Under a canopy of rustling leaves and a gentle drizzle, the lush mountains embraced the secluded valley like guardians of an untouched world. The small town of Meilin nestled within the, its quaint cottages and cobblestone paths weaving a tapestry of serenity. Farmers tended to their fields, the rich aroma of damp earth and blossoming wildflowers filling the air. It was a peaceful haven, home to sixteen-year-old Xing Chen.
He is a young man with a mild disposition, always ready with a smile that reaches his warm, dark eyes. A little on the rounder side, his soft features and chubby cheeks give him a cute and approachable appearance. His unruly black hair often falls over his forehead, adding to his endearing charm. Though he lost his parents at an early age—a harsh blow softened by the constant love of his grandparents—he remains kind-hearted and happy, finding joy in helping them with their daily chores.
Xing Chen lived with his grandparents in an antique house at the heart of the valley. The house, though weathered by time, exuded a timeless charm with its wooden beams and intricately carved eaves. He had lost his parents at a young age, their memories lingering like the fading notes of a beloved song. Left with only his grandparents, he found solace in the ancient storybooks his grandfather gave him—heirlooms filled with tales of immortals, demons, and deities. While others dismissed these stories as mere myths, to Xing Chen, they were doorways to fantastical realms where his imagination could soar.
As the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, casting a golden hue across the mist-laden landscape, the scent of freshly steamed baozi wafted through the open windows. In the cosy courtyard, his grandmother bustled about, her kind eyes crinkling with a smile as she attempted to place yet another baozi into his already full hands.
"Grandma, this is the seventh one! I can't eat any more!" Xing Chen protested, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, making him look even younger than his sixteen years.
She chuckled softly. "Oh, listen to him! Just because you've grown a little taller, you think you can refuse your grandma's cooking?"
He sighed, a playful glint in his eyes. His grandmother had always shown her love through food, often overestimating his appetite. It was the reason behind his slightly round physique—a source of both affection and mild embarrassment. Despite his mock protests, he cherished these moments.
"Save me, Grandpa!" Xing Chen called out, turning to his grandfather, who stood nearby stroking his silver beard. The old man exuded a quiet strength, his eyes sharp yet filled with warmth.
"Ha ha, Xing'er, I'm afraid I can't help you this time," his grandfather replied with a hearty laugh. "Growing boys need plenty of nourishment! Look at you—so frail! You need to eat more."
Resigned, Xing Chen finished the last of the baozi. As soon as he was done, he sprang to his feet. "Grandpa, we should get going, or we'll be late!"
His grandfather nodded, picking up the bamboo baskets filled with freshly made baozi. Together, they set off toward the market, the morning air crisp and invigorating.
The market buzzed with activity—vendors calling out their wares, children laughing, the rich tapestry of village life unfolding around them. As they approached their modest food stall, a familiar voice rang out.
"Well, if it isn't little Xing! You've grown taller but also rounder! Old Man Lu, are you still fattening him up like a prize pig?" joked Old Man Ma, a short fellow with twinkling eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache.
Old Man Lu chuckled. "Ah, Short Ma, always the jokester. I'm simply ensuring he eats well. Youths these days need their strength!"
"Whatever you say," Old Man Ma replied with a wink.
"Grandpa Ma! Did you bring me something today?" Xing Chen asked eagerly.
"Indeed I did," Old Man Ma said, producing a delicate paper crane from his pocket. "Made this just for you."
Xing Chen's face lit up. "It's beautiful! Thank you!"
"Careful now," Old Man Ma cautioned as Xing Chen nearly tipped the baskets he was carrying. "Don't let your grandmother's delicious baozi go to waste. Here, I'll help your grandfather. You can run along and enjoy your day."
"Are you sure? Thank you!" Xing Chen bowed politely before dashing off, the paper crane clutched tightly in his hand.
With the paper crane nestled safely in his grasp, Xing Chen made his way back home, the path winding through fields of swaying grasses and wildflowers. The sun cast dappled shadows through the leaves overhead, and the melody of birdsong accompanied his steps.
Upon arriving home, he found his grandmother tending to her herb garden, the scent of mint and lavender filling the air. She looked up with a warm smile. "Back so soon, Xing'er?"
"Yes, Grandma! Look what Grandpa Ma gave me!" He held out the paper crane, its intricate folds catching the light.
"It's lovely," she admired. "Why don't you spend some time in the library? It's a good day for reading."
The library was Xing Chen's favourite place—a long, elegant corridor that stretched along the upper floor of their home. Far from the dusty confines of a typical attic, this was a sanctuary of knowledge and wonder. Sunlight poured in through tall, arched windows draped with delicate silk curtains that fluttered gently in the breeze. The polished wooden floor gleamed, and the air was filled with the faint scent of old parchment and jasmine.
He ascended the curved staircase, each step bringing him closer to his private haven. Pushing open the ornately carved doors, he entered the library. Shelves upon shelves of ancient books lined the walls, their spines bearing titles in calligraphy both familiar and strange. Intricate lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow that complemented the natural light.
Xing Chen often marvelled at this room. It seemed almost out of place in their humble home—a grand repository of wisdom that hinted at secrets untold. He wondered how his grandparents had come to possess such a collection, but they always smiled mysteriously whenever he asked.
Settling into a plush chair by one of the windows, he placed the paper crane on a small table beside him. He reached for a well-worn book about celestial warriors and lost himself in its tales. Time slipped by unnoticed until a glint of something unusual caught his eye.
At the far end of the gallery, partially hidden behind a row of scrolls, was a book he hadn't seen before. Curiosity piqued, he rose and walked over. The book was bound in faded leather, its cover embossed with a swirling symbol that seemed to shimmer subtly as he approached.
Gently pulling it from the shelf, he felt a strange warmth emanating from it. The pages were yellowed with age, filled with intricate illustrations and script that was unfamiliar yet oddly captivating. Diagrams of constellations intertwined with maps of lands he didn't recognise, and creatures both magnificent and terrifying adorned the margins.
"What is this?" he whispered to himself.
As he carefully turned the pages, a soft breeze rustled through the library, though all the windows were closed. The lanterns flickered, and for a moment, he thought he heard distant whispers. He glanced around, a shiver running down his spine, but saw nothing amiss.
Just then, his grandmother appeared at the entrance of the library, her presence gentle yet commanding. "Xing'er, are you alright up here?"
Startled, Xing Chen quickly closed the book and stood. "Grandma! I just found this book. Something strange happened when I was reading it."
She approached, her usually warm eyes now clouded with concern. She took the book from his hands, examining the swirling symbol on the cover. An unusual frown creased her forehead as she muttered something under her breath. " Do not tell anyone about this, Xing'er. We'll discuss it with your grandfather later today."
Before Xing Chen could respond, she turned and left the room, her footsteps fading down the staircase. Left alone, he felt a mixture of confusion and intrigue. Determined to understand what had happened, he reopened the book, only to find that all the pages had turned blank. He flipped through them desperately, but the once intricate illustrations and text had vanished, leaving behind empty parchment.
Frustrated, he set the book aside and turned to other volumes, reaching for titles his grandfather had strictly instructed him to read: Shi Shen and the All Heaven Body Sutra: A Legacy of Defiance and Mastery, Timeless Manual, Void Destruction Fist, Book of 10,000 Rites and a collection of other books that he couldn't fully comprehend.
These books contained many astonishing tales, he had already read them countless times, like Shi Shen and the All Heaven Body Sutra: one of his personal favourites that he was going to read today.It starts by giving an introduction that during the Cosmic Year 9000, when a particular race dominated the northern part of the universe. They called themselves the Ultimate Warrior Race. They defied the heavens, refusing to cultivate the energy of heaven and earth in the traditional way. Instead, they chose a solitary, fearsome path of body cultivation, wielding all the energies of heaven and earth solely to strengthen their physical forms. Their children were born blessed by the forces of nature, each possessing a dantian, but as soon as they reached the age of two, they shattered it—forcefully severing their ties to ordinary cultivation, proclaiming that they needed no heavenly crutch.
The book told of one such legendary figure of this race, a race too proud to kneel to anyone. In those days, the Northern Emperor, hegemon of the entire northern galactic region, coveted their strength and sought to subdue them, intending to use them as the vanguard of a new galactic frontier. But the Ultimate Warrior Race refused to bow. Enraged, the Emperor unleashed devastation upon them, massacring eighty percent of their kind and breaking the dantian of the survivors, branding them as cripples. A decree echoed across the stars: No member of that race shall possess a dantian; if found, they and their immediate family would be executed on the spot.
Though crushed, the pride of the Warrior Race remained unbroken. Even in their crippled state, they continued to defy the Emperor, challenging his will, even if it meant the brink of extinction. The Emperor dismissed them, deeming them too weak to bother with—until Shi Shen was born.
Shi Shen, like his ancestors, carried the innate pride of his people in his blood. As he grew, he witnessed the slow, painful dwindling of his race, reduced to mere remnants, their greatness stolen and ground into dust. In public, with eyes blazing with unyielding fury, Shi Shen swore a mad oath: to slay the Northern Emperor and restore his people's honour. His words reverberated like a storm through the region, drawing the Emperor's attention once more.
The Emperor's followers descended upon Shi Shen like wolves upon prey. They captured him, and there began the most brutal tortures imaginable. Every day, they stripped him of his flesh, peeling away his skin while bathing him in heavenly flames, each flame searing his nerves with agony beyond comprehension. The flames of heaven were no ordinary fire—they devoured both body and spirit, seeking to crush all resistance. But Shi Shen did not scream. He did not even flinch. His eyes burned brighter with each passing day, staring into the flames, daring them to break him.
They shattered his bones, ground them into powder, then forced his body to regenerate, only to break them again. They wanted to see him plead, to see his pride crumble into dust. But Shi Shen's lips did not part to beg. His eyes, though hollow with pain, glimmered with the embers of defiance, the spirit of his ancestors roaring within him. He endured, day after day, his body a wreck, but his will unbroken.
"You think you can end us with your flames?" Shi Shen whispered through cracked, bloodied lips, his voice barely a rasp but carrying the weight of mountains. "We are forged in flames far greater than these."
The torturers grew frustrated. They increased the intensity, using whips carved from celestial dragon sinew, each strike cutting to the bone, attempting to rip the spirit from Shi Shen's flesh. Yet he endured. He knew, deep inside, there was still a path. He held on to the hope of his race's survival, the flicker of a future where they could rise again. Every second he endured was a testament, a declaration that the his race could not be erased so easily.
Shi Shen's suffering was not mere pain—it was an offering. It was the price for a chance, however small, that his people could escape extinction. His defiance became a beacon, a smouldering flame that would not die. He let the agony become his strength, fuel for the fire that was his rage. He stared into the heavens and dared them to act, dared them to face him when the day would come, when he would rise from the ashes of his broken body, and with him, the proud warrior race that refused to die.
Shi Shen's resolve was ironclad. He would break his own dantian a thousand times, bear the torture of heavenly flames endlessly, if it meant his people would stand free again. The Northern Emperor had created a monster, a man with nothing left to lose, and the heavens themselves would tremble when Shi Shen finally unleashed the wrath that burned within him. The day he created a way for his race to fight back.
Until then, he endured. With each lash, with each burn, he endured—for the oath, for his people, and for the day the Northern Emperor would fall. The day did came.
These were the types of books that sucked Xing Chen in, every single one of them rich with vivid detail and overflowing with inspiration. As he flipped through the worn pages of the All Heaven Body Sutra, he found himself drawn to the fierce spirit of Shi Shen, his heart pounding as he read of the tortures, the defiance, and ultimately, the triumph.
Engrossed in his reading, little by little, time slipped away. The soft afternoon light began to wane, casting long shadows across the library floor, while Xing Chen devoured every word like a starving man. He could picture the scene so clearly: Shi Shen, broken and bleeding, his body a mass of scars, standing against the tyrannical Northern Emperor, unyielding in the face of impossible odds. A normal man would have succumbed to despair, but Shi Shen's heart had burned with such fury that not even the heavens could quench it.
Xing Chen couldn't help but laugh softly to himself, shaking his head. It was a fantastical story, he reminded himself, a mere fable meant to captivate the imagination—nothing more. Shi Shen's incredible journey, the creation of the All Heaven Body Sutra, and the bloody rise of the God Slaying Clan seemed far removed from reality. After all, Xing Chen had grown up in an ordinary village, lived an ordinary life, and his body was as unremarkable as any other. The mere thought of breaking one's dantian to cultivate seemed absurd.
Yet, despite that, he couldn't tear his eyes away. His mind kept coming back to those moments—Shi Shen's madness in breaking his dantian, his belief that he needed nothing from heaven or earth to stand tall. The way he endured, skin torn away, bones shattered, the way he bore all suffering without bending to the will of the Emperor—it made Xing Chen's own troubles seem like fleeting shadows. Shi Shen's strength did not come from divine blessings or cultivation; it came from his sheer willpower, the kind that declared, "I am my own master, not even the heavens shall decide my fate."
There was something in that, Xing Chen thought, something powerful that lingered long after the story ended. What was it that drew him so? Perhaps it wasn't the miraculous techniques or the bloody battles but the idea that a person could decide to rise, even when the whole universe tried to grind them into the dirt. It was an idea that refused to be dismissed, a whisper that seemed to echo in Xing Chen's heart as the night settled in.
"All Heaven Body Sutra," he murmured, his finger brushing across the faded characters on the page. It was a manual that defied reason, that defied heaven itself. A technique meant for those with nothing—no dantian, no special talent—just an indomitable will to carve out a place for themselves in a world that offered none.
The sky outside had grown dark, and the first stars were beginning to twinkle, yet Xing Chen remained in the quiet library, the only sound the rustle of pages turning and the soft breathing of the night. He thought of his own life, his struggles, and the things that had seemed insurmountable. He had often felt powerless, as though the universe itself had written his fate without consulting him, but here was a story that challenged that very notion.
Shi Shen and his God Slaying Clan had fought against the heavens and had rewritten their fate, painting the northern skies red with the blood of those who thought they could control them. Wasn't there something deeply inspiring in that? In the defiance, in refusing to bow even when every force in the cosmos demanded submission?
A strange thought began to take root in Xing Chen's heart—perhaps the story wasn't meant to be taken literally. Perhaps it didn't matter whether Shi Shen was real or a myth. What mattered was what he stood for: the audacity to reject limits, to defy the heavens, to forge a path even when there seemed to be none. Perhaps, Xing Chen thought, it was the spirit of the story that mattered most.
"A mere mortal can become a giant, even without heaven's blessing." Those words echoed in his mind, words Shi Shen might have said, or perhaps they were Xing Chen's own thoughts now. He realized that the true power of Shi Shen's story lay in the transformation of a man without hope into someone who would not let despair break him.
The library was quiet as Xing Chen stood up, closing the book gently. He looked out the window at the stars above, glittering and distant. The heavens seemed so far, so powerful, and yet… if Shi Shen could challenge the heavens, if a mere story could spark such a fire, then perhaps there was a fire in Xing Chen as well—small, perhaps, but growing, waiting to be fed.
It wasn't about breaking his dantian or learning impossible techniques. It was about challenging himself, about rejecting the voice that said, "You cannot." It was about refusing to be ordinary simply because the world said he must be.
With the book under his arm, Xing Chen stepped out of the library, the cool night air washing over him.
And just like that, a spark had been kindled—a quiet but fierce determination that perhaps, just perhaps, he too could write his own story, one that defied expectations, one that refused to bow, one that could challenge the heavens in its own way. Suddenly he remembered that he had to go help his grandpa.
"Grandma!" he called out, rushing downstairs. "I have to help Grandpa. I'm sorry I lost track of time."
She looked up from her evening preparations, her expression softening. "It's alright, Xing'er. Go and assist your grandfather. We'll talk about the book later."
With a hurried farewell, he made his way toward the market, the cool evening air refreshing after his long hours indoors. As he approached, he found his grandfather beaming, counting the day's earnings with a satisfied grin.
"Xing Chen!" Old Man Lu greeted warmly. "You've done well today. Look at all this money. Your grandma will be so happy. We'll have a special meal tonight to celebrate."
Xing Chen smiled, the day's earlier mysteries momentarily pushed to the back of his mind. The two of them walked back home together, the path illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns hanging from the trees.
But as they neared their home, a faint smell of smoke reached their noses. Xing Chen's heart skipped a beat. "Grandpa, do you smell that?"
A rare cold glint flashed through his grandfather's eyes. Without a word, Old Man Lu broke into a run, urgency propelling his every step. Xing Chen followed, fear tightening his chest.
As they turned the final corner, their worst fears materialized. Their home was ablaze, flames consuming the wooden beams and carved eaves that had stood for generations. The fire roared, a ferocious beast devouring all in its path.
"Grandma!" Xing Chen screamed, his voice drowned by the crackling inferno.
Old Man Lu's jaw tightened, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a sharpness Xing Chen had never seen before. "Stay close to me," he commanded.
They pushed through the heat toward the entrance, smoke stinging their eyes and filling their lungs. Inside, the once-cozy rooms were unrecognizable, shadows dancing wildly against walls bathed in fiery light.
"Grandma! Where are you?" Xing Chen's voice was hoarse, panic gripping him.
Suddenly, a sinister presence made itself known. Two men hovered above the courtyard, swords drawn, their cold gazes fixed upon the intruders. They stood upon swirling clouds of qi, defying gravity as easily as walking.
Beneath them lay Xing Chen's grandmother, her form motionless, two deep sword scars marring her gentle frame. Blood stained her garments, the vibrant red a stark contrast against the flames.
"Grandma!" Xing Chen cried out, a visceral pain tearing through him as if blades had pierced his own heart. Tears blurred his vision, anguish overwhelming his senses.
Old Man Lu's rage boiled over, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened. Yet, amidst the fury, he maintained a steely calm. "Xing Chen, listen to me," he said urgently, his voice cutting through the chaos. "You must go. Now."
"But Grandpa—Grandma—" Xing Chen's words stumbled out between sobs.
"There is no time!" his grandfather insisted, his eyes never leaving the two men who watched them with chilling indifference. "Trust me, Xing'er."
Before Xing Chen could protest further, Old Man Lu seized his arm and led him through a side passage, the heat intensifying with every step. They reached the entrance to the library—the only part of the house not yet claimed by the fire.
"Go to the end of the corridor," his grandfather instructed, pressing a jade box into his hands. "Inside is a ring. Put it on. It will take you to a safe place."
"Grandpa, I can't leave you! What about Grandma?" Xing Chen pleaded, his voice cracking.
Old Man Lu placed a trembling hand on his grandson's shoulder. "Our lineage must live on. You are its last hope. I will find you when it's safe. Now go!"
Despair and confusion waged war within Xing Chen, but the urgency in his grandfather's eyes compelled him to act. Clutching the jade box, he turned and ran down the corridor. Behind him, he heard the clash of steel and a thunderous roar as his grandfather confronted the intruders.
Reaching the end of the library, he opened the box with shaking hands. Inside lay an intricately crafted ring, its surface engraved with symbols that seemed to pulse with a faint light. Without hesitation, he slipped it onto his finger.
A sudden warmth enveloped him, and the world around him began to blur. The roar of the fire and the sounds of battle faded, replaced by a profound silence. Just before everything went dark, he caught a final glimpse of his grandfather standing tall, facing the enemies with unyielding resolve.
Xing Chen awoke to the gentle rustling of leaves and the soft glow of an otherworldly light. He found himself in a place unlike any he had ever seen—a tranquil grove where the trees reached up to touch a sky filled with unfamiliar constellations. The air was rich with the scent of unknown flowers, and a serene river flowed nearby, its waters shimmering with hues of silver and gold.
He sat up slowly, the events of the night crashing back into his mind. Grief overwhelmed him as he remembered his grandmother's lifeless form and his grandfather's desperate command. Tears streamed down his face, each one a testament to the pain tearing at his heart.
"Grandpa... Grandma..., I don't care about our legacy, lineage or anything all I want is my grandparents back!!" he sobbed, his voice lost in the vastness of this new realm.
Reflecting on his life, it had always been comfortable and happy. He had never faced true despair or deep sadness. This was the first time Xing Chen experienced such profound pain and suffering; tears filled his eyes until they turned red from crying. All he could think was whether he would ever have the chance to see them again.