The wind was sharp and unrelenting, cutting across the open plains like the edge of a blade. It carried the scent of dry earth, scorched grass, and distant fires — the warning perfume of the lands beyond the Qin Empire.
Alaric Vardar moved with purpose, cloak whipping behind him as he trudged through the barren expanse. Every step brought him farther from Jade City, farther from the familiar warmth of his brother and their men, farther from the Empire that had raised him. Behind him, the capital glimmered faintly in the distance, its golden towers and orderly streets already fading like a half-remembered dream.
He did not look back. Not once.
> "South," he muttered, his voice low and steady. "Where I can become strong… where I will no longer be weak."
The first few days were a test of endurance. Nights were spent under the open sky, exposed to the bitter chill that seeped into his bones. Each morning, the rising sun burned his skin and glared off the cracked earth beneath his feet. He hunted small game, drank from streams that trickled reluctantly across jagged rocks, and slept lightly, one eye always open. Survival itself was a teacher — harsh, relentless, and unforgiving.
By the end of the first week, Alaric had already encountered his first real test.
A band of five raiders emerged from the hills, rough men in mismatched leather, brandishing crude blades. Their laughter echoed across the empty plains as they charged at him.
Alaric didn't flinch. He raised his hand slightly, the faint shimmer of wind energy surrounding him. In a heartbeat, the ground beneath the raiders ruptured, shards of stone and dirt shooting up to knock them off their feet. Two were impaled, the other three thrown sprawling across the jagged terrain. Within moments, the encounter was over — the raiders' screams echoing briefly before silence returned.
He exhaled slowly, tasting the metallic tang of blood carried by the wind. "Still… too weak," he muttered to himself.
The days became weeks, each step southward presenting new dangers. Wolves with unnaturally sharp fangs prowled the shadows of forests that had not seen human feet in decades. Rogue cultivators, seeking easy prey, struck at him in ambushes, only to find themselves shredded by a combination of qi, magic, and strategy they could not comprehend.
Alaric's body grew stronger with every encounter. His muscles became leaner, more responsive. His qi surged faster, and his senses sharpened to a preternatural degree. He could read the movements of his enemies before they even drew breath, calculating their strengths and weaknesses in a heartbeat.
But it was not just his body that changed. His mind evolved as well — every skirmish, every night alone under the stars, every wound earned and healed, honed his resolve. He remembered the words he had whispered to the night sky in Jade City: I am weak. Too weak. I will never be powerless again.
That thought became a mantra, a guiding force as he navigated the unforgiving lands of the south.
One evening, as the sun sank behind the horizon and painted the world in shades of blood and gold, Alaric came upon a small caravan under attack. Merchants screamed as three brigands, armed with poisoned blades, descended on the defenseless travelers.
Alaric moved with quiet efficiency. With a flick of his wrist, wind blades lacerated the attackers before they could react. The poisoned weapons fell harmlessly to the ground. Within seconds, the caravan's attackers lay incapacitated, and the merchants stared at him wide-eyed, unsure if they should fear him or thank him.
"I am not here to kill for sport," Alaric said quietly, his voice calm and measured. "But strength is earned, and survival is absolute."
The merchants nodded, too stunned to speak. Alaric simply turned and walked on, leaving only the faint impression of his passage in the disturbed dirt and the whisper of the wind.
For the next three months, his journey continued in this manner — constant, methodical, and lonely. He navigated treacherous rivers, climbed jagged cliffs, and crossed deserts where even the most seasoned travelers lost their way. Each new territory tested his adaptability. Every challenge reinforced his resolve: to never again be relegated to the sidelines, to never again watch as others wielded the power he lacked.
By the end of the third month, Alaric had ventured into the fringes of the Scorched Plains, an area notorious for its mercenary bands and rogue cultivators. These lands were wild and lawless. No city ruled them, no army patrolled them. The strong took what they could, and the weak perished without ceremony.
It was here that the whispers began.
Among travelers, hunters, and displaced townsfolk, rumors of a black-cloaked wanderer began to spread — a man who moved faster than the eye could follow, who cut down foes without hesitation, and who left behind scorched earth and shattered weapons. Some called him a ghost. Others whispered of a demon. Few dared approach.
Alaric paid them no mind. His focus was singular: growth, mastery, and survival. The lands were unforgiving, and he intended to learn everything they could teach him — and more.
At night, he often paused on ridgelines, staring at the distant lights of the Qin Empire. Memories of Jade City, of Alex, of the battles they had fought together, weighed on him. He missed his brother, and yet, he knew this was the only path forward. Strength was earned alone, in isolation, and through fire.
> "I will return," he whispered to the wind, voice soft but unwavering. "And when I do… I will not be weak. I will not be sidelined. I will shape the world itself."
The stars wheeled above him, indifferent and eternal. Alaric clenched his fist, the faint glow of qi surging beneath his skin. Each challenge, each skirmish, each step southward was forging him into something greater.
And somewhere deep within the vast, untamed lands of the south, Ashenfall awaited — a city ripe for conquest, for discipline, for the rise of a legend.
But that was not yet. Not today. Not this chapter of his life.
Tonight, Alaric walked alone, a shadow moving against the dying light, carrying the fire of vengeance, ambition, and resolve. His journey had only just begun — and in the century to come, his name would become a storm that even the heavens could not ignore.