The Dao is the essence of all things—
The silent breath behind creation,
The harmony that weaves through existence,
The rhythm of life itself.
Why does the wind stir the heavens?
Why does the predator pursue its prey?
Why does snow descend upon the mountaintop?
Such is the way of the Dao.
It governs without word, commands without form.
It is the eternal cycle—birth, death, and rebirth.
Yin draws in; Yang presses forth.
Through their endless dance, the cosmos is kept in balance.
No emperor commands it. No deity oversees it.
It is the truth behind all truths.
And yet, for all its silence, the Dao does not ignore us.
For we mortals, there are two paths.
One may drift gently with the current—
Embracing comfort, living simply,
Chasing fleeting pleasures beneath the rising and setting sun,
And fading quietly into dust and shadow.
Or…
One may choose to defy.
To step against the current.
To confront the heavens with open eyes and clenched fists.
To suffer, to struggle, and to rise.
To grasp immortality itself.
This is the path of cultivation.
A journey not of comfort, but of will.
Not of luck, but of unyielding determination.
It is a forging—a purification of soul and spirit.
The cultivator trains not merely the body,
But the breath, the blood, and the essence.
With each breath of qi absorbed,
With each meridian unsealed,
Each limit broken—
The heavens take notice.
And the heavens do not forgive.
Lightning descends. Tribulation strikes.
For every ounce of strength we seize,
The Dao demands a toll in pain, time, and sacrifice.
To walk this path, one must gather the rarest of resources.
Spiritual herbs that seep out from the purest concentration of qi,
Deep in ancient valleys untouched by man.
Beast cores—concentrated orbs of fury and life force—
Harvested from ancient powerful beasts,
Creatures whose roars could split mountains in half.
Demon bones, etched with curses and echoes of forgotten wars,
Artifacts of slaughter and suffering,
Yet precious beyond measure.
With these, we temper our souls.
With these, we forge our fate.
There are five stages in every realm: I, II, III, IV, V.
Even the first realm—Qi Cultivation—
Offers power far beyond the reach of ordinary mortals.
A mere novice at Qi Cultivation Realm I
Can strike with a force of 545 kilograms,
Leap over walls and gallop faster than a warhorse.
At stage V, they can shatter stone with a finger,
And remain still as boulders roll harmlessly against them.
With each breakthrough, power doubles.
And when one crosses into a new major realm,
Their very essence transforms.
The difference between Qi Cultivation V
And Foundation Establishment I
Is as vast as the space between heaven and earth.
And beyond that, there are greater heights still—
Golden Core Realm, where qi condenses into a radiant core,
A second heart, immortal and indestructible.
Then Nascent Soul, when the soul itself detaches from the body,
Gaining awareness, will, and flight.
Then… the unknown.
The realms whispered of in myth.
The realm of legends, where mortals become more than men.
Where cultivators command the storm, cleave rivers with a thought,
And gaze upon the stars not as distant dreams, but as stepping stones.
But to even dream of such heights, one must be chosen by fate.
In noble clans such as mine—
The Wang Clan, guardians of the empire,
Descended from heroes who stood against the Nine Demonic Kings—
All children born with the spark of qi
Are enveloped in sacred rites.
The wealthiest families bathe their children in blessed rituals the moment they draw their first breath.
They are anointed in sacred beast blood and powerful herbs,
And swaddled in cloth made from spirit silkworm threads.
The elders chant the Sutra of the Dao,
Drawing sigils in the air with golden incense ash.
Each month, the rituals are repeated—
From infancy to the twelfth year.
A cycle of awakening, purification, and preparation.
But only one in ten thousand shall awaken
A spiritual root—
The core of every true cultivator.
A root may align with one of the five sacred elements:
Earth, steady and enduring;
Fire, fierce and consuming;
Water, flowing and adaptable;
Metal, sharp and unyielding;
Wood, growing and ever-reaching.
To bear more than one is considered a curse—
"A master of none," they say.
Better to wield one flame than five embers.
Only the most blessed may harmonize multiple roots—
And even then, their path is fraught with danger.
My name is Wang Jun, son of General Wang Li, the Masterful Tactician.
I was named by my grandfather, Supreme Dragon General Wang Long—
Commander of the Emperor's million-man legion.
They say that when I was born, thunder rolled across the Wang Mountains like a divine drumbeat, and a crimson phantom dragon coiled through the northern sky.
The very qi of the heavens shimmered and danced, weaving patterns of joy unseen by mortal eyes.
My father perished during the Great Demon Invasion,
A calamity that nearly wiped out two-thirds of humanity.
My mother passed away while giving birth to me.
And I…
Was born blind.
My eyes have never known the shape of the moon,
Nor the smile of my mother, nor the glint of steel.
Yet I have seen rivers flow with hidden energy,
Heard the pulse of trees, and felt the sorrow in stone.
While others rely on the world of form,
I was born into a world of flow.
For I see the Dao.
Not with eyes of flesh—
But with the inner vision that opens only when all else is denied.
Where others see light and shadow,
I see currents of qi weaving through existence—
A silent music humming beneath all things.
I know when a lie is spoken,
For the qi around the speaker twists and recoils.
I know when a leaf trembles before it falls,
For the Dao has already shown me its descent.
Some in the clan whispered that my blindness was punishment—
A defect, a sign that I was unfit to carry the family name.
But my grandfather said otherwise.
He placed his weathered hand on my head and said:
"To feel the world is to wield truth. The rest are just shadows."
He was the only one who looked at me without pity.
I was raised in solitude within the secluded courtyard of my parents' manor.
The General's Mansion sprawls across an expanse of 500 li—
A vast domain dotted with over a hundred mountains,
Sacred lakes, bamboo forests, and ancient stone temples.
My parents' manor alone spans five peaks—
A world unto itself.
My grandparents bore seven sons—
Each one a warrior, each one a legacy of the mighty Wang Clan.
My father was the last born—
A cultivator of rare genius, reaching Golden Core V before his thirtieth year.
But even he stood in the shadow of my grandfather,
A Nascent Soul Realm cultivator whose roar alone
Could shatter the courage of ten thousand troops.
Yet in the shadow of their greatness, I was left with only echoes—
Titles to inherit, expectations to bear,
And a silence too heavy for a child to carry.
The clan elders watched from afar,
Weighing my worth with cold, calculating eyes.
They measured not my smile, nor my sorrow—only my potential.
The servants bowed low,
But none dared speak my name with warmth or affection.
In this world, strength is the only truth,
And legacy is not a gift—it is a burden carved into bone.
I was born amid war, raised in absence, forged in silence.
While other boys played with wooden swords,
I traced the paths of constellations in my mind.
I memorized the lineage scrolls by their cadence alone.
I sat beneath waterfalls and felt each droplet as a whisper from the heavens.
Blindness taught me discipline.
The Dao taught me awareness.
The world does not wait for the weak to grow strong.
The demons will not spare a child because his hands tremble.
And so, beneath the weight of a thousand unspoken hopes,
I take my first step—
Not as a son, nor as a scion,
But as a cultivator.
The sun has not yet risen.
The dew clings to the stone steps of my parents' courtyard.
I meditated barefoot, clothed in silence, surrounded by unseen mountains.
I cannot see the dawn—but I feel it.
The qi in the air shifts, drawn toward the coming light.
My hand trembles as I reach for the first morning breath of qi.
It is cold, sharp, alive—
As though the heavens themselves have turned to watch.
The flow greets me—not with force, but with curiosity.
As if asking: Who are you, to reach for heaven?
I breathe in.
The world blooms.
A thousand threads unravel around me—
The slow curl of steam from morning tea,
The heartbeat of a sleeping cat,
The sorrow of a cracked stone waiting to crumble.
I see it all. Not with sight—but with truth.
Somewhere, in the distant mists,
A hawk cries, and the wind carries the scent of blooming bloodlotus.
My heartbeat echoes like a war drum in my ears.
The moment has come.
No longer shall I walk in the silence of my father's shadow.
I will forge my own path.
With blindness as my clarity,
With silence as my blade.
And if the heavens dare to stand in my way—
I will break them.
My journey begins.