The dust of Grey-Elm village tasted of poverty and resignation. It was a fine, pale grit that settled on everything, coating the cracked earth, the sagging roofs of the huts, and the spirits of the people who lived there. For Wei An, it was the taste of home.
He sat on a weathered stump at the edge of the village, his gaze fixed on the imposing silhouette of the Blackwood Range. The mountains were a wall of dark green and jagged stone that sealed their valley off from the rest of the Azure Expanse. To the other villagers, they were a source of game, herbs, and danger. To Wei An, they were a reminder of everything he couldn't have.
A group of children, their faces smudged with dirt, chased a wooden hoop nearby. When their game brought them too close to Wei An, one of them, a stout boy named Bao, pointed a finger.
"Stay away from him! My mother says he's a curse. He'll wither your luck!"
The other children scurried back, whispering and casting fearful glances. Wei An's face remained impassive, a mask he had perfected over sixteen years. He was used to it. The whispers, the averted eyes, the small warding gestures people made when he passed. He was Wei An, the boy with the Withering Root.
He pushed himself off the stump and walked away from the village, his worn hemp clothes hanging loosely on his thin frame. A gnawing hunger was a constant companion in his belly. While other boys his age were beginning to feel the first stirrings of Qi, dreaming of joining the legendary sects, Wei An's spiritual root did the opposite. It was a void. Any living thing with a hint of spiritual energy would wilt and die with his prolonged touch.
This "curse" made him an outcast, but it also made him observant. He knew which stones were loose, which branches would hold his weight, and where the bitter but edible roots grew. He was heading for a small, hidden ravine where he'd once spotted a patch of Ironthread Ferns. They were mundane, barely qualifying as a "common grade" herb, but they could be traded for a few copper coins or a half-decent meal.
After an hour of careful trekking, he found the spot. A dozen stalks of the dark green fern grew in the shade of an overhang, their leaves tough and wiry. Hope flickered in his chest. He reached out, his fingers hesitating just before making contact. He took a deep breath, a silent prayer on his lips, and plucked one from the ground.
For a moment, it remained vibrant. Then, as if touched by a phantom frost, the fern began to fade. The deep green turned to a sickly yellow, then a brittle brown. Within seconds, the Ironthread Fern crumbled in his hand, turning into a pile of lifeless grey dust that the wind scattered away.
A cold, familiar despair washed over Wei An. He stared at his empty palm. Useless. He was utterly, hopelessly useless.
It was then that the ground trembled. Not a violent shake, but a deep, resonant tremor that vibrated up through the soles of his feet. A roar, filled with pain and fury, echoed from the depths of the Blackwood Range. It was unlike any animal he had ever heard. This was a sound of power, the cry of a true Spiritual Beast.
Wei An scrambled up the side of the ravine, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and awe. He knew what that roar meant. Cultivators. Only powerful cultivators would dare to hunt such a creature.
He had to get back. The village elder always warned that when immortals fight, mortals suffer. As he turned to run, another earth-shaking crash, much closer this time, threw him from his feet. He rolled down a short embankment, his head striking a rock. Dazed, he looked up through a curtain of leaves and saw it.
A beast of breathtaking beauty and terrifying might crashed through the trees. It was a fox, but larger than a bull, with three long, elegant tails, each shimmering with a faint, silvery light. Its fur was the color of fresh snow, now matted with blood from a dozen grievous wounds. A broken sword was embedded in its shoulder.
The Three-Tailed Spirit Fox stumbled, its majestic head bowed. It took a few more steps, its breath coming in ragged, steaming gasps, and collapsed not thirty feet from where Wei An lay hidden. The life in its intelligent eyes began to dim. It was dying.