That night, the heavens did not intervene.
That night, there was no rain.
The sky was clear, indifferent, and high —
the kind of sky that appears when it has no intention of saving anyone.
The boy remembered that.
He sat in the corner of the room, holding a wooden figurine — crooked, poorly carved, but made by his father.
His mother laughed and said it was a "talisman."
The door was broken open without a shout.
Without warning.
Too fast.
Fire burst in first.
Then people.
Foreign voices. Cold. Businesslike.
"Here," someone said. "Don't let him slip away."
His father stepped between them and the boy.
He was not a cultivator.
He was simply a father.
His mother managed to take a step.
Just one.
That was enough for the world to break.
The blood on the floor was warm.
The boy remembered that.
He did not scream.
Not because he was brave —
but because his voice was gone.
"One left," someone said.
"Get rid of him?"
A pause.
"No. Too weak. Let him live."
And they left.
As if nothing had happened.
---
The boy sat for a long time.
A very long time.
Until the night ended.
Until the sun rose over a house that was no longer a home.
At that moment, he understood the first truth of this world:
> The heavens do not intervene.
Sects do not make mistakes.
The weak are expendable.
He stood up.
And left.
A Name with No One to Call It
He walked all night.
Not because he feared returning —
but because there was nowhere to return to.
The home remained behind.
The blood dried.
The smell of smoke soaked into his clothes.
The boy did not cry.
He tried several times —
but the tears would not come, as if his body had decided they were no longer necessary.
By dawn, he stopped by a river.
The water was cold and murky.
He washed his face and looked at his reflection.
The face was unfamiliar.
"…," he opened his mouth to say his name.
And froze.
The name suddenly felt unnecessary.
Who was there to call it?
He turned away from the water and walked on.
---
Twelve Years Passed
The mountains grew higher.
The world — harsher.
He learned to:
remain silent
wait
leave when necessary
kill, when there was no choice
There were no teachers.
No sects either.
There were only:
ruins
forbidden lands
dead cultivators who had left behind fragments of knowledge
He gathered them like dust.
The First Steps of Cultivation
He did not cultivate like the others.
He survived, and strength followed after.
When he first sensed spiritual energy,
it was:
dirty
torn
foreign
But he accepted it.
Not as a gift.
As a tool.
---
Years later, he heard the name of a sect.
That very one.
It was spoken in a tavern, casually, with respect.
"They are strong now," someone said. "Very strong."
He remembered that name.
Not out of hatred.
Out of necessity.
Eyes That Should Not Have Opened
The night in the mountains was quiet.
Too quiet.
He had been sitting in a stone crevice for three days, without lighting a fire.
The spiritual energy around was torn, filthy — a place where sects did not enter and where the weak did not survive.
That was why he stayed.
When the pain began, he first thought it was exhaustion.
Then — poisoning.
Only when his vision darkened did he realize: it was something else.
The world trembled.
He grabbed his head and dropped to his knees.
It felt as if his skull were being crushed from within.
"…," he wanted to scream, but could not.
---
Awakening
First came the dust.
It rose from the earth, from the stone, from the air —
but it was not physical.
It was the dust of traces.
He saw:
how people had died here
how spiritual energy had flowed decades ago
how the mountain itself had once been a sea
Information flooded into his eyes like a torrent.
Blood streamed from the corners of his eyes.
He collapsed to the ground.
---
Vision
For a moment, he saw them.
Not his parents.
Others.
People in strange clothing.
Their faces were empty, but their eyes —
the same as his now.
One of them looked directly at him.
> "You awakened too early."
---
The Price
He regained consciousness only by morning.
His head was splitting.
His vision felt strange — too clear.
He looked at the mountains.
And realized he could see far.
Too far.
He saw:
beasts several kilometers away
faint auras of cultivators moving along mountain paths
residual traces of techniques long since dispersed
He blinked.
Pain flared again.
"So… this is how it is," he rasped.
---
Realization
He understood three things:
1. These eyes could not be used constantly
2. They did not belong to this era
3. If the sects learned of them — they would hunt him
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in many years, he smiled.
Not from joy.
From understanding.
> The world is no longer hidden.
In the distance, tens of kilometers away,
he saw the mark of a sect.
That very one.
Faint, almost imperceptible.
But it was there.
He walked slowly.
Not because he was tired —
but because the world had become too loud.
The Eyes of the Epoch opened only for brief moments, yet even that was enough for reality to layer itself. Stones held memories, trees held fear, and the earth beneath his feet whispered of those who had once spilled blood here.
He stopped by a dried stream.
Closed his eyes.
The world became ordinary again.
Silence — real, not deceptive.
"Not yet…" he whispered.
---
Residual Trace
He sensed it without sight.
A foreign spiritual fluctuation.
Weak. Old.
But careful — the kind left by cultivators accustomed to erasing their tracks.
He crouched and touched the ground.
There was nothing on the surface.
But beneath the layer of dust —
a symbol.
Not a sect mark.
Not a technique seal.
It was a method of surveillance.
"So…" he exhaled slowly. "You passed through here."
He did not know who exactly.
But he knew — they were connected to that night.
---
Choice
He could leave.
Pretend he noticed nothing.
Continue cultivating alone.
That would be correct.
Rational.
But something in his chest stirred.
Not rage.
Not hatred.
Emptiness, demanding an answer.
"If I close my eyes now…" he said quietly, "they will never disappear."
He stood.
And for the first time in a long while, deliberately opened the Eyes of the Epoch.
---
A Picture of the Past
The world unfolded.
He saw:
three cultivators
their level — Vessel Formation
one of them wounded
they were in a hurry
And most importantly —
they were speaking.
> "We were delayed.
The sect will be displeased."
---
Consequence
Pain struck instantly.
Blood flowed from his eyes again.
He shut them, gasping.
His knees buckled.
"I see…" he rasped with a hoarse chuckle. "So I wasn't wrong."
This was not vengeance against a single person.
It was a chain.
When the pain receded, he already knew the direction.
Not the point.
The direction.
That was enough.
He turned toward the mountains.
> Let a hundred years pass.
Traces do not disappear.
A Technique That Does Not Wait
The mountains here were old.
Not tall — worn down.
Stone crumbled under his fingers, and spiritual energy flowed unevenly, as if someone had once torn the heart from this place.
He understood it not with his eyes.
With his body.
Every breath weighed heavily on his chest.
"So it's here," he said quietly.
---
An Unsuitable Place
Any sect would call this place useless.
Too filthy.
Too unstable.
Too dangerous for disciples.
That was precisely why he stopped.
He was not searching for purity.
He needed truth.
---
Trace of a Technique
He did not find it at once.
Not a scroll.
Not an inscription.
Only a pattern burned into stone — almost erased by time.
He touched the surface.
And the world trembled.
---
Reaction of the Eyes
The Eyes of the Epoch opened on their own.
For a brief instant.
And the pattern changed.
He saw:
how a man once sat here
how his vessel was destroyed
how he forcibly retained the Dust of the Epoch within his body
This was not a technique for growth.
It was a technique for survival.
---
Realization
"You never planned to go further…" he whispered.
That cultivator did not seek the summit.
He simply did not want to disappear.
And in that, there was something terrifyingly familiar.
---
Choice
The technique was incomplete.
Dangerous.
It did not form a vessel —
it forced the body to endure until a vessel formed on its own.
If it did.
He could refuse.
Search further.
But time was the one thing he did not have.
---
Preparation
He cleared the cave.
Blocked the entrance with stones.
Sat cross-legged.
His breathing slowed.
The Dust of the Epoch in the air trembled.
"If you managed to survive…" he said into the emptiness, "then there is a chance."
---
Beginning
He began.
Not immediately.
First — breathing.
Then — circulation.
The pain came quickly.
Too quickly.
His body resisted, as if understanding that this was not a path, but violence.
He did not stop.
---
Deep within,
something cracked.
Not the vessel.
Not yet.
But the world around became slightly quieter.
He understood —
there was no way back.
A Vessel Assembled from Dust
The pain did not come suddenly.
It accumulated.
First — as pressure in the chest.
Then — as heat spreading through the meridians.
And only then did the body seem to remember that it was mortal, and tried to stop everything.
He clenched his teeth.
The Dust of the Epoch did not obey.
It tore outward, collided, shattered, leaving behind the sensation of bones breaking inside him — slowly, one by one.
His breathing faltered.
His vision darkened.
"Too soon…" he exhaled, not knowing to whom he was speaking.
But it was already impossible to stop.
---
Point of No Return
Something inside snapped.
Not like an explosion —
like an old thread that could no longer withstand the strain.
In that moment, the world vanished.
---
Echo
He was no longer in the cave.
Before him stood a hall.
Enormous. Cold.
Columns rose upward, but their tops were lost in darkness.
Figures stood in rows.
There were many.
Too many.
There were no faces.
Only blurred outlines and identical silhouettes.
On the wall — the mark of a sect.
Cracked. Distorted.
Like a reflection in shattered glass.
Voices did not sound in his ears —
they arose directly within his mind.
> "Erase the trace."
"Parents eliminated."
"The child… insignificant."
He tried to step forward.
Could not.
His body did not obey.
The figures began to crumble.
The hall cracked, as if made of dust.
And everything disappeared.
---
Formation
He came to, choking on air.
His body arched.
Pain returned — sharp, real.
But now it was ordered.
The Dust of the Epoch no longer tore chaotically.
It rotated. Compressed.
Gathered around a void at the center of his body.
Slowly.
Heavily.
A vessel was forming.
Imperfect.
Cracked.
But real.
When it was over, he collapsed onto his side.
His breathing trembled.
But he was alive.
---
After
An unknown amount of time passed.
He sat leaning against cold stone.
Did not move.
Did not meditate.
Just sat.
The vessel within was quiet.
Too quiet.
And in that silence, thoughts returned on their own.
---
Memory
He remembered his mother.
How she always lit the fire before dusk.
How she said the night disliked the careless.
He remembered his father.
How he repaired an old sword, even knowing no one had used it for years.
These memories did not hurt.
They were… warm.
And that made it heavier.
"I miss you," he said quietly.
The words dissolved into stone.
There was no answer.
---
Promise
He did not clench his fists.
Did not swear aloud.
Did not appeal to the heavens.
He simply understood.
Some debts do not fade with time.
They do not rot.
Do not erode.
They wait.
And if the world does not intend to settle them —
one day, he will.
Not out of rage.
Not out of hatred.
Because otherwise — it is impossible.
---
He stood up.
His body was wounded.
The vessel — unstable.
But the face reflected in the stone
remained the face of a young man.
Beyond the cave, a long road began.
And time was no longer his enemy.