The winds smelled of burnt sage and wet earth — a scent that always meant something sacred in the village of Dhalor. But tonight, it meant something else.
It meant smoke. Blood. War.
Avishek sat alone beneath the elder tree, the wooden carving in his hands half-finished. A small fox, rough and chipped. He wasn't good at carving, just like he wasn't good at fighting, or meditating, or much of anything the boys in the village bragged about.
But he was kind.
He gave food to the hungry. Sat with the dying. Helped gather herbs for his mother. People smiled when they saw him — not out of respect, but warmth. He didn't mind. Not everyone needed to be a legend.
Despite his quiet nature, Avishek had a presence that lingered in people's eyes long after he passed. At fourteen, his face already held a natural, captivating beauty. His hair was long, falling just below his shoulders, dark as night — a matte black curtain that caught soft glints of lantern light. His features were refined and elegant — not just handsome, but arrestingly.
Behind him, the village glowed with the joy of celebration. Lanterns floated up the mountain like tiny stars pulled toward the moon. Tomorrow was the Soul Awakening Ceremony, and the sixteen-year-olds would finally step onto the path of cultivation. To gain a spirit — a form — a fate.
Avishek wasn't nervous. He didn't dream of legendary beasts or flame-blades. He'd be happy with a healing fox or a light spirit. Something quiet. Something helpful.
Then the music stopped.
Then the screaming began.
He turned.
Flames leapt into the night sky from the village square. Not ceremonial fire — wildfire, soul fire — the kind that burned through flesh and memory alike. Shadows darted through the smoke, fast as phantoms, dragging chains, blades, and howling spirit marks.
"Raiders! Cultivators!"
"They're from the Black Hollow Sect!"
Avishek froze.
The Black Hollow Sect had been exiled generations ago — their founder had stolen Soul Spirits, carving power from the dead. Everyone thought the sect had died out.
But the men and women now cutting through Dhalor's soul barrier were very much alive. Their auras throbbed with Soul Vein Realm power — monstrous and barely controlled. Spirit flames danced on their bodies like living tattoos, and blood sigils gleamed on their foreheads.
One hurled a spear of bone that shattered a cottage into splinters. Another lifted a hand, and a villager's soul was torn screaming from their body in a streak of white fire.
Avishek ran, chest heaving, heart pounding like war drums. His legs carried him faster than his thoughts. He saw his father, slumped against a pillar of stone, his robes torn and bloodied.
"Avishek..." his father choked. "Find... your mother. Run. Don't—"
The ground shook. A nearby soul blast cracked open the earth. The wind changed.
Avishek didn't run.
He burst through the broken hut — just in time to see a Soul Vein Raider tear the spirit from his mother's body. Her silver fox soul tried to shield her.
It failed.
There was no scream. Just the quiet thud of her body hitting the floor.
Something broke inside him.
He knelt beside her, hands shaking, breath stuck between sob and scream. The mirror inside him — the one that was supposed to reflect his Soul Realm — cracked.
No spirit rose behind him. No fire. No beast.
Only a shadow.
And a voice — not his own.
"You were not chosen.
Then tear apart what was."
The soul pressure around him deepened — but it wasn't from the raiders.
The sky split.
With a roar like thunder, a spear of blue flame dropped from the heavens and annihilated three raiders in an instant. A fourth tried to flee but was pulled into the air, limbs snapping as the gravity bent unnaturally.
From the shattered clouds above, a figure descended — cloaked in starlight and fire. His eyes were rings of molten gold, his soul aura so massive it made the air hum like a prayer.
His Soul Form hovered behind him — a lion with wings of flame and eyes like moons.
He landed in front of Avishek, lifting one hand toward the last Black Hollow raider. With a flick of his fingers, the man exploded into dust and wind.
Silence returned.
Then the stranger turned to Avishek, his gaze unreadable.
"You survived," he said simply. His voice was deep, calm, heavy with power.
"Even without a soul spirit... you endured this pressure."
A pause. Then:
"That's interesting."
Avishek couldn't even speak. His soul felt cracked. His hands still shook.
The man crouched before him.
"My name is Elaron, elder of the Verdant Storm Sect.
I don't know what you are yet.
But I've seen lesser men break under far less."
He stood again and turned.
"If you want answers... if you want to grow stronger...
Come. I'll show you the path."
And with that, the man walked toward the dawn, his soul beast blazing behind him — leaving Avishek in the blood-stained village, with the first flame of purpose ever kindling in his hollow heart.