Ren Liang carefully tied the last bundle of ginseng, his hands trembling from exhaustion. The herbal stalks were dry and brittle, almost as delicate as his thin, pale fingers. In the dim light of the hut, his white hair glowed faintly, framing his face in an ethereal pallor that the villagers of Jinxi often whispered about. His vibrant blue eyes, unnervingly vivid against his ashen complexion, earned him stares wherever he went. To them, he was an anomaly, perhaps a bad omen, but most of all, a frail boy cursed by fate.
"Liang! Stop dawdling and get to the river! Do you think water fetches itself?" his uncle snapped, his voice carrying the edge of perpetual annoyance. He sat cross-legged by the hearth, a knife in hand as he sliced roots with practiced efficiency. The wrinkles in his face were as sharp as his tone, his patience for Ren Liang thinner than the boy's frame.
"Yes, Uncle," Ren said softly, his voice as faint as a breeze. He tied off the ginseng bundle with a thin thread and stood, the effort already taxing his strength. His uncle muttered something about lazy boys as Ren grabbed two empty wooden buckets and stepped out into the cool evening air.
The village of Jinxi sprawled across the valley in a cluster of earthen huts and wooden fences, bordered by lush forests and the glimmering flow of the Jin River. To the average mortal, it was a peaceful, if unremarkable, place. But to Ren, it was a cage. The world outside, with its wandering cultivators, sects, and endless wonders, seemed more like a myth than a reality he could ever touch. His body, frail and sickly since birth, ensured that he'd remain tethered to Jinxi, forever an observer of the life he longed for.
The path to the river wound through the forest, where trees loomed high, their branches weaving a canopy that blocked the fading sunlight. Ren walked slowly, each step deliberate, his breath shallow. The buckets bumped against his legs as he went, heavier than they had any right to be. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the evening chill, and his chest ached with a familiar, persistent weakness. He had learned long ago to endure it in silence. Complaining never helped—it only invited scorn.
When Ren reached the riverbank, the golden hues of sunset reflected off the water's surface, casting the rippling current in a fiery glow. He knelt by the edge, his movements careful as he dipped the first bucket into the stream. The cool water surged in, filling it quickly, and Ren braced himself before lifting it. His arms shook, the muscles straining, but he managed to set the bucket on the grass without spilling too much.
He paused to catch his breath, glancing at the distant hills beyond the river. Shadows stretched across the land as the sun sank lower, but something unusual caught his eye—a faint, flickering light in the forest on the other side of the river. It pulsed softly, like a firefly's glow, but steadier, more deliberate. Ren frowned, unsure if it was a trick of the light or something real. It didn't waver or disappear. Instead, it seemed to beckon him, its silvery hue contrasting with the deepening shadows.
He knew better than to stray from his tasks, but the light tugged at his curiosity. Leaving the buckets where they were, Ren stepped into the shallow part of the river, the icy water biting at his legs as he crossed. His sandals slipped against the smooth stones beneath him, but he pressed on, his gaze locked on the flickering light. When he reached the other side, the forest greeted him with a dense wall of undergrowth, the light still faintly visible through the trees.
Ren hesitated. The villagers always warned him about wandering into the forest at dusk—wild beasts roamed there, and worse, the unknown remnants of the cultivation world. Yet, he felt drawn to the light, as if it were calling out to him. He pushed forward, brushing aside branches and stepping carefully over roots. The air grew thicker as he advanced, carrying a strange, metallic tang that made his skin prickle.
The light led him to a small clearing where an ancient stone shrine lay half-buried beneath moss and vines. The structure was crumbled, its edges worn by time, but at its center, surrounded by broken stone tablets, lay a shattered mirror. Its fragments were scattered across the ground, each shard glowing faintly with the same silvery light that had guided him here. Ren stared, his breath caught in his throat. The energy emanating from the shards was unlike anything he'd ever felt—alive, pulsing, and strangely familiar.
He stepped closer, drawn to the largest fragment, which lay at the center of the shrine. The closer he got, the louder the hum in the air became, vibrating against his very bones. His chest tightened, but he couldn't stop. His hand trembled as he reached out, his fingers brushing the surface of the fragment.
Pain exploded through him, sharp and all-consuming. Ren cried out as his knees buckled, his vision swimming in a sea of light. The shard's glow intensified, enveloping him in a silver aura. He felt as though his body were being torn apart and reassembled, every fiber of his being screaming in protest. Images flooded his mind—visions of a shattered sky, rivers of stars cascading into an infinite abyss, and a towering figure cloaked in darkness, its presence suffocating yet strangely enticing.
When the light finally subsided, Ren collapsed onto the cold stone, gasping for air. His body ached as if he had been crushed and stretched at the same time. The shard he had touched was gone, yet he could feel its presence deep within him, pulsing faintly, like a second heartbeat. His hands trembled as he clutched his chest, his thoughts racing.
"What... happened to me?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. He tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out. The shrine around him had gone silent, its energy fading into stillness.
Before he could gather his thoughts, a low growl echoed from the edge of the clearing. Ren's head snapped up, his eyes locking onto a pair of glowing yellow orbs emerging from the shadows. A Spirit Wolf stepped into the light, its black fur bristling and its teeth bared in a snarl. Ren's blood turned cold. Spirit Wolves were low-level beasts to cultivators, but to him, they were death incarnate. His body was too weak to run, too frail to fight.
The wolf lunged, and Ren barely rolled out of the way in time, the beast's claws tearing through the dirt where he had been. His shoulder screamed in pain as he landed hard, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Desperation clawed at him as he scrambled backward, his hands brushing against something sharp—a shard of the mirror. He grabbed it without thinking, the faint glow sparking to life in his grip.
A thought surged in his mind, not his own but instinctual, primal. Duplicate.
The shard in his hand pulsed, and in an instant, there were two. The glow of the duplicates flared, illuminating the clearing for a brief moment. The wolf snarled and lunged again. Ren swung one of the shards wildly, the edge slashing across the beast's flank. The wolf howled, retreating a step, but its eyes burned with rage.
Ren gripped the shards tightly, his fear giving way to a strange determination. His body was weak, but for the first time, he held something—anything—that could help him survive. When the wolf lunged again, he slashed with both shards, catching it across the face. Blood sprayed, and the beast yelped, stumbling back before retreating into the shadows.
Ren collapsed to the ground, the shards in his hands crumbling into dust. His chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, his shoulder throbbing from where he had landed. The clearing fell silent once more, but the weight of what had happened pressed down on him. The shard's power had saved his life, but the strain of using it had left him drained. His vision blurred as exhaustion overtook him, and the last thing he heard was the faint whisper of a voice in his mind.
"Bearer of the Infinite... the path is forged in shadow."
When Ren awoke, the shrine was quiet, the mirror fragments dim and lifeless. He forced himself to his feet, each movement agony. His body was still frail, still weak, but deep within him, he could feel it—a spark of something new, something powerful. He didn't know what the artifact had done to him or what the voice meant, but one thing was clear: his life had changed.
With unsteady steps, Ren left the clearing, the faint hum of the shard now a constant presence in his soul. The villagers had always called him weak, cursed, but they would see. The world would see. He would carve a place for himself, no matter the cost.