Ash Woodhart stared at the ceiling of his cheap apartment, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of mechanical insects. Another 14-hour day at a job that didn't care if he lived or died. Another silent dinner. Another night alone.
He wasn't depressed. Not exactly. He was… hollow.
The alarm clock ticked. He blinked at it. 2:57 a.m.
His chest ached, but not in a physical way. It was a pressure, like something trapped beneath his ribs, screaming to be let out.
"I can't do this anymore," he whispered.
And then—
A snap.
A flash.
He wasn't in his room anymore.
He stood in a space of infinite black, yet within him burned a small flame—steady, warm, and alive. The pressure in his chest had burst open, revealing something ancient. A presence. A memory. A fire.
"Ash Woodhart…" a voice echoed, low and deep.
"You have been reforged."
He gasped as visions flooded him—fractals of stars, ancient practices, breathing techniques, glowing meridians and a core… A core inside his lower belly. His **dantian**.
When he woke again, the ceiling was still there, but something was different. The emptiness was gone. The flame remained.
Ash sat up slowly.
This time, he didn't reach for his phone.
He reached for his breath.
And began.