The scene was enveloped in complete darkness—a vast, endless abyss stretching infinitely in every direction. The air was thick, almost suffocating, carrying a dreadful weight that pressed against the chest. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was eerie, pulsating with an ominous, almost predatory energy. Shadows swirled faintly in the distance, but they were shapeless and ever-changing, like living creatures just out of sight.

The ground beneath Yan Zi's feet—or what he thought was ground—felt unstable, as if it could collapse at any moment. Every direction looked the same, an impenetrable black void, so deep and endless that it felt like staring into the maw of eternity itself. The air reeked faintly of something metallic, sharp, and bitter, though there was no visible source.

"Where... am I?" Yan Zi's voice echoed faintly in the oppressive silence, trembling with uncertainty. He felt an icy chill crawl up his spine. "What is this place? What am I doing here?"

The questions bounced back at him, hollow and distorted, as if the abyss itself was mocking him. A growing sense of dread clawed at his chest. He instinctively reached out, but his hands found nothing—no walls, no ground, no sky. Just emptiness.

Then it began. A low, resonating hum filled the air, rising in volume and intensity. It wasn't a sound of nature but something unnatural, vibrating with malice. The shadows around him twisted and churned, thickening into menacing tendrils that seemed to reach for him.

Suddenly, the air shifted violently, and from above, a massive, dark red hand descended. Its size was incomprehensible, dwarfing entire mountains. The hand pulsed with veins of molten energy, and an evil aura radiated from it like a suffocating fog. The aura was so potent that it seemed to seep into Yan Zi's very bones, making his legs tremble and his heart race uncontrollably.

"A-Ah! What is this?! What is happening?!" Yan Zi stammered, his voice cracking with fear as he stumbled back, his wide eyes fixed on the monstrous hand.

Before he could move, the darkness around him morphed again, this time forming a vague, horrifying figure—towering, formless, and made entirely of writhing shadows. Two glowing crimson eyes pierced through the blackness, locking onto Yan Zi like a predator eyeing its prey.

Then the voice came. Deep, guttural, and dripping with malice, it echoed through the abyss like a death knell:

"Hahaha... You've lost everything. No one remains for you. This is your future—your inevitable end. You cannot save anyone, not even those you love. They will all perish, and you will remain powerless. Lost in this endless abyss forever!"

The words slammed into Yan Zi like a physical force, each one heavier than the last. His knees buckled, and his breathing became ragged. Tendrils of black aura coiled around his body, tightening like chains, pulling him further into the void.

"No... No! Stop this! What is happening?!" Yan Zi screamed, his voice a desperate plea against the overwhelming darkness. He tried to move, to resist, but his body refused to obey.

The ground beneath him began to crack, shattering like fragile glass. Chasms of glowing red light split the abyss open, revealing swirling pits of molten energy far below. The air grew hotter, choking, as if he were being dragged into the heart of a volcano.

The figure laughed again, its voice a haunting echo. "Struggle all you like. It will make no difference. This is your destiny!"

As Yan Zi was pulled closer to the chasms, a faint, gentle voice pierced through the chaos.

"Yan Zi... Yan Zi... Yan Zi, wake up... Yan Zi!"

The voice was soft, almost like a whisper, but it carried an undeniable strength that seemed to push back against the darkness. A surge of bright light erupted from nowhere, blinding and pure, slicing through the shadows like a sword.

The tendrils of black aura dissipated instantly, and the towering figure recoiled, its laughter silenced. The world around Yan Zi began to dissolve into that brilliant light, until all that remained was warmth and peace.

With a gasp, Yan Zi jolted awake. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his forehead as he struggled to catch his breath.

He was back in his room. Sunlight filtered through the wooden window, illuminating the simple furnishings. The oppressive void, the voice, the aura—it was gone. But his trembling hands and racing heart told him it wasn't just a dream.

"What... was that? Was it really just a nightmare?" Yan Zi muttered to himself, his voice shaky. "That black aura, that voice... it felt so real..."

"Yan Zi?" a soft, concerned voice called from behind him.

Startled, he turned to see his mother, Yan Mei, standing at the doorway. Her worried eyes met his as she stepped closer. Her hair was neatly braided, and her simple yet elegant robes radiated warmth, much like her presence.

"You were murmuring in your sleep," she said gently, her brows furrowed. "It seemed like you were having a bad dream."

Yan Zi forced a weak smile, though his hands still trembled slightly. "It... It was nothing, Mother. Just a bad dream."

Yan Mei approached, sitting at the edge of his bed. She placed a cool hand on his forehead, brushing away the sweat. "You're drenched, my child. Whatever it was, it must have been terrible. Dreams may not be real, but they can still leave their mark. Rest for a little while longer. I'll bring you some tea."

He nodded silently, watching her leave. Once alone, he let out a deep sigh, his mind replaying the dark scene over and over.

"That black aura... that monstrous hand... that voice..." Yan Zi clenched his fists. "Was it really just a dream? Or... was it something more?"

The memory of the abyss lingered, and though the sunlight warmed his skin, a chilling sense of foreboding refused to leave him.

Yan Zi's eyes slowly wandered around his small, modest room. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the wooden window frame, casting faint golden lines across the neatly arranged yet simple furnishings. The familiar surroundings seemed to whisper memories of his childhood—days when he had felt hope, before the weight of his reality had fully settled on his shoulders.

He ran his fingers along the edge of the desk beside his bed, its surface smooth from years of wear. This room had been his refuge, a place where he could escape the stares and whispers of the outside world. But even here, the shadows of the Yan Clan's expectations loomed.

The Yan Clan was a household name, celebrated for producing prodigious cultivators. Every generation bore new legends—warriors who carved their names into history with unparalleled strength and skill. It was a legacy of greatness. Yet, Yan Zi stood as the glaring exception to that legacy.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "Why me?" The thought came unbidden, as it always did when he reflected on his place—or lack thereof—in the clan. No matter how much he tried to suppress it, the bitterness always bubbled to the surface.

Born without even a trace of cultivation talent, Yan Zi had become the clan's blemish, its silent disgrace. His parents had once held hope. He could still remember the desperation in their voices as they pleaded with the elders to examine him.

"Elder Cheng," his father had said, his voice trembling. "There must be something wrong—a blockage, a hidden seal. Anything. Please, help our son."

The elders had tried everything—diagnostic formations, rare herbs, even ancient techniques—but every attempt ended the same. Yan Zi's body refused to channel qi. His meridians were inert, as lifeless as a dried riverbed.

The verdict had been clear, and its finality stung more than any blade: Yan Zi would never cultivate.

Yan Zi sighed, leaning against the wall and letting his head fall back. His gaze fixed on the wooden beams of the ceiling as frustration and shame weighed heavy on his chest. It wasn't just about him anymore. His failure to cultivate had dragged his family's name down with him.

He could hear their whispers even now, echoing in his mind:

"What a waste. How could the Yan Clan produce someone like that?"

"His family's barely holding onto their position. If not for their bloodline, they'd have been cast out already."

Yan Zi gritted his teeth, the memories of humiliation flashing before his eyes. He could still see the sneers of his peers as they practiced their cultivation techniques, their qi swirling around them like vibrant flames. The air would hum with energy, their auras pulsing with raw power.

Meanwhile, he would stand in the shadows, unnoticed and unwelcome. Watching. Always watching.

The elders had tried to teach him the basics of cultivation out of obligation, their voices tinged with disappointment.

"Focus, Yan Zi. Feel the qi around you. Guide it into your dantian."

"No, no, no! You're forcing it. Qi flows naturally—it cannot be forced!"

But it was useless. No matter how hard he tried, how diligently he followed their instructions, his body rejected the qi as if it were a foreign invader. Each failure had been like a dagger to his pride, leaving scars that no one else could see.

Yan Zi's friends, once his companions in childhood games, now avoided him. Their gazes, once warm and friendly, had grown cold. When they did look at him, it was with pity at best, disgust at worst.

"Why do I even bother?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.

As if to answer his question, his reflection in the polished metal mirror caught his eye. His bright blue eyes stared back at him, unyielding even as they carried the weight of his struggles. He hated how determined they still looked, as if they refused to give up on him even when he had begun to doubt himself.

A sudden voice broke through his thoughts, startling him.

"Yan Zi!"

He turned his head sharply toward the door. It was his mother, Yan Mei, calling out to him from downstairs. Her voice was gentle yet firm, carrying that distinct motherly warmth.

Yan Zi sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. His fingers lingered on his forehead for a moment as he tried to compose himself. He couldn't let his mother see him like this, drowning in his own self-pity.

"Coming, Mother," he called back, his voice steady but subdued.

Pushing himself off the wall, he gave one last glance around the room. The desk, the bed, the small shelf of books—everything felt so normal, so ordinary, yet it all reminded him of what he couldn't achieve.

He took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping out into the hallway. The faint aroma of freshly brewed tea wafted up to meet him, mingling with the soft sound of birds chirping outside. It was another day in the Yan Clan, and he would face it as he always did—with quiet resilience.

But as he descended the stairs, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind, one that he couldn't quite shake.

"Is this really all there is for me?"