Long Yan stared at the ring wrapped around his finger as if it had grown there overnight. The metal was dark, like scorched obsidian, etched with faint, swirling patterns that glowed ever so slightly in the dark. The head of a dragon curled at the top of the band, its mouth open, frozen in an eternal roar, eyes shut tight as though in deep slumber.
He didn't remember putting it on. He didn't even own any jewelry.
His heart still pounded from the dream—or whatever that had been. It hadn't felt like just a dream. It had been real, vivid, raw. He could still hear that voice echoing inside him:"Protect them… even if it means losing everything."
Long Yan ran his thumb across the ring, expecting the dragon head to feel rough. Instead, the metal was oddly smooth, almost warm to the touch. It pulsed lightly against his skin, in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He tried to take it off.
It didn't budge.
"Okay... that's new," he muttered.
He slid out of bed quietly, careful not to wake the other orphans, and padded barefoot to the window. Cold moonlight poured in, painting his skin silver. Outside, the twin moons of Lowterra hung low, their light unusually sharp tonight. The city below hummed, its neon heartbeat a distant, restless glow.
The ring pulsed again.
His vision blurred.
Suddenly, the city faded.
He was no longer in the orphanage.
Darkness surrounded him, vast and endless. Stars wheeled above, and before him stretched an ancient battlefield—floating debris, shattered celestial weapons, and glowing corpses of long-dead giants suspended in the void.
A colossal dragon soared overhead, its body made of light and thunder, scales glittering like molten steel. It roared, a sound that shook the stars, and below it, a boy—him—stood bloodied, but unyielding, a glowing sigil burning on his hand.
Then everything shattered.
The vision collapsed inward, dragging him back.
He gasped, clutching the window frame, his legs shaking.
"What… what was that?" he whispered, staring again at the ring.
It was glowing now. Faintly. But unmistakably.
Another whisper brushed the edge of his consciousness, like a breath caught between worlds.
"Found... at last."
He spun around, scanning the room. No one else was awake. No one else had heard it. He was sure of it.
The voice hadn't been external—it came from within, from the ring.
Long Yan backed away, heart racing, hand still tingling. He stumbled to the corner of the room where his locker sat, flipping it open and rifling through the sparse contents. An old med-scanner, a cracked lenspad, a pair of worn-out shoes… nothing that could explain what he was feeling.
He paused.
If this ring had something to do with his lost memories, with his dreams, maybe it was more than just some ornament. Maybe it was the first clue. The first piece of a puzzle he didn't know existed.
He sat down again, legs crossed, ring hand resting in his lap.
He breathed in.
Then out.
Again.
The techniques taught in Lowterra's public mind-calm technique weren't meant for cultivation—just stress relief. But for the first time, as he stilled his breath and closed his eyes, he felt something. A faint tug.
A breeze inside.
Not wind.
Energy.
Qi.
It moved.
Just barely.
His eyes snapped open.
For seventeen years, every medical scan had told him the same thing: Zero cultivation potential. No spiritual flow. Energy blind. And yet now, a thread—thin as a whisper—coiled from his palm to his chest, swirling through his meridians like smoke through a cracked window.
He stared at the ring.
"You did this… didn't you?"
The dragon's eyes flickered. Just once.
And for the first time, Long Yan wasn't sure if he was still dreaming.