The heavens tore themselves apart the night he was born. Blood-red lightning streaked across a pitch-black sky, and the earth trembled as if in mourning. In the remote Xunshan Valley, villagers huddled in their homes, praying to the gods for mercy. But no god answered their pleas.
Above the valley, the air shimmered, bending under an immense pressure. Then came the descent. A figure of pure golden light emerged, his presence radiating divinity. The god's form was vast and formless, too immense for mortal comprehension. His voice, when it came, was not a sound but a command that rippled through the fabric of existence.
"Mortals, hear me!"
The villagers fell to their knees, heads pressed to the cold dirt, their prayers turning to whispers of terror. Even the beasts of the forest cowered in their dens. Only the cry of a newborn pierced the oppressive silence, a fragile sound that defied the weight of divinity.
The god's gaze turned toward the crumbling hut at the edge of the village. Its walls shuddered as his presence drew near. Inside, a young woman cradled her child, her tears falling freely as the infant's cries grew louder. She felt the divine pressure suffocating her, her body trembling as the golden light seeped through the walls.
"A calamity has been born," the god intoned, his words sharp and unrelenting. "This child bears the mark of rebellion, a fate that threatens the heavens themselves. His existence is a blasphemy. He shall not live."
The woman's arms tightened around her son as if her frail body could shield him from the decree of a god. But the god raised his hand, summoning a celestial spear wreathed in flames. It hovered above the infant, its point aimed at the child's fragile heart.
The villagers outside dared not look, their faces pressed into the dirt. A mother's scream rang out as the spear descended—
—and stopped.
The air froze, as if time itself had faltered. A voice, low and ancient, resonated through the valley.
"No."
It was not loud, yet it carried an authority that made even the god falter. His form flickered, his golden light dimming as the voice spoke again.
"You cannot alter what is written. This child's fate lies beyond your reach."
The god's eyes blazed with fury, his form expanding as his divine power surged. "Who dares defy me?" he roared, his voice splitting the heavens.
But the voice did not answer. It did not need to. Its presence lingered, vast and inscrutable, binding the god to his place. Gritting his teeth, the god let the spear dissolve into nothingness.
"So be it," he growled, his tone venomous. "If I cannot end him, I shall bind him. His life will be no blessing, but a curse."
The god stretched out his hand, and chains of black and gold appeared, writhing like living things. They coiled around the child's tiny body, searing into his skin and soul. The infant's cries turned to wails of agony as the chains sank deeper, becoming invisible but ever-present.
"Every step you take will be heavy with pain. Every triumph will cost you dearly. The heavens shall hunt you, and despair will be your companion. This is my decree, and it shall bind you for all eternity."
The god's golden form dissolved into the night, leaving behind a silence more oppressive than his presence. The mother sobbed, clutching her child, whose cries had weakened to faint whimpers. But as dawn broke, fear overtook her grief. The glow of the chains pulsed faintly beneath the child's skin, a constant reminder of divine wrath.
She could not bear it.
Before the sun reached its zenith, she laid the child at the edge of the forest, her hands trembling as she turned away.
For seven days and seven nights, the child lay beneath the open sky. His cries echoed through the wilderness, drawing the attention of predators. Wolves circled, their glowing eyes fixed on the helpless infant, but none dared to strike. The faint aura of the god's curse repelled them, a barrier of fear and pain.
On the seventh night, a shadow moved through the trees. An old man emerged, his cloak tattered and his face hidden beneath a wide hood. His presence was unsettling, carrying the scent of blood and ash. He crouched beside the child, his sharp eyes gleaming as they examined the faint glow of the chains embedded in the boy's flesh.
"Cursed," the man murmured, his voice low and rasping. "Abandoned by gods and men alike. Yet here you are, alive. You must be stubborn."
The child's cries ceased as the man lifted him. The chains flared for an instant, resisting his touch, but the old man only chuckled.
"You think these shackles will bind you?" he said, his tone laced with disdain. "Chains are made to be broken."
He carried the infant into the darkness, his steps steady and deliberate. Above them, the stars seemed to shift, their patterns aligning to form a constellation—a blade piercing through the heavens.
"You have no name, no family, no destiny but the one you carve with your own hands," the man whispered, glancing at the sky. "And that makes you dangerous."
The child's wide eyes reflected the constellation, the faint light of defiance flickering in their depths. It was a spark, small and fragile, but enough to withstand the weight of the heavens.
Thus began the story of the cursed child, a soul destined to rise from the ashes and challenge the gods themselves.