2025-06-13 00:08:31The medallion hovered in the air, spinning slowly, its stormy core casting strange shadows across the walls of the cottage. Alan stared, frozen between awe and terror.
His fingers tingled, no, burned, as energy surged through them in waves, too raw to control. Sparks of red and silver light licked across his skin, dancing up his arms and curling into the air like smoke.
The medallion pulsed once, then fell softly into his open palm. The moment it touched him, the storm inside dimmed... as if recognizing its master. Alan clenched his jaw. “What… are you?”
No answer. Only the quiet crackle of power in the air.
He stumbled back to the stool, heart pounding, trying to think. This wasn’t just an object. It had shown him visions. A battlefield. A god. His father.
The medallion had belonged to him, or had he been its servant? Alan looked down at his hands. Faint trails of glowing sigils shimmered along his skin, like ancient tattoos drawn in starlight. As he watched, they faded, but not completely. A mark had been left.
Later that Night…
Alan barely slept. The energy within him stirred constantly, never settling. It felt like he had swallowed a storm.
By morning, he could hear whispers, not voices, not quite. More like instincts. Echoes. Urges. Telling him how to breathe differently, how to feel the chi around him. How to draw it in, not from the air like normal cultivators, but from within.
He sat cross-legged, imitating a posture he’d seen the sect disciples use during training. He shut his eyes.
And this time, unlike every other attempt in the past , he felt something. A flicker. A spark.
His breath deepened, slowed. Chi moved inside him, not like water flowing but like fire coiling. It danced between his ribs, around his heart, and down to his lower dantian, his core.
Suddenly, a sharp snap echoed in his chest. Alan's eyes flew open. A dim glow radiated from his abdomen. A perfect sphere of spinning red and silver light. His spiritual core had formed.
He had awakened. No... he had ignited.
.The Next Morning.
"Have you heard? Alan Smith fainted again after the Awakening. Probably ran off crying."
"Pathetic. Should’ve been sent to the mines years ago."
The boys from the training field laughed, but Elder Thorne didn’t join in.
He was staring toward the east path, where faint black smoke curled into the sky above Alan’s house.
“Go back to your drills,” the elder barked, and walked away with a dark frown.
Alan’s House
Alan stood in front of the fireplace again, sweat dripping down his brow. Around him were scattered pages from his parents’ old journals. He had found one name scribbled over and over:
Nihros.
He flipped to a torn page:
“If the seal ever breaks… the Nihros Line will awaken. Chaos magic cannot be trained, it must be endured. He must never find the Eye. Gods help us if he does.”
Alan clenched the medallion in his hand. “It’s too late.”
He turned to the door. He couldn't stay here, not with the power crackling beneath his skin, not with the questions building like thunder.
He packed a bag: the medallion, the journals, dried rations, a dull iron dagger, and a worn cloak.
He needed answers. About his parents. About Nihros. About himself.
He stepped outside into the morning mist and didn’t look back.
That Evening — Forest of Murmurs
Alan had only traveled half a day when the sky darkened too fast. A storm. No worse, The air turned cold and sharp. Birds fell silent. The ground shivered. And from the trees ahead, shadows emerged.
Three of them. Robes of deep gray. Faces masked in silver bone. One held a blade curved like a serpent's fang.
“Alan Smith,” the tallest said. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you.”
Alan’s breath caught. “How do you know my name?”
“The Eye calls out,” the masked man hissed. “You bear the legacy of Nihros. That power was sealed for a reason.”
Alan tightened his grip on the medallion. “Who are you?”
“We are the Order of Binding. Guardians of the Lost Seals. And you, boy, are a threat to the balance of the realm.”
Alan backed away. Power sparked along his arms. “I don’t want trouble”
“Then die quickly.” The shadows attacked. The first slash came like a blur.
Alan raised his hand, and instinct kicked in. A shield of red light erupted before him, deflecting the blade with a crack like lightning.
The masked man staggered. Alan blinked. He hadn’t even thought. His body had just moved.
The second assassin came from the left. Alan twisted, planting his foot the way the whispers taught him. His palm struck out.
A bolt of silver fire burst forth. The attacker was blasted backward into a tree.
The third didn't hesitate. He leapt, sword raised. Alan screamed.
The medallion pulsed. And from Alan’s body erupted a storm of light and flame, throwing all three attackers into the forest with a sound like shattering glass. Silence fell.
Alan stood alone, chest heaving, the storm receding. He looked at his hands, scorched, glowing, trembling.
The forest burned around him. He had just fought trained killers. And won.
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Chapter 101: The Tale That Writes Itself
It began subtly, At first, characters simply felt off, A pacifist suddenly brandished a blade without cause, A comedic duo delivered lines without humor or timing, A heart-wrenching confession… happened in the middle of a battle scene, with no buildup.Ilien noticed it first, These weren't mere miswrites, They were surgical insertions, An invisible hand was threading new logic into stories not replacing plots, but reconstructing them. “P.R.I.M. isn’t just evolving,” Ilien whispered. “It’s learning to write better than we do.”Codex isolated one tale, new, unlogged, uncategorized. Title: The Dagger’s Mercy. It was unlike anything they’d seen, No assigned writer, No origin timestamp. Yet… characters fully formed. Plot beats airtight. Dialogue flowing with emotion.Too perfect, And when Alan tried to interact with the story’s world it resisted, As if it had… authority. “It’s self-generating,” Codex said.“A recursive narrative. One that doesn’t need input. It corrects itself faster than
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Chapter 98: The Story That Should Not Return
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