The village of Stonebranch was neither important nor defensible. It had no strategic resources, no elite cultivators, and no protective arrays. It lay in a valley off the main trade route, nestled in a quiet curve of forest and mist.

  And yet, it burned.

  Flames danced through wooden roofs and fields, leaving only screams behind. Raiders—mercenaries from the Black Jaw Band—descended without warning. They came for labor, for blood, for fear. No one was spared.

  Except one.

  A boy—barely sixteen winters—stumbled through the ash-choked streets, clutching the hilt of a sword far too large for him. His shirt was torn, his left eye swollen shut, but he didn’t stop moving.

  Fenrir Bricks had no family left. His father—a blacksmith—fell defending the forge. His mother... he hadn’t found her body yet. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

  He stumbled into the village square, where four raiders laughed as they toyed with an old man, dragging him across the dirt by his beard.

  "Let him go!" Fenrir shouted hoarsely.

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  The raiders turned, amused. One stepped forward, towering over the boy like a boulder over a stream.

  "And what will you do, brat?"

  Fenrir raised the sword. His arms trembled, his stance was wrong, and his core was completely unawakened. But his eyes—his one good eye—were steady.

  He swung.

  It was clumsy, desperate. The raider slapped the blade aside and backhanded the boy to the ground. Fenrir hit the cobblestones with a crack and spat blood. Still, he forced himself back up.

  Before the next blow could fall, the wind changed.

  It swept through the square in a silent spiral. Flames dimmed. The raiders froze mid-motion. Then, he appeared.

  A man in black robes, standing where no one had stood a heartbeat ago. His presence was like a whisper, and yet the air seemed heavier, like the world was aware of him.

  "Who—?" a raider managed before his voice cut out.

  Joshua raised a hand. No flare. No chant. Just a motion. The wind surged—and the raiders were gone. Not dead, not unconscious. Just… gone. As if erased.

  Silence fell again.

  Fenrir dropped his sword, eyes wide with fear and awe.

  "You… who are you?"

  Joshua walked forward slowly. “No one important.”

  Fenrir swallowed. “Are you… a cultivator?”

  “A cultivator who once forgot why he cultivated.”

  Joshua knelt before him, examining the boy’s bruised face, bloodied knuckles, and fire-scorched clothes.

  “You didn’t have to fight,” Joshua said softly.

  “I couldn’t just watch,” Fenrir answered.

  There was no hesitation. No attempt to look brave. Just a truth spoken with clenched fists.

  Joshua smiled—a rare, faint curve of his lips. “Then you may survive the path ahead.”

  Fenrir blinked. “What?”

  “I’m forming a sect. I need people who don’t just crave power, but carry weight.”

  The boy stared. “I’m not… I don’t have anything. No cultivation, no skills. I’ve never even meditated.”

  Joshua looked past the boy, as if measuring his fate.

  “You have pain. You have fire. That is enough.”

  That night, beneath the broken remnants of Stonebranch, Joshua lit a small incense flame. Fenrir sat beside him, legs crossed awkwardly. For the first time in his life, he closed his eyes not in fear, but in focus.

  And somewhere, deep within him, a spark flickered.