He let his lashes lift. The sigil faded from his brow, leaving him pale and hollowed; opening himself that wide had drained the marrow of his focus.
He drew a ragged breath that steadied on the way out. “The gamble paid off. Ancient Energy Refiners value the fit between heart and path more than raw might… Let’s go!”
Jared drew his shoulders tight and stepped through the jagged mouth of the mountain. The Vermilion Demon Lord’s footfalls ghosted a pace behind him, as though the creature feared brushing Jared’s sleeve. Inside, no gems flashed, no golden idols gleamed. The passage was wide but spare, its stone walls worn glass-smooth. Faded murals surfaced here and there: priestly silhouettes, archaic skies, clouds swallowed and breathed again.
A denser breath pressed against his skin, purer than the air outside. Every step thickened that ancient weight, as if the mountain remembered a time before men spelled power into names. The tunnel seemed endless, yet only the slow burn of tension marked the minutes. Then the ceiling soared away and he found himself in a cavern that swallowed torchlight without effort.
At the chamber’s center lay a modest pool, water so clear he could reconstruct his pulse in its mirror. Yet threads of shifting starlight drifted under the surface, flowing like a quiet galaxy. Suspended above that stillness, three artifacts hovered, each turning with the patience of worlds.
To the left drifted a bamboo scroll, parchment neither silk nor hide, dark ochre with age. An unfamiliar black thread bound it shut, yet a tide of vast, smoke-like knowledge leaked through the weave. Opposite, a clay jar no larger than his palm spun in silence. Its soot-gray skin showed nothing, but the sealed mouth throbbed with stormwind and the subterranean heartbeat of continents. Between them pulsed a fist-sized orb, its hues sliding from smoke to newborn dawn. Within its depths, galaxies birthed and burned in the blink of an eye.
Raw origin—his bones could taste it.
At the pool’s edge sat a skeleton robed in coarse hemp. Snow-white beard and hair clung to the bone, preserved in a posture that suggested the heavens themselves had once listened. No breath lingered in those ribs, yet the figure remained upright, earth-steady, sky-minded. In front of the crossed legs, the stone floor carried several lines gouged so deeply the chisel marks still shone. Jared caught his own inhale and let it hang, stepping closer with almost reverent slowness. The Demon Lord moved beside him, the monster’s crimson eyes suddenly respectful.
The carved characters were older than any academy chart, jagged pictographs whose curves implied thunder and prayer in the same stroke. The moment his gaze brushed them, meaning bloomed unasked behind his eyes.
“I, Grant, Energy Refiner, sense the shadow of my final breath. Here I set down my inheritance, waiting for whoever arrives by destiny… Left rests the Primal Unity Refinement Tome, the sum of my life’s study on the breath that divides chaos and gives pulse to all things… Right stands the Mountain-River Cauldron, holding a wisp of innate earth-and-sky essence; it can break devils, nurture veins of spirit, and teach the land’s patient virtue… Center lies the Chaos Source Seed, condensed from a thread of primal breath after ten thousand years beside the sea of chaos. It offers infinite futures and unmeasured peril; approach only with towering resolve, rare fortune, and an innate bond to chaos… Beware… Whoever claims this legacy, honor our craft, do not stain the name of Energy Refiners. The heavens are vast, the way without end, may you…”
The final stroke dissolved into stone dust, time having licked away the master’s closing wish. Heat flooded Jared’s chest. A legacy of the ancient Energy Refiners—real, intact, and his for the taking. The Primal Unity Refinement Tome alone could untangle the snarl where his four powers met and kept each other bleeding. The Mountain-River Cauldron would be a treasure by any era’s measure, yet his gaze slid past it. The orb, chaos distilled, pulled at him like gravity made personal.
Inside his core, chaotic celestial energy stirred, the Four-Colored Origin Star whirling so fast the hues smeared together. Their hunger mirrored his own, urging him forward.
Beside him, the Demon Lord barely spared the relics another glance. The creature sniffed the air, pupils narrowing toward a shadowed fissure in the cavern wall. There, half concealed in the crack, a translucent herb with nine tiny apertures quivered, releasing a scent that cooled the mind and polished every thought.
“Nine-Orifice Divine Soul Herb!” the Demon Lord blurted, voice cracking with raw delight. The sound ricocheted off the vault, startling even Jared; he had never heard unfiltered joy in that grating baritone. He almost missed it. In the hairline crack between two slabs, a tuft of silver-veined leaves glimmered like chilled moonlight—the exact Nine-Orifice Divine Soul Herb the manuals said he still lacked.
A prickle ran down his spine, equal parts disbelief and raw, hungry relief. At Jared’s side, the usually unflappable Vermilion Demon Lord drew a sharp breath, crimson eyes widening like coals struck by wind.
“Senior, we hunted half the world for this and it chooses to greet us here, without a single footstep wasted.”
Jared felt the grin on his face stretch uncomfortably wide, as if fear and triumph were vying for the same space. He swallowed the tremor in his throat and lowered his voice. “You take the herb, I will claim the legacy. We cannot linger; once each is secured, we leave.”
The Vermilion Demon Lord bobbed his head, once, twice, the chains of impatience rattling behind his careful steps. He padded toward the fissure, claws curved inward lest a careless scrape shatter the miracle before them.
Jared turned to the sun-bleached bones throned against the cavern wall. He dropped to his knees and bent forward three times, each bow measured, forehead almost brushing grit. “Senior Grant, Jared of the late age receives your chance. I swear to wield it with honor and press onward.”
Rising, he let the echoes of his vow fade, then angled toward the rolled bamboo slip titled Primal Unity Refinement Tome. The instant his fingertips grazed the brittle reed, the scroll unfurled on its own, slats whipping open like a startled bird. A torrent of symbols, visions, and vibrating intent slammed through his mind, louder than thunder, brighter than sunrise, unstoppable.
Within each ideogram lived the hum of universal law, the pulse of energy cycles, the shifting silhouettes of countless meditation diagrams. The load swelled until veins drummed at his temples; vertigo spun the cave ceiling into a blurred whirl. Jared dropped into a cross-legged seat, palms face up, forcing every breath to braid with the flood until shapes began to settle.
Time melted. When his lashes finally lifted, the air seemed clearer, as though revelation had washed the motes from it; his gaze shimmered with equal parts awe and certainty. Understanding slid into place.
“So that’s what they meant by Qi,” Jared whispered.
It was not just the spiritual mist he had inhaled for years, but the unborn state of every force, matter, energy—even the skeletal rules that hold the cosmos upright. Chaos condensed to one breath; the breath split to light and shadow; light and shadow bred the five motions he knew too well. To weld alien powers, he had only to trace them back to that shared unborn breath, feed it through his will, and forge anew.
With careful reverence, Jared slipped the scroll into the storage ring, sealing it behind a flicker of runes. His attention slid to the thumb-sized Mountain-River Cauldron resting on an altar of cracked quartz. When his fingers curled around the tiny vessel, it shuddered like a caged beast, rims clinking with muted protest. He poured a thread of fresh Primal Unity Energy over his palm, the trembling eased, and the cauldron folded into the ring without another sound.
Only the swirling Chaos Source Seed remained, hovering over a shallow basin like a storm trapped in glass. Desire tugged him forward; prudence yanked just as hard. Jared drew a long breath, letting his pulse slow to the cadence the tome described.
Mind withdrew from noise, curled around the silent point where all things begin. A muted gray mist, speckled with four drifting sparks, seeped from his palm as he inched toward the churning seed.
The moment the haze brushed the outer shell, time seemed to hold its breath. A detonation split existence; the wordless boom roared inside his skull rather than through the air. The blast felt vast enough to invent worlds, cracking his sea of consciousness wide open.
Light erupted from the seed, colorless yet blinding, and swallowed him whole before he could draw another breath. Primeval chaos surged in, pure and regal, but savage—a flood breaking every dam his body had ever raised.
