Tianming was only ten when the skies first burned.
The village of Linhe had known peace for decades, nestled between rice terraces and moonlit streams. But peace, he learned, was a brittle thing. That night, they came — riders clad in shadowfire armor, their blades etched with seals that hissed as they carved through flesh and flame alike.
He remembered clinging to his mother's robes, her chants barely audible above the screams. She hid him beneath the altar of the village shrine. "Don't come out," she whispered, pressing a charm into his palm. "No matter what you hear."
He remembered the red light.
The sound of the shrine splitting apart.
And silence.
When Tianming emerged, there was nothing left but ash.
A silent blade lay buried in the ground — untouched by flame. It pulsed faintly, like it was waiting.