Aaryan stood still, eyes locked on the glowing orb. His hands itched with anticipation a flicker of wanting, but not hunger, dancing in his pupils. He looked toward the man—this half-living remnant of a long-lost era—who merely chuckled, a low, amused sound that echoed in the endless chamber like wind brushing against bone.

With a casual wave of his hand, the man sent the orb drifting forward. It floated toward Aaryan, silent and smooth, until it hovered just before his chest—bright, pulsing, and strangely alive.

Aaryan didn't wait. His hand reached out with the impatience of someone who had danced too long on the edge of uncertainty. The moment his fingers made contact, the orb's light faltered. It pulsed once—twice—and then dimmed, like a dying star folding into itself. A breath later, it shattered into a scatter of embers, revealing what it had hidden all this time.

A scroll.

Not aged and crumbling as one might expect, nor pristine and untouched. It was something in between. The material looked like weathered silk, dark like storm clouds soaked in twilight, with edges embroidered in subtle lines of gold. Strange symbols shifted faintly across its surface, glowing and fading like fireflies caught in a dream. Ancient, yet somehow new. Simple in shape, but beautiful in meaning that eluded definition.

Aaryan's eyes gleamed. His fingers trembled—not with fear, but wonder—as he unfurled the scroll.

Symbols. Endless, impossible symbols. They spiralled in loops, darted in jagged strokes, danced in ways that defied logic. There was no common tongue here. No script he'd stolen glimpses of from sect libraries. Not even anything he'd heard Dharun mutter in his more cryptic lessons.

His brows furrowed. His lips moved silently, trying to mouth the shapes, to feel them. They slipped from his mind like oil from skin.

Behind him, the man laughed. It wasn't cruel, but it had a tinge of amusement that made Aaryan's ears go red.

"Not quite what you're used to, is it?" the man drawled. "You'd need soul power to read that. And unless you've been hiding a Qi Condensation breakthrough in your marrow, this should be nothing but ink to you. you wouldn't even be able to—"

But Aaryan didn't hear him.

He was too focused.

Too drawn in.

The scroll pulsed once in his hands. A soft hum echoed in his ears—no, inside his ears—as if something was whispering directly into his bones. The symbols no longer felt foreign. They still didn't make sense, but they felt… familiar. Like a forgotten melody returning in fragments. His vision sharpened, and for a breathless moment, a string of symbols aligned into something almost understandable.

The man fell silent. His smile faded.

Then he stepped closer, a shadow crossing his expression. "Impossible," he muttered. "You're still in Body Tempering. Your soul should be no more than a flicker. How are you—?"

He watched Aaryan with narrowing eyes.

Still the boy stood, the scroll unfurled in his hands, his face caught between confusion and awe. The glow of the ancient symbols reflected in his gaze, and for a heartbeat, the man saw something. A glint of raw potential. A soul not shaped by tradition but sharpened by struggle. Cunning, unbound, and terrifyingly... instinctive.

The man tilted his head, studying Aaryan not as a passing traveller, but as something rarer.

Something worth watching.

Something worth guiding.

"You truly are an odd one," he murmured. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he summoned a low ripple of energy around them. "Very well. Let's see just how far that flicker of yours can go."

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan wasn't listening to whatever the man had to say.

He stood still, unmoving, eyes locked on the scroll. His pupils faintly glowed—like silver flames kindling in the depths. The world fell away. The air thinned. A torrent of knowledge erupted in his mind.

A storm.

Aaryan gritted his teeth as pain surged through his skull like white-hot fire. His knees buckled slightly, but he held on. Muscles trembled. Blood roared in his ears.

And then—a voice.

Ancient. Resonant. Not spoken aloud, but etched into the very marrow of his soul:

"The Path of One is safe. The Path of Many is perilous. Qi, by nature, seeks resonance. Elemental affinity is the vessel. To bear one is to be a sword. To bear many is to be a storm. Fusion is the true edge of creation…"

And with those words, the world shattered.

When Aaryan opened his eyes, he stood not in the tomb—but atop a lone hill beneath an infinite sky. Everything was dark, save for the stars. They shimmered like a thousand eyes watching from above.

In the distance, a figure formed. Cloaked in wind and shadow, the man walked toward Aaryan and raised a single hand.

Without a word, he began.

Strange movements. Techniques. Lines of qi circulation. Breathing rhythms. He performed them with flawless grace—then again. And again. And again.

Each repetition etched pieces into Aaryan's soul—but never the whole.

Aaryan tried to memorize it all, but the sequence kept slipping away. Parts blurred, symbols crumbled. No matter how many times the figure repeated it, something always escaped him.

Finally, the figure stopped.

He turned.

"I created this method," he said. His voice was weary but proud, carved from both triumph and regret. "The Confluence Codex. A path to wield all elements—and fuse them. A path to become more what anyone could think of. A storm. A world unto oneself."

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He paused, his gaze piercing.

"But I was not suited for it. Not truly. Still, I became one of the strongest in my era. My enemies feared me—and still, they came. An ambush. Four of them. I killed three. But I was wounded… and I knew they wanted this technique. So, I split it. Three pieces. Hidden where no hand could easily find them."

He took a step closer.

"When the three unite… the true Codex shall be born again."

And with that, the stars flickered.

The man vanished.

The world warped. A breathless moment stretched, and then—

Aaryan jolted back into the tomb with a gasp. His lungs burned. His clothes clung to his body, drenched in sweat. His hands trembled.

The scroll in his hand was gone.

But a searing pain flared across his back. He gasped, staggering forward. Something was being etched into him—burning, but it wasn't fire. It wasn't heat. It was something older—like molten meaning being pressed into his flesh.

His spine arched, muscles tightening as invisible forces carved something across his upper back. The pain wasn't sharp—it was deep. Rooted. As if the mark wasn't being drawn onto skin but etched into his very soul.

When it ended, he fell to his knees, gasping. He could feel it there—new weight, new presence. Like a locked door had been left ajar.

The man standing near Aaryan was shocked to see this all happening. As he was about to ask Aaryan if he is ok , his gaze landed on the strange tattoo on his back.

A fractured sigil resting across his upper back, just below the nape of his neck—a third of a circle, open on one side, as if waiting to be completed.

Inside the curve were three interwoven symbols:

A coiling flame, painted in strokes of molten gold, flickering slightly as if alive.

A silver stream, winding beneath the flame like a flowing river, glinting like moonlight on water.

And a dark storm petal, delicate yet sharp, rendered in deep blue-black ink, vibrating faintly when touched by light.

The markings weren't flat—they shimmered beneath the skin, like liquid metal just below the surface. Each symbol bled subtly into the next, not merging, but dancing along invisible boundaries.

The outer edge of the sigil was bordered by ancient runes—tiny, almost imperceptible, shifting ever so slightly if stared at too long. They pulsed in a slow rhythm, like a heartbeat.

And as Aaryan rose, still panting, he could feel it humming faintly.

And far away from him, in corners of the world he hadn't yet dreamed of—two silent echoes stirred.

Behind him, the man had fallen quiet.

Not the amused silence from earlier. This was sharper. Weighted. His footsteps echoed as he stepped closer. The moment his gaze landed on Aaryan's back, he stilled.

"Turn around," the man said, voice low.

Aaryan shifted slowly, still catching his breath.

The man crouched beside him, studying the shimmering mark. His fingers hovered just above it, not daring to touch. His eyes narrowed as he traced the lines of the coiled flame, the winding silver stream, the petal dark as night.

"A living sigil," he murmured. "Anchored to soul, not skin. It really is... an ancient technique."

He leaned back slightly, breath leaving him in a slow exhale. "And not just any. For it to leave a mark like this—while you're still in Body Tempering…"

Aaryan, still panting, blinked at him. "Wait. You never... tried reading the scroll yourself?"

The man's lips twitched. Just slightly.

"If I had," he said dryly, "don't you think the mark would be on my back instead of yours?"

Aaryan raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Really went with 'murder relic as home décor,' huh?"

A pause. The man didn't answer immediately. His expression stayed unreadable, but a muscle in his jaw tightened. Eventually, he muttered, "I thought it was some regular relic. Something flashy. Maybe slightly stronger than what I already knew, as I too had gathered many ancient techniques while adventuring." A shrug followed. "It had a nice glow. Thought it made a good souvenir."

Aaryan snorted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well. Guess I'll start hoarding every glowing object I see from now on."

But the man didn't laugh. His gaze returned to the sigil, more serious than before.

"You don't understand," he said. "This technique… it seems like it draws on the foundation of the world itself. Those symbols—flame, water, wood—they're not just elemental motifs. They're the first truths. The original breaths of the world."

Aaryan tilted his head. "Wait—aren't there five basic elements?"

The man's mouth curved into something between a grin and a grimace. "That's the misconception," he said, almost wistfully. "There's an old book in my family. A forbidden one. It holds many of the world's secrets. And in it, there's a line I've never forgotten:

"In the beginning, the world was formless. The Void exhaled three breaths—one of flame, one of mist, one of wood. From these, all matter took shape. Earth was born from the union of water and fire. Air, from wood and flame. Metal, from water and wood. But only the three original breaths hold true spiritual essence."

He let the words linger in the air, ancient and heavy.

Then he looked at Aaryan again, eyes sharp.

"Even I feel tempted by it. And I've known hundreds of powerful arts. So, listen well—don't tell anyone you have this. Not your friends. Not your sect. Not your master. Unless you've developed a taste for dying early."

Aaryan swallowed hard, lips twitching into a nervous smile. "Right. Well... seeing as you're technically dead, and I'm not stupid enough to brag… I think we're safe. Very safe."

The man's eyes gleamed, cold and faintly amused.

They didn't match the slow smile forming on his lips.

"Who said I'm dead?"

Aaryan's grin froze.

"…You're not?"

The man chuckled at Aaryan's stunned expression. "Relax. I'm not truly here. What you're seeing is a Will Incarnation—a fragment of my Spiritual Will, preserved within the tomb."

Aaryan blinked. "So… you're like a ghost?"

"A rather clever one," the man said, amused. "My real body still lives, far from here. You've likely never even heard the name of the place I reside in. I doubt even your sect or your masters could point to it on a map." His voice turned mocking. "But don't worry about such things for now. It's not something you're ready for."

Aaryan nodded, though his brows soon pinched together in thought.

The man caught the shift. "What is it?"

Aaryan hesitated, then asked, "This technique—it has a condition, right? The body must be pure. Like a newborn's. Doesn't that mean I… can't cultivate it? I'm already at the eighth stage of Body Tempering."

The man stilled.

Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. Not with amusement, but with a faint, faraway acceptance. "Then you can't cultivate it," he said simply, almost with relief. "It's a pity, but even I wouldn't discard my entire cultivation path—not for any technique, no matter how profound."

Aaryan stared at him for a moment.

The man's face stiffened.

He coughed into his hand, slightly ashamed. "…There are ways to return the body to a pure state. Reversing cultivation is possible. Difficult, but not impossible. Some rare herbs, alchemical compounds, and pills can cleanse the meridians and marrow—though they're not easily found."

Aaryan had gone quiet again, eyes fixed on nothing, thoughts turning.

A technique based of the world's first breaths. A sigil anchored to the soul. His fingers tightened at his side.

And then he looked up, face suddenly solemn.

"If I don't practice this technique," he said, voice low and serious, "then all my efforts to enter and survive the trials were wasted. But if I do cultivate it… assuming I somehow get those herbs… then the reward you gave me—advancement through five stages—goes to waste instead." He leaned forward slightly. "What should I do?"

The man's eye twitched.

He stared at Aaryan for a long moment. Aaryan's face remained perfectly still, a picture of moral dilemma carved in stone. Too perfect.

"…Shameless brat," the man muttered.

If he couldn't see through this act, he might as well throw his entire life's experience into a furnace. Or go teach moral philosophy to pigs.

With a long, suffering sigh, the man waved his hand. Spiritual light flickered at his fingertips, drawing in strands of ambient energy. Between his fingers, something began to take form—first as smoke, then shape, then matter.

A scroll appeared.

It floated in the air between them, weightless and untouched by dust. Its surface shimmered faintly, like moonlight on water. Runes coiled across it in slow motion, shifting and reweaving themselves when looked at directly. The edges were bound in a translucent silver that pulsed with a heartbeat of its own.

Aaryan's eyes widened.

The man said nothing, simply letting the scroll hover in front of Aaryan like an unsolved riddle.

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