Morning came with the usual pale haze, sunlight filtered through industrial fog and the rising hum of Lowterra's neon arteries. But Long Yan barely noticed.
He hadn't slept.
The dragon ring on his finger had pulsed softly through the night—warm, rhythmic, as if alive. When he closed his eyes, he could feel it in his mind. Not just a presence, but a place.
A door.
No—many.
He'd seen glimpses in the hours before dawn. Within the ring was a vast inner world—dark, ancient, and built like a temple carved from the bones of stars. A circular hall stretched into shadow, lined with towering doors, each one sealed shut with glowing locks and strange sigils.
He had tried to open one.
It hadn't budged.
A voice—not quite heard, but felt—had whispered the answer.
"Feed the gate."
The ring needed spiritual energy. It was a cultivation artifact. Ancient. Sealed. Sleeping. And it was hungry.
Long Yan had tried drawing Qi again, like he had the night before. At first, only that same wisp stirred—a thread of energy, thin as spider silk, winding sluggishly through his meridians. He guided it carefully, slowly, until it gathered in his palm.
The ring drank it.
Not violently. Just… expectantly. As if this was what it had always been waiting for.
And then, for a brief second, one of the locks clicked.
Not open. Not yet.
But close.
Now, as he walked through the early-morning stillness of Lowterra's outskirts, the ring remained warm against his hand. His steps took him to the city's edge, to the scorched perimeter wall where they had found him as a boy.
Something about this place tugged at him.
The wind stirred the red dust around his boots. In the distance, solar towers crackled and hummed. The ring pulsed once—then again.
He stopped.
A low thrum echoed beneath his feet. The ring's dragon eyes flared dimly, as if sensing something nearby. Long Yan pressed his hand against the wall. The ring responded—its hunger growing.
Another whisper touched his mind:
"One spark is not enough."
He needed more Qi. More spiritual power. But he had none left to give. His meridians were undeveloped, his flow weak, nearly non-existent. Even drawing that single thread had exhausted him.
He stumbled back, frustrated. Just then, something shifted on the ridge beyond the city—movement.
A figure.
Cloaked. Still.
Watching.
Long Yan squinted against the wind. It wasn't human. Too still. Too tall. Eyes glowing green like pale fire. A scout? A machine?
The ring pulsed again. A warning.
The figure tilted its head. It took one step forward.
And stopped.
Long Yan's ring flared, and this time, light burst around his feet—golden sigils burning briefly into the dust. Lines of power spiraled outward, forming a half-circle of glowing symbols. The air shimmered, like heat rising from scorched earth.
The figure recoiled.
Then it vanished, swallowed by the storm.
Long Yan stood frozen, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The marks beneath him faded, leaving no trace.
The ring dimmed once more.
He looked down at it.
This thing—this artifact—was more than just a memory trigger. It was a gateway. A vault. A prison. A legacy. He didn't know which yet.
But he knew one thing:
It was waking up.
And it wanted more.
He stared at the sky, then back at the city. The orphanage. The familiar weight of his forgotten life.
He could feel it now—faint energy drifting through the world, invisible to most. All around him.
And for the first time, he had a reason to chase it.
Not just to cultivate.
But to unlock the doors inside the dragon ring.
And discover what waited behind them.