writeryogesh

On a fateful night under a blood-red moon, Kai is born in the humble village of Blackthorn. His birth is far from ordinary; as his mother Lin Mei goes through an agonizing labor, raw and untamed Qi surges through the hut, unsettling even the most experienced villagers. The village elder, Old Man Chen, senses an ill omen hanging over the night, while Kai’s father, Zhao Wei, anxiously awaits outside, unaware of the powerful destiny awaiting his son. They didn't knew Kai had made a pact with demon when he in embryo.

Malevolent Immortal

Kai woke to the roar of wind and the crack of splintering wood. Rain lashed his face, sharp as blades, as the storm ripped his shelter apart. Branches and debris spiraled into the night. He staggered to his feet, weighted bands dragging his limbs like chains. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the wreckage—his refuge gone, swallowed by the tempest.

The katana lay half-buried in mud. He wrenched it free, rainwater sluicing down the blade. No manual, no shelter, no voice in his head. Only the curse's sigil pulsed faintly on his wrist, a silent reminder of the clock ticking down his life.

Dawn brought a scarred landscape. Trees leaned like broken spears, roots clawing at the air. Kai salvaged scraps—a torn cloak, a dented pot, a frayed rope. Breakfast was rainwater and bitter berries, crushed underfoot in the storm.

Morning training began. Mountain's Roots. Knees bent, blade level. His legs trembled, muscles screaming, but he held. River's Flow. A slash through damp air, slow and deliberate. The katana felt heavier without the demon's taunts pushing him, but silence was its own fuel.

A wild boar charged at midday, tusks glinting. Kai pivoted, weights slowing his steps, but the blade found its throat. Blood soaked the soil. He skinned the carcass with clinical precision, the pelt a ragged addition to his cloak. Meat smoked over fire, rationed for days.

Nightfall brought icy cold. He rebuilt the shelter, digging into a hillside, stones shoring up the walls. The weights stayed on, even as his fingers numbed. Firelight danced on the cursed sigil, its glow dimmer now, as if the demon's departure had dulled its venom.

He stabbed the katana into the dirt. "Enough."

Sleep came fitfully. No dreams of scales and smoldering eyes. No laughter. Only memories: his mother's voice, fragmented by time; his father's back, turned forever. Weakness festered in nostalgia. He crushed it.

By dawn, rain fell again. Kai drilled stances in the downpour, blade cutting through sheets of water. Precision didn't matter. Endurance did. The weights were anchors, grounding him to the earth, to purpose.

A wolf pack circled, drawn by the boar's stench. Six pairs of eyes gleamed in the gloom.

The first lunged. His blade severed its spine. The second died mid-leap, skull split. The rest fled.

He wiped gore from the katana. "Run."

Meditation was a battle of focus. Without the demon's voice, the silence felt vast, threatening to swallow him. He fed it discipline. Fed it rage. The fire burned low, embers dying as he sharpened the blade, the rasp of steel a mantra.

In the guild, they'd written him off.

"Kenji's corpse is crow food," a bronze-rank sneered, tossing dice.

"Or drowned in the storm," another laughed.

The clerk marked his ledger with a black line. Missing.

Alone under starless skies, Kai raised the katana.

The Weight of Silence