The field stretched endlessly in all directions, a ndscape beyond the grasp of mortal understanding. It was not nd, nor was it sky—there was no horizon, no boundary, only an expanse that existed because it chose to. Within this expanse, structures resembling crops swayed, though there was no wind. They did not have leaves, nor roots, nor flowers. Instead, they pulsed with something far older than life itself.

  A man stood among them.

  To call him a man was a misinterpretation of reality. His form was fluid, shifting in ways that defied natural w. To look upon him was to see something different with every blink, every thought. He was everything and nothing, an idea rather than a being. And yet, he moved with a purpose.

  His hands—if such things could be defined—grazed the crops with a touch that reshaped them. Some withered into nonexistence, unraveling like forgotten dreams. Others flourished, expanding into realms unseen, possibilities unwritten. He observed his work with something that might have been satisfaction, or perhaps mere curiosity.

  Then he spoke.

  The sound was not meant for ears. It was a nguage that predated time itself, a dialect that no god, no demon, no schor of any reality could decipher. To hear it was to unmake oneself, to fall into a silence deeper than oblivion. No power, no knowledge, no divine wisdom could transte the words, because the words were not meant to be known.

  And yet, he continued.

  His voice wove through the field, and the crops responded, writhing in resonance. They understood, even if no other could.

  He lifted his gaze skyward. There was no sun, no stars, no moon—only a great, empty void. With a flick of his fingers, that void changed. The day was born, light cascading over the endless ndscape. Then, as effortlessly as the first motion, he waved his hand again, and night swallowed the world whole. The stars blinked into existence, shrouding the field in their cold, indifferent glow.

  Then, with a quiet hum, he reached up.

  Two stars, colossal in scale, hung in the sky. Each was at least fifty times the size of a mortal sun, their gravitational might enough to crush pnets into dust. And yet, when he grasped them, they were no more than the size of a mortal’s eye.

  He turned them over in his palms, as though inspecting gemstones. The burning light faded, colpsing inward until nothing remained but utter bckness—two perfect voids.

  Eyes.

  He held them for a moment, then, with the same absent-minded care he had given his field, he pced them among his crops. They sank into the endless expanse, vanishing as if they had never existed.

  Then, for the first time in an eternity, he addressed the one audience that had always been there.

  “There is something... different.”

  His voice did not move through air, did not travel through space. It simply was.

  “A human. A single human. But one who has decided to be... worth watching.”

  His shifting form twisted slightly, as though pondering something unseen. Then, with neither urgency nor hesitation, he turned his gaze elsewhere.

  And just like that, he was gone.

  The rhythmic sound of metal scraping against stone filled the small workshop. Han Ye sat hunched over his work, hands steady as he carved delicate channels into the device before him. It was no rger than his palm, a carefully assembled mechanism of fine-tuned components designed to regute Qi flow more efficiently than conventional cultivation methods.

  If it worked.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and exhaled, watching the dim candlelight flicker over the intricate carvings. Cultivation had always been a matter of patience and instinct, but he believed it could be more than that. Precision. Calcution. Refinement.

  He picked up a small vial of powdered jade essence, carefully sprinkling it along the etched lines. The moment the dust settled, the entire device pulsed faintly, the flow of Qi reacting to the minute adjustments he had made.

  A small smile tugged at his lips.

  It’s working.

  For the first time in days, he allowed himself to lean back, stretching his sore shoulders. He wasn’t sure if anyone else in this world would understand what he was trying to do. The techniques used by cultivators were ancient, rigid, bound by tradition. No one questioned them. No one improved them.

  That was foolish.

  The mere idea of blindly following methods from centuries ago made him uneasy. If something could be better, why not make it better?

  He gnced at the workshop’s entrance, where the early morning light was beginning to filter in. He had spent the entire night working, but the satisfaction of progress outweighed his exhaustion.

  Then, that sensation returned.

  The feeling of being watched.

  It had been bothering him for weeks now, creeping up on him whenever he was alone. It wasn’t paranoia. It wasn’t fear. It was something else. An unseen presence, distant yet unshakable. Not malicious, but not comforting either.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Lack of sleep, maybe.

  Shaking off the unease, he reached for a cloth to clean his hands when his workshop door creaked open.

  “Han Ye.”

  He turned to see his father, Han Zhe, standing in the doorway, his expression as unreadable as ever. The man was built like a seasoned hunter—broad shoulders, strong arms, the quiet confidence of someone who had survived countless winters in the wild.

  “We’re going hunting,” Han Zhe said simply. “Get ready.”

  Han Ye sighed but nodded. He had no intention of arguing. Hunting had been a part of his life since childhood. Even if he was more interested in refining Qi techniques, the bow was an extension of himself—one that he would never neglect.

  As he rose to his feet, his mind drifted back to his project.

  If I can refine Qi circution like this… what else can I change?

  The future, it seemed, was filled with possibilities.

  And somewhere far, far beyond mortal sight, something was watching those possibilities unfold.