Thousands of years had passed since the heavens fell silent.
The catastrophe that ended the Age of the Three Great Races had buried countless truths beneath the sands of time. The Juggernauts had vanished, leaving behind only mountain ranges that some believed were the remnants of their fallen bodies. The Demons had disappeared into legend, becoming little more than frightening tales that parents used to keep wandering children close to home.
Even the greatest human cultivators, those who had once stood shoulder to shoulder against the end of the world, had become names without faces, remembered only through weathered stone tablets and broken monuments whose inscriptions had long since faded.
The world had endured.
Civilisations rose from the ruins left behind by that forgotten age. Kingdoms flourished where battlefields had once stretched beyond the horizon. Sects climbed sacred mountains, clans established prosperous cities, and cultivation entered a new era unlike anything the ancient world had known.
The old path was gone.
In its place, a new one had emerged.
No one could explain why.
No one questioned it.
For the people of this era, awakening a Cosmic Soul was as natural as learning to walk. Every child dreamed of the day they would place their hand upon an Awakening Crystal and discover the gift Heaven had bestowed upon them. Some awakened Beast Souls capable of manifesting the might of ancient creatures. Others awakened Weapon Souls, Rune Souls, Flame Souls, or countless other manifestations that reflected the deepest nature of their being.
The fortunate stepped onto the road of cultivation.
The unfortunate lived and died as ordinary mortals.
Such was the order of the world.
Nestled between rolling hills and ancient forests stood Willow Creek Village, a quiet settlement so small that most maps ignored its existence. It possessed neither abundant spiritual veins nor famous cultivators, and the nearest city lay several days away by horse. To the wider world, it was insignificant.
To the children who called it home...
It was the entire world.
At the centre of the village stood an enormous Wutong tree.
Its trunk was so wide that ten grown men linking arms could barely encircle it, while its sprawling branches cast a cool shade over the square throughout the day. No one knew how old the tree truly was. Some elders claimed it had stood there since before their grandparents were born, while others insisted it was far older than the village itself.
Whatever the truth, every child gathered beneath its branches whenever the afternoon sun became too warm.
Not because of the shade.
Because of the old man.
He sat upon the same smooth stone every afternoon without fail, leaning comfortably against the ancient trunk with a bamboo walking stick resting across his knees. His beard, as white as fresh snow, reached the middle of his chest, while the countless wrinkles lining his face deepened whenever he smiled—which, fortunately for the children, was often.
His robes were faded from years of washing and patched in more places than anyone cared to count. By every appearance, he was nothing more than an ordinary old storyteller living out the quiet twilight of his life.
The children knew him only as Grandpa Yi.
And every afternoon, they begged him for another story.
"Grandpa Yi!"
A little girl no older than five tugged excitedly at his sleeve.
"You promised you'd tell us about the flying swords today!"
Another child quickly shook his head.
"No! Tell us about the giant that carried a mountain on his back!"
"I want the dragon story!"
"The ghost story!"
The children loved those stories.
The old man laughed, the sound soft and warm, like dry leaves rustling beneath an autumn breeze.
"You children ask for too much."
"We only want one story!"
"Five stories!"
"Ten!"
"You'll talk until sunset anyway!"
Grandpa Yi sighed dramatically.
"My old bones can't survive ten stories."
The children burst into laughter.
He looked around the circle, pretending to think deeply before slowly stroking his beard.
"Very well..."
"I'll tell you about the oldest story I know."
Almost instantly, the chatter disappeared.
Dozens of bright eyes fixed upon him.
Even the village adults smiled quietly from nearby homes. Although they had heard the tale countless times before, there was something strangely comforting about listening to the old storyteller speak.
Grandpa Yi gazed upward through the branches of the Wutong tree.
For just a moment...
His smile became distant.
"When I was a boy," he began, "my grandfather told me that long before our kingdoms existed, before sects climbed the mountains, and before people awakened Cosmic Souls..."
"...the world belonged to three great races."
The children leaned forward.
"Giants?" one whispered.
The old man nodded.
"Giants."
"And demons?"
"Yes."
"And humans?"
He smiled again.
"Humans too."
A small boy sitting near the edge of the circle frowned.
"If there were giants as big as mountains..."
"...where did they go?"
The old man's eyes lingered on the boy for a heartbeat longer than seemed necessary.
Then he answered quietly.
"That..."
"...is a question no one has ever truly answered."
The old man's answer lingered beneath the shade of the Wutong Tree, carried away by a gentle breeze that stirred the emerald leaves overhead. For several moments, none of the children spoke. They simply stared at him, their young minds trying to imagine giants that walked like mountains and demons capable of swallowing the sky.
Finally, a chubby little boy scratched the back of his head.
"If no one knows where they went..." he asked hesitantly, "...does that mean they're still alive?"
The other children instinctively glanced toward the distant mountains beyond the village.
The old man followed their gaze before chuckling softly.
"If creatures that large were still walking the world, do you think any of us would be sitting here so peacefully?"
The children burst into laughter.
"I'd hide under my bed!"
"You'd never fit!"
The argument quickly dissolved into cheerful shouting, prompting several villagers passing through the square to smile knowingly. It was a familiar sight. Every afternoon, once Grandpa Yi began telling stories, the entire village seemed a little brighter.
The old man watched them with gentle eyes.
Children...
How long had it been since the world had known such innocence?
His smile deepened.
Perhaps too long.
"Grandpa Yi!"
A little girl raised both hands enthusiastically "Who was the strongest?"
The old man blinked. "The strongest?"
She nodded vigorously.
"If giants were that big, and demons were that scary, then somebody had to be the strongest!"
The other children immediately agreed.
"Yes!"
Questions flew from every direction until they overlapped into meaningless noise.
Grandpa Yi laughed helplessly and raised a hand.
"One at a time."
The children reluctantly quieted.
He looked upward through the leaves once more.
Stroking his beard, he said, "People have argued about that question for longer than kingdoms have existed."
"I know many stories; who can say for sure which one is true?"
He smiled.
"Perhaps all of them."
The children frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't," the old man admitted. "History is a strange thing. Every generation remembers what it wishes to remember and forgets what it fears."
The words meant little to the children.
But several adults listening nearby unconsciously lowered their eyes.
A boy sitting quietly at the very edge of the gathering finally spoke.
Unlike the others, he had remained silent throughout the discussion.
He was smaller than most children his age, his dark hair slightly untidy, and his simple linen clothes bore more than a few patches. Yet his eyes were unusually bright, quietly observing everything around him.
Grandpa Yi had noticed him from the moment he arrived.
The boy tilted his head.
"Grandpa."
The old man looked at him.
"Yes?"
The boy frowned thoughtfully. "Did it really happen? Or is it just a story... We are humans, so what happened to the other races? Did we win or no one won?"
Silence.
Only the wind whispered through the ancient branches.
Grandpa Yi studied the boy for a long moment.
There was no arrogance in the child's voice.
No attempt to appear clever.
He had simply reached the conclusion that seemed most natural.
The old man's smile slowly returned.
"You have a thoughtful mind."
The boy scratched his cheek awkwardly.
"I just wondered."
"What is your name?"
"Mo Xuan."
The old man repeated it softly.
"Mo Xuan..."
As though committing it to memory.
Another child immediately interrupted.
"My father says when we turn six, we'll awaken our Cosmic Souls!"
"My mother said that too!"
One of the kids awkwardly said, "My brother says I'll probably awaken a Pig Soul!"
The group erupted into laughter once more.
Mo Xuan couldn't help smiling.
The children took turns declaring increasingly impossible dreams.
Some wanted fame.
Others wanted power.
One wanted to eat Spirit Beast meat every day.
Grandpa Yi listened patiently to each answer.
Then his gaze returned to Mo Xuan.
"And what about you?"
The boy blinked. "Me?"
The other children looked at him expectantly.
Mo Xuan thought for several seconds before answering with complete sincerity.
"I want to become rich."
The square fell silent.
Then every adult nearby burst into laughter.
Even the children stared at him.
"Rich?"
Mo Xuan nodded seriously. "My father works very hard."
"So..."
He folded his arms. "If I become very rich..."
"...Father won't have to work so hard anymore."
The laughter gradually faded. Several villagers exchanged glances.
Children often dreamed of becoming heroes. Some wanted to be immortal while others imagined themselves standing atop the world. Yet this little boy...
Grandpa Yi's eyes softened. "A very honest dream."
Mo Xuan nodded as though it were obvious. "Being poor looks difficult."
The old man laughed again.
"A cultivator who pursues wealth rather than glory." Grandpa Yi murmured.
His eyes followed Mo Xuan as the boy turned toward the village square.
"I wonder..." A strange light flickered deep within the old man's gaze.
"...perhaps the heavens will find that amusing."