.

He must have been no older than eleven or twelve.

He and his older brother, children of war and wandering.

Their parents were long gone — taken by sickness and silence.

They lived with their grandfather at the Singchura Temple, a quiet, wind-swept shrine at the edge of the mountain forests. It was a simple life. A peaceful one. Until the flames came.

Anti-religious raiders — zealots of power, not spirit — descended on the temple like beasts, tearing down banners, burning texts, spilling sacred oil and sacred blood alike.

He remembered running.

Holding his brother's hand.

Or was it the other way around?

That night in the woods had been his first night under the open sky.

No roof.

No walls.

Only a fire — much like this one — and his brother's voice, warm in the dark.

"Don't worry," his brother had whispered, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"Everything will be fine. We'll go back one day. When it's safe again."

Markin — the boy he had once been — had believed him.

And that belief had carried him for years.

Now, as Vern, reborn, he watched the flames dance and thought:

"That fire was our hope. This fire is my vow."

---

He blinked, the present returning slowly.

The rabbit was finished.

He ate with practiced silence, chewing slowly, the memory still lingering on his tongue like forgotten incense.

Once he had eaten, he stood, brushing off his hands, and looked upward.

Above him, through the jagged gaps in the forest canopy, the moon hung low and pale, casting silver light across the world. A quiet beauty in the endless night.

He climbed the largest tree nearby — smooth and tall — and found a wide branch that cradled his weight like it had been waiting just for him. He lay down across it, one arm folded behind his head, eyes staring upward through the branches.

The sky beyond was dark and soft, the stars beginning to bloom like slow embers.

The moonlight fell across his face.

He exhaled slowly, his body sore, his mind full, his soul… quieter than it had been in years.

He was no longer just Markin.

He was not yet truly Vern.

He was something in between —

And this was only the beginning.

As the wind whispered through the leaves and the world hushed itself for the night,

He closed his eyes.

The sun had just begun to rise, casting a pale golden hue over the treetops, while a cold breeze curled through the forest like the breath of dawn itself. Varn stirred from sleep, the gentle rustle of leaves waking him from a quiet, dreamless night. Moonlight was gone, replaced now by a soft morning glow. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the light, the ache in his limbs a reminder of both survival… and the path still ahead.

He shifted his body and sat upright on the tree branch, exhaling a long breath. The forest beneath was calm. Birds chirped faintly in the distance. A new day had begun.

With quiet resolve, Varn climbed down from the tree, his movements deliberate, cautious, balanced — like someone relearning what it meant to be alive. His feet touched the earth, and without delay, he resumed his journey through the trees.

The forest thinned after a few hours of walking. Greenery gave way to an open, grassy field, stretching wide beneath the sky. Morning dew still clung to the blades of grass, glistening in the light. He crossed it, feeling a strange sense of openness after so long beneath the trees.

Beyond the field, he spotted the familiar rhythm of agriculture — grain fields, golden and swaying. Life. Human life. Not the ethereal stillness of the Lost Veil or The forest without human presence. This was a place of villagers, labour, and breath.

His stomach grumbled softly. He pressed on.

Soon he entered a village — modest in size, peaceful, marked by thatched roofs and dirt paths, smoke curling from small chimney holes. His eyes scanned the scene with quiet intensity, each detail a reminder that this world still turned even after souls like Vern's had been forgotten.

He saw an old man tending to bundles of straw by the roadside.

"Old man," Varn said, his voice calm but firm. "How can I reach the Wind Blossom Clan from here?"

The man looked up sharply, startled by the sight before him. Vern's appearance was rough — tattered clothes, dirt-streaked face, hair wild and dry, pants torn from travel. To the old man's eyes, this boy looked like a wandering beggar or an escaped servant, not someone with the right to speak of the Wind Blossom Clan.

He squinted and frowned. "The Wind Blossom Clan? What's a kid like you want with them? You don't seem to have any business there."

Vern narrowed his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. He said coldly, "That's none of your business."

There was something about the way the boy spoke. Not threatening — but steady. Heavy. As if behind his words was something deeper than youth should hold. The old man hesitated, uneasy.

"Alright, alright," the man mumbled, backing off. "Just asking… Look, if you head east about five kilometers from here, you'll reach Trinbu Province. That whole province is under Wind Blossom territory."

Vern gave a slight nod — not a word more — and turned away, his feet already moving.

By midday, he had reached Trinbu Province — a place where roads were wide, buildings strong, and martial presence visible. It was not a city, but it pulsed with organized life. At every checkpoint, guards bore the Wind Blossom Clan sigil: a silver blossom within a gust of wind, stitched upon flowing robes and chest armor.

He walked slowly through the main road, scanning his surroundings, searching for a familiar path that stirred something in Vern's old memories.

He stopped and asked a young merchant for directions.

But before he could receive an answer, several figures approached from behind — robes billowing lightly, steps precise and strong. Martial artists, no doubt. And sure enough, their uniforms bore the Wind Blossom crest.

One of them — a man with sharp brows and a steady gaze — stepped forward in sudden shock.

"Young Master Vern! Is that you? You're alive?" His voice cracked slightly with disbelief. "We've been searching for you for days. We thought…" he paused, collecting himself. "Where have you been?"

Vern turned to them, face unreadable and thought

So they didn't fully abandoned Vern or they just want to bring his dead body back to clan.

"I'm safe now," he replied coolly. "Take me back to the clan."

The martial artists exchanged glances, uncertain. But the voice — it was Vern. Or at least, it was his face. Their orders were to retrieve him, should he be found alive. They obeyed without further question.

By the time the first light of dawn broke the next day, the entry gate of the Wind Blossom Clan stood before them — vast and dignified, carved with sacred wood, gilded with lacquered stone, and guarded by disciples in sharp formation. The wind rustled through the garden trees beyond the walls, bringing with it the scent of jasmine and iron.

Vern stood there silently, eyes tracing the towering structure, unmoved.

Vern had left this place as prey.

Now, his body returned with Markin's soul.

He breathed in deeply, taking in the wind of the clan that had once ignored Vern.

'So this is The Wind Blossom Clan'