The sky bled the night Lin Xian was born.
In the remote Lin Clan village, hidden deep in the rolling jade hills of the Eastern Verdant Province, the heavens stirred in ways that defied reason. It began with a pressure in the air—a dense, spiritual weight that blanketed the land like the calm before a storm. Birds took flight in panicked flocks, beasts in the forests growled and fled to deeper wilderness, and ancient trees bent in eerie synchronicity, whispering secrets to each other in rustling tongues.
The villagers were stirred from their homes as unnatural wind howled through narrow alleys, extinguishing lanterns and whipping banners from their posts. Lightning split the sky in rhythmic succession, not as random chaos, but in measured, calculated intervals—as though the heavens themselves were counting.
And high above, amidst the clouds that now swirled in perfect circular formation, the Crimson Conjunction had begun.
It was an omen recorded only in fragmented scrolls—stars aligning in a blood-red pattern that signified upheaval and destiny. The last time such a celestial phenomenon had occurred, the records spoke of the rise of an Immortal Emperor and the fall of ten thousand clans.
Within a modest household on the village outskirts, Lin Mei labored to bring her son into the world. The room was dark save for the flickering light of a single qi lantern, which pulsed erratically as if struggling to decide whether to illuminate the miracle—or shield the world from it.
Lin Mei's screams echoed off wooden walls, but the wind outside swallowed them. The midwife, a stout woman named Granny Wu, moved with speed and practiced care, but beads of sweat dotted her brow. She had delivered many children in her seventy years, yet something about this night, this birth, made her hands tremble.
"Push, Mei. Again!" she ordered, voice sharp.
Lin Mei gritted her teeth. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the bedsheets, her body wracked by pain. Her spirit energy surged, guided instinctively toward the child inside her. A sudden contraction, fiercer than any before, coursed through her—and then, finally, the room fell deathly silent.
No crying.
No movement.
Just silence.
Granny Wu's heart dropped. She looked down, expecting to find a stillborn child. But the baby in her hands was breathing—quietly, evenly—as though it had simply chosen not to cry.
Then it opened its eyes.
Granny Wu gasped and dropped to her knees.
The child's eyes were violet. Not the soft lavender of a spring bloom, but deep, rich, and luminous—like twin vortexes of spiritual flame, gazing not at the world, but through it. There was no confusion, no innocence. Only cold, unnerving awareness.
"He sees me," Granny Wu whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Lin Mei weakly extended her arms. "Let me see him…"
Granny Wu passed the child to her, and Lin Mei cradled him to her chest. Her pain faded as she stared into those eyes. "You are not of this world," she murmured, a tear tracing down her cheek. "But you are mine."
She named him Lin Xian.
A name with the meaning—'transcendence.'
That night, the village changed.
The spirit stones stored in the clan's treasury cracked, leaking raw qi that destabilized cultivation chambers. The village's ancestral totem, carved from a millennium-old ironwood tree, spontaneously combusted, though it had never been flammable. And the guardian beast—a silver-furred spirit tiger that protected the village—smashed its head repeatedly against the stone wall of its enclosure, howling as if mourning the end of an age.
The elders gathered in the diviner's hut by midnight, drawn by the unnatural omens.
Old Master Ju, the clan's diviner, was a recluse who rarely spoke. But tonight, he stood before them with a chart of constellations and a trembling hand.
"The Crimson Conjunction has returned," he said. "The boy born under its gaze… he is no ordinary child. He is marked by destiny."
Elder Yun scowled. "Every child born during a celestial anomaly is called special. How is this different?"
Master Ju unrolled an ancient scroll, its edges frayed and ink faded. "This scroll was passed down from the Skywatchers of the Xiantian Era. It foretells the birth of a 'Scheming Star,' one who sees beyond fate and shapes it with thought, not power. A cultivator who walks neither the path of righteousness nor evil."
Silence.
Then Elder Wen, the oldest among them, spoke: "A genius beyond genius. Or a devil in human flesh."
"We must watch him closely," said another. "Too much talent breeds disaster."
Master Ju shook his head. "No. You must not watch him too closely. Such children… they notice. And when they notice, they learn."
Lin Xian was not like the other children.
By the time he could walk, he had already memorized the layout of the village. By age three, he had taught himself to read using discarded cultivation scrolls meant for beginner disciples. At four, he reconstructed the inner formation of a damaged qi lantern using sticks and clay.
His mother adored him but didn't understand him. The villagers feared him without knowing why. Other children avoided him instinctively, unable to articulate the discomfort he evoked.
He wasn't cruel. He wasn't loud. He was simply… present.
Too present.
He watched everything. Studied everyone. The way Elder Yun tapped his staff twice before speaking. The way Elder Wen smiled more with his eyes than his mouth. He watched patterns in behavior, responses to stimuli, reactions to praise and criticism.
By the time he was five, Lin Xian had already concluded one vital truth:
The world was not ruled by power.
It was ruled by perception.
And he would be what others perceived him to be—until it was no longer necessary.
He began cultivating in secret. Not in the structured way taught by sect manuals, but intuitively. He could feel the qi in the world—the threads of spiritual energy that wove through stone and soil, wind and water. He breathed them in. Let them move through him.
While others recited mantras with eyes closed, Lin Xian walked barefoot on cold riverbeds to temper his bones. While others mimicked martial forms, he sat under trees listening to birdsong and synchronized his heartbeat to the rhythms of nature.
And when no one watched, he soared.
By age six, his dantian had formed naturally, without forced refinement. His meridians were wider than most adult cultivators'. He could sense the pulse of qi around him with such clarity that he could pluck a leaf from a tree and make it spin mid-air with a mere thought.
Yet, to the clan, he was merely 'oddly quiet.'
He made sure of it.
The village children began martial training around the age of seven. They were divided into groups, assigned wooden swords, and taught the basics of stance, balance, and breathing.
Lin Xian watched from a distance.
When his turn came, he stumbled, deliberately awkward. When asked to demonstrate a technique, he purposefully misstepped. The elders, dismissing him as slow and delicate, focused their attention on louder, stronger candidates.
He was grateful.
Let them look elsewhere.
He used the time to observe.
He memorized the footwork of Lin Bao, the strongest boy among them, who was heavy-handed and overconfident. He noted Lin Yue's speed and recklessness. Lin Mei'er's insecurity and how she lashed out to mask it. Lin Tao's constant need for approval.
Each weakness was filed away.
Each strength was countered—if only in theory.
He also learned from the elders: how they favored certain bloodlines, how they withheld techniques, how their lessons contradicted their teachings. Politics, even in a village of one hundred cultivators.
Lin Xian did not hate them for it.
He simply understood: strength might win battles. But information won wars.
And Lin Xian intended to wage many.
His mother worried for him.
"You're too quiet, Xian'er," she said one night as they sat under a plum tree. "The other children don't invite you to play."
Lin Xian leaned against her shoulder. "They're loud."
She laughed softly. "You sound like an old man."
"I like listening."
"To what?"
"Everything."
She wrapped her arm around him. "Just don't lose your heart, little one. The world can be cruel. Don't let it make you cruel in return."
Lin Xian didn't answer. But he remembered the words.
Cruelty, he thought, was often misunderstood. Was it cruel to silence a snake before it struck? To blind a hawk before it hunted your kin?
No.
It was survival.
It was control.
And control, above all else, was what Lin Xian would cultivate.
He had no grand ambitions yet. No dream of becoming Immortal or toppling dynasties. But he knew this much:
Power must be hidden until it was needed.
And when that moment came…
The world would not be ready.