Neon lights buzzed faintly as they flickered across the rooftops of Lowterra, casting dim halos over rust-stained alleyways and forgotten alleys. Above the city's skeletal skyline, two pale moons hung still and cold. Twin eyes in the sky.
Long Yan sat on the rooftop of the state orphanage, legs dangling over the edge, his thin frame silhouetted against the flickering lights of distant transport pods. They drifted silently past, like stars that had lost their shine.
He looked up.
Every night, the sky called to him.
Every night, it felt less like a dream and more like a memory.
Another vision had haunted his sleep—a burning sky, a woman's voice screaming his name, and a crimson dragon coiling around a mountain of ash. He could never remember the details, but the feelings lingered long after he woke: sorrow, rage, and above all, loss.
He rubbed the ache at his temple.
The wind tugged at his black hair, and his dark eyes reflected the moons. His classmates called him a ghost—half-present, strange, and rootless.
They weren't entirely wrong.
He had no family. No history. Nothing before age ten.
The authorities had found him half-buried in sand during a dust storm, just outside the city's perimeter wall. No name. No identification. No DNA match. He'd been unconscious, barely breathing. Even the Federation's biometric systems had failed to recognize him.
A blank slate.
A ghost.
He'd been dumped at the state orphanage, logged as a Class-D foundling, and processed without ceremony. The only record he had was a note in his file: "No Spirit Root Detected."
That single line defined everything.
Because in a world where spiritual energy was life itself, where cultivation dictated one's rank, wealth, and future, Long Yan had none. No spirit root. No elemental Qi affinity. Not even the lowest-tier resonance.
To most, that made him less than useless.
It made him invisible.
Even in a backwater like Lowterra—barely clinging to Federation recognition—every child could at least cycle some Qi. But Long Yan couldn't light a candle with intent, much less train in the path of power.
Yet sometimes, when he touched the cold stone of the rooftop or felt the wind brush his face, something deeper stirred.
A whisper beneath his bones.
Something buried.
He didn't know if it was madness, instinct, or memory.
But he knew he didn't belong here.
Not really.
Behind him, a soft clank of boots on steel echoed. He didn't turn.
"Still stargazing, freak?" said a voice—sharp and amused.
Jian Rou.
Long Yan sighed inwardly.
Jian was a second-year academy student and the son of one of Lowterra's planetary trade directors. A fire-root cultivator, gifted, rich, and utterly bored.
"I heard the instructor said your last spirit exam didn't even twitch the crystal," Jian sneered, walking closer. "Are you sure you're not a walking corpse?"
Long Yan remained silent. It was easier that way.
Jian stopped beside him, chuckling. "You know, some say rootless kids like you are born from spiritless mothers. Human waste."
Still no response.
"Look at me when I insult you, ghost."
Long Yan stood slowly. Not out of defiance. But because he was done listening.
Jian stepped forward, clearly annoyed. "You think you're better than me?"
"No," Long Yan said quietly. "I think you're loud."
Jian's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Long Yan brushed past him and climbed back down the ladder.
He returned to the dormitory—a narrow, dim room lined with old beds and snoring orphans—and slid beneath his thin blanket.
Sleep came slowly, but it did come.
And with it, the dreams returned.
A mountain torn in half. A ring of fire. A dying man pressing something into his hand.
Then a whisper—not a voice, but a presence:
"You must protect them... even if it costs you everything."
He jolted awake, breath ragged, his chest pounding.
His hand throbbed.
He looked down.
And froze.
On his middle finger was a ring.
Black, metallic, and shaped like a coiled dragon. Its scales shimmered subtly under the moonlight, and its eyes—though closed—seemed to press against the inside of his skull.
He didn't own this ring.
He'd never seen it before.
It wasn't a dream.
It was warm against his skin.
He touched it gently—and the world shifted.
The orphanage vanished.
He stood now in a mist-covered chamber, vast and quiet, with twelve towering stone doors arranged in a circle around him.
Each door bore an emblem—fire, wind, metal, water, earth… and others harder to name.
But only one door glowed faintly: the one with roots, vines, and leaves etched across its surface.
The ring pulsed.
A message bloomed in the air:
[Welcome, Host.][Dormant Spirit Hollow Detected.][Initial Access: Locked. Requires Elemental Qi Infusion.]
Long Yan reached for the door.
It didn't open.
Instead, it pulsed back with resistance—firm but not rejecting him.
[Compatibility: Wood Element - Unknown Spirit Root Resonance]
His breath caught.
Was this his spirit root? Had it been hidden all along?
Before he could question further, the vision blurred, and he was yanked back into the real world.
He sat upright in bed, the ring still on his finger.
His heart raced.
He wasn't imagining things.
He wasn't normal.
And maybe—just maybe—he never had been.