The mists curled against the crumbling walls of the abandoned garden, carrying with them the scent of damp earth and slow decay.

  Lin Xian sat hunched beneath the torn canvas of his makeshift shelter, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight around himself against the mountain chill.

  The brazier at his side had long since guttered into cold ash.

  The dead garden around him stretched into shadows — a graveyard of broken stones, twisted vines, and silent accusations.

  Above, the stars hung distant and cold beyond the swirling mist.

  Somewhere, high in the Inner Sect, bells chimed the midnight hour — delicate, precise, a music meant for those with bright futures and shining cores.

  Not for him.

  Never for him.

  Lin Xian closed his eyes, breathing slow and deep.

  The day's mockery still clung to him — Han Zhi's cruel laughter, the dismissive sneers of the other disciples, the way Elder Mo had passed him in the training halls without so much as a glance.

  A weed-boy. A burden.

  Better off invisible.

  He pressed his forehead against his knees, trying to will himself into sleep.

  But beneath his exhaustion, something churned.

  Something stirred.

  It had begun weeks ago — a persistent itch at the edge of his soul.

  A sensation like roots growing through stone, seeking cracks.

  Dreams that faded the moment he woke, leaving only a heavy ache in his chest, a longing for something he could not name.

  Tonight, the ache was sharper than ever.

  He slipped into sleep like falling through deep water.

  At first, there was only darkness.

  Heavy, endless, swallowing.

  Then —

  A flicker.

  A glimmer.

  A distant pulse of green light, throbbing in the void.

  Lin Xian drifted toward it without meaning to, drawn by a pull deeper than thought.

  The light resolved into a shape — small, cracked, radiating feeble warmth.

  A seed.

  Not a polished pearl of cultivation, not a gem of worldly wealth — just a seed, battered and broken, barely clinging to life.

  And yet...

  Lin Xian reached out.

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  As his fingers brushed the cracked shell, a voice spoke.

  Soft. Timeless.

  Older than stone.

  Gentler than rain.

  "Life sleeps within death."

  The words echoed inside him, vibrating through bone and blood, down into the marrow of his spirit.

  "Tend the withered roots. Awaken the heart forgotten."

  The void shuddered.

  Images flooded him — faster than breath, sharper than memory.

  A vast garden stretching across the sky, its trees so tall their roots entwined with the stars.

  Fields of blossoms that sang in voices of wind and spirit.

  Vines that curled around rivers of molten silver.

  Creatures — beasts of leaf and bloom — wandering freely between worlds.

  And then—

  Fire.

  Ash.

  Collapse.

  Darkness swallowing light.

  Great trees screaming as they burned.

  Flowers wilting into dust.

  Roots severed from their stars, drifting endlessly into void.

  The vision cracked, bleeding shadows.

  The seed in Lin Xian’s hand fractured further, light spilling from its wound.

  "Life sleeps within death."

  "Remember."

  The world tore open.

  Lin Xian woke with a gasp, lurching upright.

  The mist pressed heavy around him, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was — only that something vast and old had brushed against him.

  His heart thundered painfully in his chest. Sweat slicked his skin despite the cold.

  The garden around him had changed.

  No — not changed.

  He had changed.

  He could see it now, faintly — the outlines of ancient arrays etched into the cracked stones beneath the weeds, their lines barely visible beneath centuries of grime.

  He stumbled to his feet, vision swimming.

  The vines that choked the ruined pathways seemed to shift under his gaze, curling subtly toward him.

  Not hostile.

  Not welcoming.

  Waiting.

  Lin Xian staggered toward the center of the abandoned garden, drawn by instinct he could not name.

  His feet carried him to the shattered remains of a once-grand archway, its carvings worn down by time into ghostly impressions.

  Symbols danced at the edges of his mind — sigils of growth, life, sacrifice.

  He pressed a trembling hand against the stone.

  It was cold at first.

  Then warm.

  A heartbeat pulsed through it — slow, ancient.

  Not his own.

  Something answered his touch.

  Something sleeping.

  Something forgotten.

  The mist thickened suddenly, coiling around him like living hands.

  Lin Xian gasped, stumbling back.

  For a moment, he thought he saw shapes moving within it — towering figures draped in vines, faces hidden beneath crowns of flowers and bone.

  Guardians.

  Or wardens.

  Or mourners.

  The vision faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only the endless grey mist behind.

  He sagged against the archway, breath hitching.

  Life sleeps within death.

  The dream’s words burned into his memory.

  What does it mean?

  He didn’t know.

  Only that the dead garden around him was not truly dead.

  Not yet.

  And somewhere beyond these ruined stones, something waited.

  A seed.

  A heart.

  A path.

  If he was brave — or foolish — enough to follow it.

  A faint breeze stirred the mist, carrying with it a new scent.

  Not rot.

  Not decay.

  But something green.

  Something alive.

  Lin Xian turned his head, heart hammering.

  At the farthest edge of the abandoned garden, beyond the last broken wall, the mist swirled strangely — coiling into a spiral before dissipating into the night.

  An invitation.

  Or a warning.

  He swallowed hard.

  Behind him lay the cold comfort of failure — the known, the expected.

  Ahead...

  The unknown.

  A flickering hope.

  A whispered promise.

  He tightened his grip on the ragged hem of his robe, feeling the tiny calluses along his fingers — born not from blade work, but from tending stubborn, broken plants.

  Small, slow work.

  Mocked by the strong.

  Forgotten by the proud.

  But it was his.

  It was enough.

  He straightened slowly.

  Tomorrow, when the sun rose, he would return to his duties.

  Pull weeds.

  Scrub stone.

  Pretend.

  But tonight —

  Tonight, he would dream of seeds and stars.

  Of gardens that sang.

  Of roots that reached beyond death itself.

  Tonight, he would remember that life still slept beneath the ashes.

  Waiting.

  For someone foolish — or faithful — enough to awaken it.

  Verdant Sovereign is a story about stubborn growth, about finding strength where others only see weakness — and I’m honored you're here at the start.

  Every bit of support helps this little garden grow. ??