Chapter 1: The Scholar’s Discovery

Chapter 1: The Scholar's Discovery

The sun hung low over Mistveil Valley, its golden light swallowed by the thick, swirling mist that clung to the earth like a shroud. Ming You trudged through the damp undergrowth, his worn leather boots sinking slightly into the mossy soil with each step. At twenty years of age, he carried the lean frame of a scholar, not a warrior—his shoulders hunched from years bent over scrolls, his hands stained with ink rather than blood. Yet here he was, far from the village's flickering lanterns, searching for rare herbs in a place most dared not tread.

Mistveil Valley stretched before him, an endless expanse of twisted trees and hidden ravines, its air heavy with the scent of wet earth and something faintly metallic. The villagers whispered of spirit beasts lurking within its depths, of cultivators who ventured in and never returned. Ming You cared little for their tales. He sought the pale blossoms of the Mistroot flower, a plant said to fetch a handful of copper coins at the market—enough to buy ink and parchment for another month. His uncle, a dour man who had raised him since his parents' death in a plague a decade past, would not provide such luxuries. Every coin Ming You earned came from his own labor.

He adjusted the burlap sack slung over his shoulder, its emptiness a quiet rebuke. The valley had yielded nothing today, only the rustle of leaves and the occasional cry of a distant bird. His dark eyes, sharp and restless, scanned the ground as he moved deeper, following a narrow trail worn by deer or perhaps something less benign. The mist thickened, curling around his legs like tendrils, and he pulled his threadbare cloak tighter against the chill.

Ahead, a shadow loomed through the haze—a crumbling structure, its stone walls jagged and moss-covered, half-swallowed by the earth. Ming You paused, his breath catching. It resembled a shrine, though no villager had ever spoken of such a place. Curiosity tugged at him, sharper than the hunger gnawing his stomach. He stepped closer, brushing aside a tangle of vines that draped the entrance. The air within felt colder, stiller, as if time itself had paused.

The interior was small, barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast. A stone pedestal sat at the center, cracked but intact, and atop it rested a jade slip, its surface etched with faint characters. Dust coated the slip, undisturbed for years, perhaps centuries. Ming You's pulse quickened. He had read of such things in ancient texts—records of knowledge preserved by cultivators, their secrets locked within jade. His fingers hesitated above it, trembling slightly, before he brushed the dust away.

The characters glowed faintly under his touch, a soft green light pulsing like a heartbeat. He squinted, deciphering the script with the skill of a scholar trained in the classics. The title emerged first: Threads of Chance. Below it, a passage spoke of "fate's watcher," a cryptic phrase that sent a shiver down his spine. Another line mentioned "threads of chance," woven and unwoven by those bold enough to grasp them. The words hinted at a path of cultivation, one unlike the brute strength or elemental mastery he had read of in tales.

Ming You's mind raced. He had grown up on stories of cultivators—men and women who defied mortality, who bent the world to their will with spiritual energy. Yet those stories belonged to distant lands, to sects perched on mountain peaks, not to a poor scholar in a forgotten valley. His life had been one of repetition: copying texts for merchants, bartering for scraps, enduring his uncle's curt commands. The jade slip offered something else—power, possibility, a way out.

He tucked the slip into his cloak, its cool weight pressing against his chest. The shrine seemed to watch him as he stepped back into the mist, its silence heavier than before. The trek home passed in a blur, his thoughts consumed by the manual. Night had fallen by the time he reached his village, a cluster of thatched huts bathed in moonlight. His uncle snored in the next room as Ming You lit a single candle, its weak flame casting shadows across his cramped quarters.

He sat cross-legged on the straw mat that served as his bed, the jade slip cradled in his hands. The glow returned as he traced the characters again, revealing more of the text. It described the first step of cultivation: Qi Condensation, the gathering of spiritual energy into the body. The method required stillness, focus, and an awareness of the world's subtle currents—skills Ming You had honed through years of study. Yet it warned of risks: exhaustion, madness, or death for those unprepared.

Ming You's lips curled into a faint smile. Risk was nothing new to him. He had survived plague, hunger, and isolation with nothing but his wits. This was merely another challenge, one with a prize far greater than copper coins. The manual's cryptic hints—fate's watcher, threads of chance—stirred his imagination. What power lay beyond the ordinary paths of cultivation? What had the creators of this slip known, and why had it been abandoned here?

He closed his eyes, following the manual's instructions. He slowed his breathing, letting the sounds of the night fade—the creak of the hut, the rustle of wind, his uncle's snores. He sought the energy described in the text, a force said to permeate all things. Minutes stretched into hours, his body growing stiff, his mind straining. Doubt crept in, whispering of failure, but he pushed it aside. Precision had always been his strength.

Then, faintly, he felt it—a whisper of warmth in his chest, like a candle flame flickering to life. His eyes snapped open, his breath hitching. The sensation grew, a single strand of Qi coiling within him, fragile but real. He guided it through his meridians, the pathways of his body, as the manual instructed. Pain flared briefly, a sharp sting as the energy met resistance, but he pressed on, his focus unwavering.

When he finished, the strand settled, a quiet hum beneath his skin. He flexed his fingers, marveling at the subtle vitality coursing through them. It was small, barely a spark, yet it was his—the 1st stage of Qi Condensation, the first step on a path he could scarcely imagine. The jade slip lay before him, its glow dimmed but its promise undimmed.

Ming You leaned back against the wall, the candle's flame dancing in his eyes. The village slept around him, oblivious to the shift within its poorest son. He had no illusions of heroism or glory. The cultivators of legend were distant figures, their deeds sung by bards. He sought something simpler, sharper: control over his fate, a life unbound by the drudgery that had defined him.

The Threads of Chance rested in his lap, its secrets only beginning to unfold. He traced its edge with a finger, his mind alight with possibilities. Whatever this path held—danger, power, or something stranger—he would seize it. The mist of the valley had given him a gift, and he would not squander it. For the first time in years, Ming You felt alive.