The wind howled over the jagged cliffs of Sunderveil, tearing at the tattered robes of the boy who stood unmoving at the edge. Below, a sea of clouds churned, hiding the abyss. The sky above was a pale red, stained with the blood of a dying sun. And somewhere in the vast distance, the cry of a beast echoed — ancient and untamed.
But Zeravon did not move.
He stood still, eyes closed, as if listening to a sound no one else could hear.
He looked sixteen, perhaps seventeen. Thin, pale, his face half-covered by a broken black mask. His long silver-black hair whipped like ghostly threads in the wind. His robes — once white — were stained with dust, blood, and ash. A cracked token hung from his waist: Outer Disciple – Blackstone Sect.
The lowest of the low.
A mortal.
At least, that's what everyone believed.
---
"Oi, trash! You deaf now?"
A voice snarled from behind.
Zeravon turned slightly. Three figures stood a few steps back — fellow disciples. All in the same uniform, but theirs were neat, their spirit energy glowing faintly around them like a thin mist. One of them, a stocky teen named Wei Rong, stepped forward, smirking.
"You're blocking the Wind Flow Point," Rong said, eyes filled with scorn. "Move before I shove you down the cliff myself."
Zeravon stared at him silently.
Another boy, thinner and taller, leaned in and whispered, "He doesn't talk much, remember? Probably scared out of his skin."
The third, a girl with dark hair and sharper eyes, snorted. "More like brainless. No wonder he hasn't even broken through first stage Qi Condensation after two years."
"Maybe we should help him… fly." Rong laughed and raised his hand.
But then, the wind shifted. Not just the usual breeze — this was different.
A stillness.
As if the world had paused for half a heartbeat.
Zeravon's eyes opened.
And for a single instant… the world around him changed.
The air grew heavy, and a strange pressure descended, like the breath of something ancient. The sky flickered. The ground seemed to whisper. Wei Rong's laughter died in his throat. A strange feeling gripped them all — primal, instinctive, and suffocating.
Then it was gone.
Like it never existed.
Zeravon blinked slowly and turned his back to them.
"I don't have time for insects," he said softly.
Wei Rong's face twisted. "What did you say—?!"
But Zeravon was already walking away, leaving behind a silence the wind refused to break.
---
### Somewhere in the Blackstone Sect Grounds...
Master Zhu Lan, elder of the Outer Sect, opened his eyes during meditation. A frown crossed his ancient face. He looked toward the direction of the cliff.
"…For a moment," he whispered, "it felt like the Dao itself trembled."
But he sensed nothing now.
Only the ordinary pulses of weak disciples… and one completely insignificant flicker.
"Must be an illusion," he muttered. "Or something far worse hiding in plain sight."
---
### Later That Night…
The disciple dorms were quiet, lit by spirit lamps flickering with blue fire. Zeravon sat alone in the last chamber — a cracked room with no door and half a roof.
He didn't sleep.
He hadn't, in centuries.
But tonight, he stared at the cracked mirror before him, gazing at his own reflection. Not the boy — but the shell.
This body. This cursed, limited shell.
He touched his chest. No heartbeat. Not truly. Just enough to pretend. Just enough to hide.
And he remembered…
---
A world shattered beneath his feet. Suns imploding. Stars turning to dust. Voices of gods screaming in fear.
And him — standing in the center, his eyes holding all of existence and the void beyond it.
Then… silence.
The next moment, he was here.
In this world of Dao and Mortals. Locked. Chained. Weakened. Buried in flesh.
---
He clenched his fists.
Not yet.
He couldn't awaken.
Not here. Not now.
If even 0.1% of his power leaked, this realm — no, this universe — would vanish like a breath in cold wind.
So he waited.
Like a beast in a cage of smoke.
---
### The Next Morning…
Blackstone Sect's training field bustled with low-level disciples. Sparring, cultivating, showing off. Zeravon stood at the edge again, ignored as usual.
But today, a new presence arrived.
A girl.
Her robes shimmered silver with the inner disciple insignia. Her long, white-blue hair fell in elegant waves, her eyes sharp as crystal moons. But there was something haunting in her gaze. Something lost.
Yurei.
She stood beside the elder, who introduced her as the new special instructor for outer disciples.
"She's only nineteen and already reached the Core Formation realm," the elder boasted.
Gasps echoed.
Even the senior outer disciples lowered their heads in respect — or envy.
But Yurei's eyes were scanning… searching.
Then, they stopped.
Zeravon.
For a moment, the world held its breath again.
He looked up, met her gaze.
And something ancient stirred beneath the surface.
Recognition?
No.
Not in this life.
Not yet.
Yurei blinked, then looked away, confused by the strange chill that had wrapped her spine.
---
### That Night…
Zeravon sat beneath the cracked roof again, watching the stars.
He whispered a single word.
"Yurei…"
A name he hadn't heard in ages.
A soul he thought he'd lost across the endless veil.
But now she was here.
In flesh.
Like him.
Reborn? Or merely coincidence?
The heavens don't play dice.
He would wait. Watch.
But one thing was certain.
If she remembered who she truly was…
Then fate itself would begin to unravel.
---
### Somewhere Far Away...
In a higher realm, a crack appeared in a floating mirror of fate.
A celestial being frowned.
"The shell awakens," it hissed. "The anomaly… lives."
And deep within a forbidden realm, a voice of pure void whispered:
"Zeravon… the Mortals Shell… must never remember."