Within the west portion of the plains region lays a sect with a long and ancient history. This sect had strong ties to the dragons of old. Their strong worship of their dragon ancestors led to the creation of the Draconic Lore. With new technologies and strong and capable cultivators, the sect conquered a large portion of the know plains region.
But like all great empires, it started to fall and crumble under the pressure of times and the cycle of birth and death. Now a husk of its former self, dreaming of an idealized past. The only thing that keeps this sect afloat is the many technological wonders made within its borders.
The creation of first factories and magical weapons were made in this sect. With an intensive written history, the people of the present can build taller on the foundations of the past. But even if this sect is the shining beacon of innovation. It can't escape the flawed nature of humans.
With new generations, the cultivators of this sect grow ever more arrogant and corrupt. Multiple old and outer world corruptions have taken hold of the cultivators of this sect. Resulting in bloody battles between corrupt cultivators under the influence of their otherworld or old masters
The situation has gotten so bad that nearby sects have ste in to handle the situation, killing a large portion of all cultivators within the sect. Taking large pieces of land and installing their own spheres of influence in the sect. This is how much the sect has fallen.
But the ones that are caught up in the middle of these battles are the mortal men and women that inhabit these lands. It is normal for these people to be dislocated from their homes, be forced to pay extremely high taxes, or watch their family members die in front of them.
The propaganda that is being fed to them has since long ago stopped working. They see the rotting corpse that is the sect they inhabit and they are sick and tired. From pandemics, famine, and constant battles. The mortals of this sect are devastated and angry.
Within the dirty and cold walls of the capital city of this sect, is a nameless mortal. This mortal wakes up early in the morning to go to their horrible factory job. The air is full of disease and dust. Their lugs are congested and black after inhaling the air in their workplace for such a long time. But this unnamed mortal has it the best compared to their coworkers.
Some are mangled and dying, the machinery of this factory does not distingue metal from the flesh. Does unlucky enough to have that experience firsthand will call the nameless mortal lucky. All the factories within the sect are owned by the cultivators, another ploy of them to extract as much profit from their labor as possible.
To this cultivator, mortals were expendable, a resource to be consumed. Some cultivators go as far as considering the mortals beneath them a different race. This nameless mortal continues to work at this dangerous factory. Their managers, mortals who have been promoted to that position of leadership abuse them with cruel words.
The managers thought of themselves as safe, that as long as they lick the boots of their cultivator masters they might one day be safe from their cruelty. But sadly for them, the cultivators thought of the managers as nothing more than a working dogs.
After a long and hard day at work, the nameless mortal leaves their workplace coughing and tired. They have been malnourish for such a long time that they could not hold for much longer. Their body only gets its nutrients from eating away at the muscles. The nameless mortal as it makes its way home sees the normal scenes they have come used to.
The scenes of dirty and shit piling up on the corners of the streets, the sight of dead decomposing bodies. The sound of flies and mosquitoes as they feast on the dead. The dark clouds that linger in the skies and the rich cultivator asshole that comes every day to torture a poor innocent fool. It just happens that today's fool is them.
The rich arrogant cultivator, who has never experienced how it feels to go hungry grabs the nameless mortal and throws them into the ground. The cultivator kicks the mortal in the stomach with a lot of force, breaking some of the mortal's bones and damaging its organs.
"Fucking piece of shit! A good dog bows down to its masters and I did not see you bowing down!"
That was a lie, of course, it was. This cultivator only wanted something to beat up for their own amusement. The nameless mortal could not help but cry, holding onto their stomach for their life. The unimaginable pain that assaulted their brain almost caused them to pass out.
"Yea! Cry you little piece of shit! You all should be great full we let you dogs live on our god-given land!"
The cultivator said as they get on their knees, their sharp purple eyes locking with the mortal's own brown eyes. An evil, corrupt smile decorates the face of this cultivator. Its hand grabbed a handful of the mortal's hair, pulling on it, almost tearing the hair from their head.
"Cry for me a little more will you? Pray to us, your rightful lords and gods."
The cultivator said to the mortal as they slam the mortal's face into the stone sidewalk. Their noses break, as their teeth shatter and blood escapes their mouth and nose. No one stood forward to help, they could not, a cultivator is superhuman in every sense of the world.
How could a mortal stand up to a cultivator and fight them? They could not kill a superhuman. The cultivator seeing that they could not get more reactions out of the nameless mortal move on, to find their next victim. Leaving the nameless cultivator there on the ground, as they slowly bleed.
Thankfully it was not a serious wound and they won't bleed out, but the pain is strong enough to leave them weak and unable to stand up. The nameless mortal could only stand up after a few hours, with a bloody face, and more hatred in their heart. They hate this life, this world, and the cultivators. If they had the power to kill a cultivator, they would have used it a long time ago.
It is their dream, their only and last dream to kill all cultivators. To stop the problem at its root. With uneven steps and low energy, the nameless mortal makes its way back to their home. As only another hungry sleep awaits them. But as they walk towards their house, they notice someone throwing away some things into a garbage pile.
It was hard to see the features of the person, as they were covered in shadows and in a long dirty coat. As the figure disappear, the unnamed mortal, knew that they should ignore what had just happened. Go back home and sleep. But fate has been broken, the future is uncertain, and they walk their first steps towards the garbage pile.
As the moral approaches the pile it notices that what has been thrown away are wooden guns. Were they broken? Why would someone throw away a gun like that? The mortal thought to itself as it pick up one of the wooden rifles. If they remember correctly, guns were a weapon designed for mortals to fight the monsters that inhabit the wilds.
Strong weapons that use fire spirit crystals as their ammunition. But that type of ammunition is very time-consuming, as either a cultivator must infuse fire QI into a spirit crystal or they are mine from a fire spirit crystal mine. Because of that these weapons are still in development and are not mass produced. As fire spirit crystals have better uses for them than just being used for ammunition.
"if this thing can kill a monster…can it kill a cultivator?"
Does were the thoughts that float around their head, a smile slowly growing on their face. Their hearts beat with excitement. They ignore the normal questions one will ask in their situation. Are the guns working? Do they have ammo? And so on. This mortal holds tightly at the weapon, at their only piece of hope to escape this nightmare and make their dream a reality.
Like this, the night went on and soon morning came. But the mortal did not go to work, as they stay in their home, holding their weapon ready to use it. Their first target, is that arrogant cultivator that always goes to the city to torture the mortals.
The nameless mortal continues to wait, waiting for the right time. As soon enough after looking at their wooden door long enough, it was time. They might not have a clock or a way to tell time. But their body tells them that around this time is when work ended and the cultivator started to roam the streets.
With fast steps, the mortal gets out of their home and makes their way to the central street. Their gun in hand and their finger on their trigger. As they enter the main street, their eyes scan around till they find the target. That arrogant cultivator with their purple eyes. Beating on some other nameless mortal with no guilt.
The nameless mortal aim their gun at the cultivator and within a second before anyone could react. The nameless mortal press the trigger. As a single loud boom originates from the gun and a fast metal color bullet flies from the gun barrel.
As the bullet flies in slow motion, it meets the head of the cultivator. As it slowly penetrates the skin, muscle, bone, and brain. But it did not stop there, as the bullet exploded deep inside the skull of the cultivator. Its lifeless body falls on the floor, it's head wide open as pieces of blood and brain fly everywhere.
The crow started in silence as they look at the dead cultivator, someone has done the impossible. A mortal has killed a cultivator. The nameless mortal was no more, for today onwards they had a new name, they are the First Killer. The first mortal to kill a cultivator and the spark that lead to the most bloody mortal revolution known to the world. Known as the "Mortal Rebellion"
The rifle that lead the killing shot was a new invention by a failed inventor. Someone who wanted to innovate weapons and make them mass-produced. This inventor made bullets that are able to explode on contact without using spirit crystals, using nothing more than gunpower and cleaver design. But they also discover a way to make reloading rifles easier and faster. But such an invention threatened the status quo, people notice instantly the danger this could pose and forced the inventor to throw away the weapons.
The inventor not wanting to do proper disposing of the weapons left them next to a garbage pile. Making the horrible mistake of leaving loaded and within hand reach of a very angry and discontent mortal.