The sun had barely risen over Hang-Ye City, casting a golden hue across its worn stone paths and timber-roofed houses. Dew clung to the crooked grass along the riverbanks, while the sky—softly tinted with orange—reflected gently on the still waters of the river. Birds chirped lazily from the trees that lined the roads, their branches twisting like old bones, whispering with the morning breeze.
Mike Yeager, thirteen, moved through the city streets barefoot, the cool cobblestones pressing against his skin. His brown tunic was slightly dusted from morning training—his father, Eldon Yeager, had once again insisted on hammer swings before breakfast. The clang of metal still rang in Mike's ears, lingering like the heat from the furnace they'd stoked together. The blacksmith's shop, with its wooden walls darkened by soot, was both home and forge. Iron scraps and broken handles lay scattered in the dirt just outside the shop, waiting to be sorted.
Mike's days were simple. After chores, he would toss pebbles at his friends under the sycamore tree by the local café, whose chalky walls bore scribbles from generations of children. The café's owner—a kindly woman named Bao—often joined their games, laughing like a child herself as she offered sweets in exchange for laughter.
But beneath this peace, Hang-Ye harbored shadows.
The ruler of Yan He was a man known only by title, silent and veiled in myth. Whispers spoke of his hidden strength and of agents who traveled in secret, probing for any rising threat to his rule. These agents moved like wind through the trees—seen only when it was too late.
And Hang-Ye's own mayor, Finn, ruled with a cruel hand. His armored guards patrolled the streets atop muscular horses, their hoofbeats echoing against the city's narrow stone alleys. The poor lived in cracked homes where ivy crept through broken windows, while the wealthy resided behind high wooden gates adorned with emblems of old dynasties. Mike often watched from a distance, bitterness in his eyes.
One morning, while dust still danced in the sunlight filtering through the blacksmith's windows, Eldon called to Mike. His face, roughened from years at the forge, was shadowed with worry.
"Go to the river and fetch some water," he said, voice steady but distant.
Mike nodded. Slinging a leather pail across his back, he left without question. He followed the path alongside tall grass and uneven stones, past small shrines covered in moss and carved names long faded by time.
But while Mike was gone, death arrived in silence.
Two men, cloaked in gray and reeking of power, descended upon the smithy. They did not speak. Their blades shimmered with strange light, and the air itself trembled at their movement. Eldon, sensing danger, dropped his hammer and raised his hands. For a moment, the wind paused.
With a roar, he unleashed a legendary move—The Elephant Sound. The forge itself shook, its fire bursting high like a dying sun. The ground cracked beneath his feet.
But it wasn't enough.
The intruders countered swiftly, pressing through his defense like shadows through fog. The clash ended in silence. Eldon Yeager was taken.
Mike returned to find the door ajar, the fire in the forge gone cold. Dust hung motionless in the air. "Father?" he called out, stepping over scattered tools. Then he saw it—a letter placed neatly atop the anvil, sealed with black wax.
His hands trembled as he opened it.
> "My dear son,
If you are reading this, then I have already been taken..."
The world around him blurred. Tears stained the old wooden floor as Mike fell to his knees. Outside, a single leaf drifted down from the tree behind their home, landing silently beside him.
Days Later
Mike traveled through winding roads and wild grasslands. Forests whispered around him, and every night the stars watched in silence. He entered a colder city, one where the trees were thin and gnarled, and buildings rose tall like jagged rocks. The people he passed barely spared him a glance. The children here were hardened by hunger and harshness.
A group of them, faces bruised with arrogance, blocked his way.
"New here?" one boy sneered, stepping forward with a crooked grin.
Mike backed up, hand tightening on his satchel—but before the boys could strike, a figure cast a shadow across the ground. The air shifted.
A girl, tall and sharp-eyed, stood before them. Her boots pressed into the dusty path like anchors. A breeze tugged at her long black cloak.
"Leave him alone," she said. Her voice was calm, but it carried the weight of command.
The boys hesitated—then scattered.
She turned to Mike, her dark eyes steady. "My name is Jian Wu. Come with me."
As they walked past low lanterns and cracked statues of forgotten heroes, Wu listened to Mike's story. In a distant forest nearby, unseen eyes tracked him. Yan He's agents crept through thickets, drawn by an aura unlike anything they had sensed before.
But it wasn't Mike.
A wind tore through the trees as a colossal presence revealed itself.
The agents froze as a man stepped into view. His silver robes billowed like storm clouds. His gaze was thunder. Jian Dao had arrived.
Fear clutched the hearts of the agents. Even Jian Wu, usually calm, lowered her eyes.
"That's my father…" she whispered.
Jian Dao didn't move. His voice cut like cold iron. "Who sent you?"
The agents chose death over truth. One by one, they collapsed, eyes blank.
Mike stepped forward, silent, and handed him the letter. Jian Dao read slowly. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
"…The son of Eldon Yeager," he murmured. "The Wall of the Holy Tree…"
He looked at Mike, eyes damp. "He lived like this… all these years…"
Then he pulled Mike into an embrace. It was firm. Protective. Deep.
"He was a fool," he muttered. "I told him not to leave."
Stepping back, Jian Dao looked him in the eyes. "From now on, I'm your master. Understood?"
"Yes, Master," Mike said.
"Good," Jian Dao said. "Your journey begins at Azure Sky Academy. Start in the outer court. I'll be waiting when you reach the inner one."
Back in Yan He, rage boiled in hidden halls. The leader's fury echoed through chambers of cold marble. More agents were dispatched—stronger, deadlier.
In Jian Dao's home, a small courtyard bloomed with moonlit lilies and bamboo that rustled softly in the wind.
Wu folded her arms. "He's not strong enough for the Academy, Father."
Mike lowered his gaze. "She's right… How will I qualify?"
Jian Dao laughed, voice warm like crackling firewood. "Kid, you're the son of the Wall of the Holy Tree, and you still think you're ordinary?"
Mike frowned. "Holy Tree…? What is that? Who… was my father, really?"
Jian Dao's smile faded.
He turned toward the courtyard, where the moonlight spilled like silk over the stone path. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"It's time… you learned the truth."