Cold morning air bit at Ye Chen’s face as he hauled the heavy wooden bucket from the village well. Green Valley Village was still asleep, bathed in the pale, cold gray of early dawn. Smoke drifted from a few stone chimneys, carrying the sharp scent of burning pine. He wiped sweat from his brow, his fingers tracing the rough hemp rope. Every muscle in his young body ached, but he welcomed the strain. Labor kept the silence away. Silence always brought back the empty, hollow feeling in his chest—the terrifying sensation of being completely, utterly alone in a vast, uncaring void. Waking up in the forest three years ago, stripped of his memories and shivering in the cold, had left a deep scar on his soul. Only the fear remained from that night, a cold claw gripping his heart, whispering that if he didn't make himself useful, the villagers would cast him out into the wild. "Morning, Little Chen!" Auntie Mei called out from her garden patch, her hands full of bitter medicinal herbs. "Good morning, Auntie Mei! I've brought the fresh water for your tea," Ye Chen said, his face instantly forming a warm, polite smile. He stepped off the dirt path to deliver the bucket to her porch, moving with a gentle grace that seemed out of place for a simple village orphan. "Oh, you're a blessing, child," she beamed, patting his arm. "What would we do without you?" Those words were like warm soup on a winter night. Validation was something he clung to like a drowning man to a wooden plank. Every chore he took on, every polite greeting, every tireless hour spent helping the elders was a shield against the terrifying void of abandonment. He worked harder than anyone else, driven by the absolute dread of being forgotten. Nobody was looking for him, so he had to make sure the people here would never let him go. "Ye Chen! You're up early again," a raspy voice called out from further down the path. Uncle Zhang, the village blacksmith, hobbled out of his workshop, wiping soot-stained hands on his apron. "Just helping with the morning water, Uncle," Ye Chen replied, forcing another bright, earnest smile. He needed them to like him. He needed to belong. "Good lad. Always so helpful," Zhang grunted, nodding in approval. That small nod sent a wave of relief through Ye Chen's chest. He was safe. For today, he was wanted. But water wasn't enough to secure his place in the village anymore. Lately, the mountain beasts had been creeping closer to the perimeter fences. Food was growing scarce, and the village elders were talking about sending hunting parties deeper into the Blackwood Forest. Ye Chen knew he had to prove his worth. He needed to bring back something valuable, something that would ensure he remained indispensable to the community. With a small iron hand-scythe tucked into his belt, he slipped past the wooden palisade. Mist hung thick over the forest floor, clinging to his rough trousers as he stepped into the tree line. --- Deeper into the woods, the familiar sounds of the village faded into a heavy, suffocating quiet. Pine needles cushioned his footsteps, making his advance silent. His eyes darted left and right, cataloging every detail with unnatural precision. Leaves, moss patterns, broken twigs—his mind recorded them all instantly, like ink drying on clean parchment. He had always possessed this gift. He could recall the exact shape of every leaf he had seen this morning. Yet, this perfect memory only made the vast emptiness of his forgotten past feel heavier. He knew everything about the present, but nothing about who he was. Leaving the safety of the village boundary was always a gamble, but the village storage was running low. He had heard the hunters whispering about the coming winter, about how the grain stores wouldn't last if they didn't find new hunting grounds. Ye Chen wanted to help. He wanted to show them he could be more than just a boy who fetched water and swept floors. His mind was a vast library, and every step he took in this forest was a new book added to the shelves. He looked at a patch of moss on an old birch tree. Instantly, his mind recorded the exact number of green stalks, the pattern of decay on the bark, the angle of the sunlight hitting the trunk. He looked at the muddy ground. Three distinct tracks of wild boars, left approximately four hours ago, heading north-northwest. He didn't need to study them; the information simply printed itself onto his brain, permanent and unyielding. It was a strange gift, one he kept hidden from the villagers. They feared things they couldn't understand, and fear led to exclusion. He couldn't risk being excluded. Air grew colder the deeper he went. Fog drifted between the ancient pines, thick and damp, smelling of rich earth and rotting leaves. His small hand-scythe remained ready, his fingers white-knuckled around the wooden handle. His heart began to thud a little faster. Silence here was different from the silence of the village at night. This was an active silence, a waiting silence. It reminded him of his deepest fear—the feeling that he was the only living thing left in a dead world. He shook his head, trying to clear the dark thoughts. "Just a few more herbs," he muttered, his voice sounding thin and fragile in the vast woods. "Just enough to prove I can contribute." He spotted a cluster of Star-Leaf Ginseng near the base of a massive, split-trunk oak. It was a rare find, highly prized by the village doctor for its healing properties. Excitement flickered in his chest, temporarily pushing back the creeping dread. He knelt down, carefully clearing away the dead leaves around the roots. A sharp snap broke his train of thought. Dry wood had splintered somewhere to his right. He froze, breath catching in his throat, his hand-scythe trembling in his grip. Instinct screamed at him to run back to the safety of the village, back to the warmth of the fires. But a strange, sweet scent filled the damp air. It smelled of crushed wild plums and copper. He crept forward, parting a thick bush of thorny brambles. Blood-red scales caught the first light of dawn filtering through the canopy. Coiled around a mossy rock was a serpent, easily ten feet long, its thick body pulsing with slow, rhythmic breaths. Each individual scale shimmered like a polished ruby, catching the weak sunlight and reflecting brilliant, bloody hues. Its head was triangular, eyes like burning slits of gold. This was a Crimson-Scaled Serpent, a dangerous spiritual beast known to haunt the deep mountains. Usually, they never came this close to the outer valley. Ye Chen’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wanted to turn, to flee, but his boots felt glued to the damp soil. Suddenly, the serpent’s head snapped toward him. Golden slitted eyes locked onto his. An oppressive aura washed over the clearing, thick and heavy, making it hard to draw breath. He stared, paralyzed by the sheer predator instinct radiating from the beast. Rotting alone in this dark forest was his ultimate nightmare. No one would find him. His body would decay in this dark forest, forgotten, erased, entirely alone. The thought of dying in isolation terrified him far more than the physical pain of the fangs. Hissing loudly, the serpent struck with blinding speed. A blur of red shot through the air. Ye Chen’s mind, operating at a speed he didn't know he possessed, analyzed the trajectory in a fraction of a millisecond. He saw the exact angle of the fangs, the curve of the strike, the slight tilt of the beast's head. Without a conscious thought, his body reacted. He threw his weight backward, his spine bending at an impossible angle. Cold wind rushed over his face as the serpent’s jaws snapped shut inches from his nose. A razor-sharp fang grazed his left cheek. Warm blood immediately bubbled from the superficial gash, trickling down his jawline. He tumbled backward onto the dirt, gasping for air. His cheek burned, but his mind was reeling from what had just happened. How had he avoided that? No ordinary mortal should have been able to dodge a spiritual beast at point-blank range. His limbs felt light, charged with an unfamiliar, dormant energy that seemed to awaken in response to danger. It was an innate talent for combat, a deep physical understanding of movement and space. Yet, his muscles shook violently. Fear, cold and paralyzing, locked his joints. He could see the next move, but his legs refused to push him off the ground. Trapped in his own terror, he was a prisoner of his fear of the dark, silent end that awaited him. Crimson-Scaled Serpent coiled again, its tail whipping the ground, sending loose dirt and dead leaves flying. Its golden eyes glared at the human who had somehow evaded its strike. Ye Chen clutched his small scythe, but his fingers were so numb he could barely feel the wood. "Move," he whispered to himself, his voice cracking. "Please, move." His body remained stubborn, locked in a state of hyper-ventilating panic. Blood dripping from his cheek tasted metallic and cold. If he died here, Uncle Zhang and the others would eventually forget him. They would find another boy to haul water. He would be nothing but a fading memory, a shadow that once existed on the fringes of their lives. That realization hurt more than the venomous bite ever could. --- Rain began to fall, a light drizzle that hissed against the dry leaves. Crimson-Scaled Serpent drew back, its neck inflating as it prepared for a final, lethal lunge. Ye Chen squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the impact, waiting for the cold steel of death. But the strike didn't come. Opening his eyes slightly, he saw the beast freeze mid-coil. Golden gaze had shifted away from him. It was staring at the ground right beside his trembling left hand. Wet earth had been kicked away during his desperate dodge. Revealed beneath the dark loam was a glint of tarnished metal. It was an ancient, ornate sword hilt, buried deep within the roots of an old oak tree. Even covered in dirt, the intricate carvings on the guard seemed to pulse with a faint, ghostly light. Arcane designs, featuring swirling patterns of clouds and celestial bodies, etched the metal. It looked like a relic of a forgotten era, a piece of history lost to the wilderness. Hissing softly, the serpent pulsed with a sound of pure greed and instinctual drive. It wasn't interested in the boy anymore. Desire for the power radiating from the buried steel drove it forward. As the serpent lunges again, not towards him, but towards the glint of an ancient, ornate sword hilt buried in the earth beside him, a voice echoes in his mind: 'Commence simulation: Cultivation Ancestor Path, Cycle 001.'

Chapter 1: Scarlet Dawn, Broken Sword