The seasons changed slowly in the village of Riverleaf, each day blending into the next as I grew. From my limited vantage point—usually either cradled in my mother's arms or lying in my makeshift crib—I studied the world around me, trying to make sense of my new reality. During quiet moments, I would practice the breathing technique Master Chen had drilled into me in my previous life. The familiar spiral pattern brought comfort in this strange new world.
Our home sat at the edge of the village, a modest wooden structure that leaked during heavy rains. Like most buildings here, it was built to channel the natural flow of mana through its beams—an ancient architectural practice that villagers followed without understanding its true purpose. The single room served as our entire world, with only a thin partition separating the sleeping area. Outside, Mother's small vegetable garden struggled in the poor soil, though I noticed certain plants grew stronger where natural mana gathered in the ground.
Mother, Lin, worked her loom with practiced grace, her callused hands weaving threads that occasionally caught ambient mana, creating patterns that glowed faintly to my spiritually-aware eyes. She was a striking woman, with sapphire blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and long, auburn hair that she kept tied back in a simple braid. Her features were delicate yet strong, a testament to the hard life she led. Despite the weariness that sometimes clouded her gaze, her love for me shone through in every gentle touch and soft lullaby.
Father, Rong, returned each evening from the fields with his face weathered but wearing a broad smile, his body unconsciously strengthened by years of working in mana-rich soil. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with crimson hair that seemed to catch fire in the sunlight. His green eyes, the color of new grass, always held a mischievous twinkle. The corners of those eyes crinkled with laughter lines, evidence of his easy-going nature. His large, work-roughened hands were always gentle when he held me.
"Look at my little cultivator!" he'd exclaim, swooping me up in his calloused hands. Despite Mother's protests, he meant it as a joke—in these remote villages, true cultivators were more legend than reality. Each evening he'd regale us with stories of his day, his booming laugh masking the exhaustion of dawn-to-dusk labor. "He's going to be something special, Lin," he'd declare proudly, unaware that the warm glow he felt holding me was my budding spirit core responding to his paternal love.
Through our window, I observed the layered richness of this world. Fields stretched outward, each crop giving off a slightly different mana signature. Beyond them, the dense forest rose like a wall of ancient green, its trees pulsing with accumulated spiritual energy. And further still loomed the mountains, their peaks occasionally releasing waves of pure mana that only my trained senses could detect.
The village itself housed perhaps two hundred souls. I learned to differentiate them by their natural mana signatures—blacksmiths carried traces of fire essence, farmers bore earth signatures, and children glowed with unrefined vital energy. Most fascinating was how their meridians—the body's natural mana channels—developed through their daily work, even without formal cultivation.
At the forest's edge lived Elder Ming, known as the Sage of Green Whispers. Her hut was a marvel of unconscious spiritual engineering—decades of healing work had created a primitive formation, her carefully placed herbs and crystals naturally guiding and purifying mana flows. Glass jars lined rough-hewn shelves, containing medicines enhanced by trapped spiritual essence. A meridian chart dominated one wall, marking the body's key energy points—what locals called pressure points.
Elder Ming herself was a small, wiry woman with skin like weathered bark and snow-white hair that she wore in a long, thick braid down her back. Her eyes were a striking pale grey, almost silver, and seemed to hold a wealth of ancient knowledge. She moved with a graceful economy of motion, each gesture precise and purposeful. When she spoke, her voice was soft but clear, carrying an undeniable authority.
One afternoon, as I practiced my breathing while she treated Mother's arthritis, Elder Ming suddenly paused in her work. Her eyes narrowed, watching the way mana moved around me. The crystals hanging in her windows seemed to resonate ever so slightly with each cycle of my breath. She said nothing, but her thoughtful expression spoke volumes.
Within my body, each breathing cycle using Master Chen's technique—now identified by the system as the mysterious Breath of the Nascent Dawn—seemed to refine the mana it gathered. Unlike the crude energy that naturally flowed through the village, the essence in my developing spirit core held a pristine quality. Each spiral of breath, precisely as Master Chen had taught, created patterns in my Inner World that I was only beginning to understand.
The market's five-day cycle brought news of the wider world. Merchants spoke of cultivation sects in distant cities, their tales a mix of truth and exaggeration. I listened carefully, piecing together how this world's power structure worked. Spirit beasts, martial artists, formal cultivators, wandering physicians—all moved through a complex hierarchy based on their strength and ability to manipulate mana.
As I approached my first birthday, my progress grew more apparent. I could now crawl with purpose, my tiny hands grasping at motes of ambient mana. My babbling held hints of true speech, and my eyes followed the flow of energy with a depth of understanding that belied my age.
"Look at him, Lin," Father said one evening, watching me play with a glowing crystal. "It's like he sees something we don't."
Mother nodded, her sapphire eyes thoughtful. "Elder Ming says he's special. That his spirit is older than his body."
Father laughed, but there was a note of unease. "Ah, you know how she talks. Always hinting at things beyond us."
Yet I saw the way they looked at me, a mix of love, pride, and a touch of something else—a dawning realization that their child might be destined for a world far beyond the humble confines of Riverleaf Village.
In the fields, I watched Father work, marveling at how his body instinctively drew in ambient mana to enhance his strength and endurance. At home, I saw Mother's weaving take on new patterns, her threads resonating with spiritual energy as she hummed ancient tunes. And in Elder Ming's hut, I felt the pulse of a lifetime's accumulated knowledge, a treasure trove waiting to be unlocked.
"This child," Elder Ming murmured one day, her silver eyes knowing, "He will walk a path beyond our ken."
[Current Status:
Fang Lingxuan
Age: 1 Year Old
Soul Age: 29 years, 1 month
Cultivation Realm: Mortal (Mana Condensation Stage)
Spirit Core Formation: 0.7% (Extremely Early Stage)
Inner World Capacity: 12 Spirit Points
Available Paths: Locked (Requires Spirit Foundation)
Skills:
- Meditation (Beginner) Lv. 1
- Mana Sensitivity (Innate) Lv. 1
- Breath of the Nascent Dawn (???) Lv. 0.2]
And so the seasons turned, spring giving way to summer, then fall, and finally winter. With each passing day, I grew stronger, my understanding of this world and my place in it deepening. The Breath of the Nascent Dawn became as natural as my heartbeat, a constant companion in this new life.
As snow blanketed Riverleaf Village, muffling the world in a pristine white, I took my first tottering steps, mana swirling around me like an invisible cloak. Mother cried, Father cheered, and Elder Ming watched from the shadows, a small smile on her weathered face.
It was a small beginning, but one that held the promise of a grand journey to come. For in this world of cultivation and wonder, even the humblest start could lead to the most extraordinary of destinies. And as I stood there, I knew that my path would be one of discovery, challenge, and extraordinary opportunity.