The sky split open with a sound like the wailing of a dying god.
Lightning danced wildly across the heavens, illuminating the storm-torn clouds in eerie flashes of gold and violet. The winds howled, screaming through the valley as if mourning some terrible loss. Rain pounded against the earth, turning the mountain paths into rivers of mud and drowning the cries of the night creatures in its relentless fury.
Shen Ziyan ran.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his feet slipping over the treacherous ground as he climbed higher up the mountainside. He barely noticed the sharp branches that tore at his clothes, the wet leaves slapping against his face. His entire being was drawn forward, pulled by a force he could not name—a voice in the wind, a whisper in his bones.
Something had fallen from the sky.
Even now, the golden light that had split the heavens pulsed in the distance, radiating from the mountain's peak. It was unlike anything Ziyan had ever seen. It was not fire, nor starlight, nor the luminous glow of a cultivator's technique. It was something older, something vast. The very sight of it made his heart race with both fear and unbearable longing.
And so, against all reason, he pressed on.
A Life of Smallness
Yunhe Village was a place of quiet insignificance, a nameless dot in the great expanse of the Celestial Dominion. The world beyond was ruled by great sects and immortal clans, their influence stretching across entire continents, their power shaping the very flow of heaven and earth. To them, Yunhe Village was nothing—a forgotten corner where mortals lived and died in obscurity, never touching the divine.
Ziyan had long accepted his place within this vast and merciless world.
Born to a poor woodcutter and a sickly mother, he had spent his days gathering firewood and hunting small game, scraping by on the edges of existence. He had listened to the stories of cultivators with wide-eyed wonder, dreaming of soaring through the skies, of wielding power beyond imagination. But dreams did not fill empty stomachs, and reality had a cruel way of reminding him that he was no more than dust beneath the feet of the mighty.
Yet, tonight, as he climbed toward the light, something stirred in him—something that whispered of destiny.
The closer he got, the heavier the air became. It was thick, oppressive, filled with an energy that set his skin ablaze. His very soul trembled under its weight, as if he had stepped beyond the boundaries of the mortal world into the domain of gods.
Then, through the blinding rain, he saw it.
The Fallen Hand
At the summit of the mountain, the earth had been torn apart. Massive cracks split the ground, steam rising from their depths as if the land itself had been scorched by celestial fire. Trees had been uprooted, their trunks shattered like twigs. The very stones trembled, humming with an energy that did not belong to this world.
And in the center of the devastation, half-buried in the shattered earth, lay the Hand.
It was colossal. Even severed at the wrist, it dwarfed everything around it. Its fingers curled slightly, as if grasping at something unseen. Black and gold veins ran across its surface, pulsating with an otherworldly radiance. It was neither flesh nor stone, neither metal nor bone—it was something beyond the understanding of mortals, something that defied the very laws of existence.
Ziyan fell to his knees.
The moment his eyes locked onto it, his mind was filled with whispers.
Ancient voices, speaking in tongues he did not know yet somehow understood. They spoke of creation and destruction, of the birth of worlds and the fall of gods. They spoke of power beyond measure, of forces that shaped reality itself.
And then, one voice rose above the rest.
"You have found it."
Ziyan's breath caught in his throat.
The voice was neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It was vast, timeless, carrying the weight of eons. It did not come from the hand itself, nor from the heavens above. It came from within him.
His body moved on its own.
Trembling, he reached out. His fingers brushed against the hand's surface—
And the world shattered.
A Mortal's Awakening
A tidal wave of golden energy erupted from the hand, slamming into Ziyan with the force of a collapsing star. His body was lifted from the ground, his limbs flailing helplessly as the power surged into him.
He screamed.
It was too much. It was beyond mortal comprehension. His bones burned, his veins twisted, his very soul cracked under the pressure of something vast and infinite. He could feel it rewriting him, unmaking and remaking him all at once.
Memories flooded his mind—memories that were not his own.
He saw titanic beings standing at the dawn of creation, sculpting stars with their bare hands. He saw wars that shattered entire dimensions, battles fought with weapons forged from the fabric of reality itself. He saw gods fall, their bodies becoming mountains and rivers, their blood giving birth to entire races.
And then, he saw Him.
A figure beyond form, beyond understanding. A presence so immense that it eclipsed even the gods themselves.
The First Creator.
The one who had shaped all things.
And as Ziyan gazed upon Him, he understood—
The Hand before him was His.
Severed in some ancient war, cast down from the heavens, lost for countless ages. And now, it had chosen him.
The golden light burned away, and Ziyan crashed to the ground.
For a long time, he did not move. His body ached, his skin burned, but more than anything, his mind reeled from the truths he had witnessed.
Then, slowly, he opened his eyes.
Something had changed.
The world around him was clearer, sharper. He could hear the heartbeat of the earth, feel the flow of energy within the very air. His body, once frail and weak, now thrummed with a power he did not yet understand.
And on his right palm, etched in shimmering gold, was a mark—the shape of the fallen Hand.
The Heavens Tremble
Far beyond the mortal world, in the celestial palaces where gods and immortals resided, alarms rang through the heavens.
In the Forbidden Halls of the Dao Elders, an ancient oracle gasped, his eyes rolling back as a prophecy forced itself from his lips:
"The Hand of the First Creator has awakened."
"The Heavens shall be torn asunder."
"A mortal shall rise, and the world shall never be the same again."
In the distant Abyss of the Forsaken, where the remnants of fallen deities slumbered, something stirred.
A single, golden eye opened in the darkness.
And somewhere, beyond time and space, something that should never wake… began to rise.
Ziyan, unaware of the chaos his awakening had unleashed, clenched his fist.
For the first time in his life, he felt it—true power.
And deep within his soul, a single thought took root:
This is only the beginning.