It was an age of great darkness.
Across the vast land of Tianxia, ravenous beasts roamed unchecked, laying waste to all in their path. They devoured men with insatiable hunger, their grotesque forms striking terror into all who beheld them. Towering above any mortal, with jagged fangs and claws like iron, they tore through flesh and bone as though it were nothing.
Some fought.
A handful of brave souls raised their weapons against these abominations, while others fled in despair—but whether they resisted or ran, all were met with the same cruel fate.
None could escape death.
Cities fell into ruin, and the land was steeped in grief. Parents mourned their children, and children wept for their parents. In that era of terror, no sanctuary remained—no corner of Tianxia untouched by fear.
Just as all hope seemed lost, a miracle descended from the heavens.
An ancient dragon, vast and divine, appeared within the mortal realm. From its boundless power, it forged four sacred swords and entrusted them to four chosen youths. One bore the blade Longyuan, deep and unfathomable as the dragon's own abyss. Another wielded Fenghuang, radiant with the promise of rebirth. The third carried Tianxie, embodying the unyielding will of the heavens. The last was granted Xuanye, a blade as profound and inscrutable as the night itself.
With these divine weapons in hand, the chosen rose against the beasts. Under their leadership, mankind struck back. The monsters were driven to extinction, their remnants sealed by the power of the sacred swords, and at last, peace returned to the land.
In time, the four warriors gave rise to great lineages.
Thus were established the Long Family, guardians of Longyuan; the Feng Family, keepers of Fenghuang; the Tian Family, wielders of Tianxie; and the Xuan Family, inheritors of Xuanye. Each was bound by oath to protect Tianxia, their descendants entrusted, generation after generation, with the sacred duty of safeguarding the realm.
For a time, harmony endured.
But peace is ever fleeting.
Tragedy soon struck once more.
The Long Family, once revered for its unmatched strength, fell into ruin, its legacy swallowed by bloodshed and silence. Not long after, the Tian Family—upholders of heavenly order—met a similar fate, their line extinguished under circumstances few dared to speak of.
With the fall of the Long and Tian Families, their sacred swords—Longyuan and Tianxie—vanished without a trace, as though they had been swallowed by the very chaos that consumed their masters.
The truth behind their demise, and the origin of the conflict that followed, became shrouded in mystery. Each side told a different story, each tale shaped by loyalty, hatred, and fear. In time, the truth itself was lost, buried beneath layers of rumor and bloodshed.
With two of the great families gone, the balance of Tianxia was broken.
The Feng Family and the Xuan Family, once allies in purpose, began to turn upon one another. What began as quiet suspicion soon gave way to open hostility, until at last, war erupted across the land.
And so, Tianxia was plunged once more into chaos.
Swords once raised against monsters were now turned against fellow men. Friends who had once shared wine and laughter became enemies thirsting for blood. Wives sent their husbands to the battlefield with heavy hearts, while mothers and children wept as tidings from the frontlines reached their homes.
Morale withered as the war dragged on. Countless men perished—many leaving behind nothing but shattered remains. Each day they fought could be their last.
For a long while, even the winds seemed to have stilled, as though the heavens themselves had grown weary of witnessing the suffering below.
But stillness does not last forever.
At last, the winds have begun to move once more—quiet at first, but soon they will move with force that cannot be ignored and the promise of change.
In the deepest hours of the night, all is still—as though the world itself were holding its breath for a single, fateful moment. A cold wind stirs through the forest, whispering between the trees as if heralding the approach of a fateful winter.
The moon hangs high above, its pale light filtering through the canopy, tracing silver paths upon the earth. Beneath it walks a young woman.
Her hair is simply adorned with a plum blossom hairpin, and at her waist rests a jade pendant of quiet elegance. In her hand, she carries a small woven basket, as though she has ventured into the forest to gather herbs beneath the cover of darkness.
At an hour when most would not dare step outside, she moves without hesitation. There is no fear in her steps—only a quiet familiarity, as though the night itself were her refuge.
Then, she stops.
Not far ahead, a figure lies motionless upon the ground.
Her first instinct is to turn away, to leave as though she had seen nothing. But just as she is about to turn away, she pauses.
The scent of blood reaches her—sharp, metallic, unmistakable.
After a brief silence, she steps forward and crouches beside the fallen figure.
A man.
He teeters on the brink of death, a dark stain spreading across his chest from a deep stab wound. Though unconscious, his fingers remain tightly wrapped around the hilt of his sword, his grip unrelenting even now.
She reaches out and tilts his face toward the moonlight.
The moment her eyes fall upon him, she stills.
Something flickers across her gaze—recognition, or perhaps something more complicated, something she does not wish to name.
Almost at once, she withdraws her hand and rises to her feet, turning away as if she has already made her decision.
But before she can take a single step, something seizes her ankle.
Her gaze drops.
The hand that once held the sword now grips her firmly, his strength unyielding despite his condition.
She tries to shake him off, but his hold does not loosen.
Slowly, she looks back at his face. His eyes remain closed, yet his grip is desperate—like a man clinging to the last thread of life.
A trace of pain crosses her expression.
She turns her face forward, her gaze fixed into the darkness, as though trying to bury whatever emotions threaten to surface. For a long moment, she remains unmoving.
Then, with a soft sigh, she relents.
Bending down, she lifts him onto her back. Despite her slender frame, her strength is more than sufficient. Without another word, she adjusts her hold and walks deeper into the forest.
As they disappear into the shadows, the first snow begins to fall—light and silent—settling upon the earth as though marking the beginning of something inevitable. Whether this chance encounter will lead to ruin or salvation, only time will tell.
High above, perched upon a withered branch, an owl watches in silence.
Its sharp eyes follow their retreating forms.
Then, with a quiet sweep of its wings, it takes flight—vanishing into the darkness, as though carrying word of what has just transpired to unseen eyes.