He fell.

  Not through air, not through water, but through something thicker — the dense, clinging soil of forgotten dreams.

  The world twisted around him: green light and black shadows swirling like smoke, fragments of ancient gardens flashing past his eyes — trees that touched the stars, rivers that sang, blossoms that bled silver tears.

  Lin Xian tried to cry out but no sound left his lips.

  The cracked seed clutched in his hand burned hotter, a pulse of fevered life searing into his skin, into his blood, into his very spirit.

  The fall slowed.

  The swirling mist around him coalesced, thickening into a vast expanse of barren soil stretching in every direction — endless, cracked, lifeless.

  A wasteland.

  And at the center, beneath the bruised and broken sky, a single tiny sapling shivered.

  No taller than Lin Xian’s hand.

  Its bark was dark and split. Its leaves — two fragile scraps of green — hung limp, coated in the dust of desolation.

  The seed had taken root.

  Here.

  In him.

  In his soul.

  Lin Xian stumbled toward the sapling, legs weak, heart hammering.

  The cracked soil split under his steps, sending spiderweb fractures outward like the veins of a dying leaf.

  Above, the sky rumbled — a soundless tremor of grief.

  He knelt before the sapling, reaching out a trembling hand.

  It pulsed weakly in answer.

  Not words.

  Not even coherent emotion.

  Just a sense.

  Hurt.

  Loneliness.

  A stubborn, desperate will to live.

  Tears blurred Lin Xian’s vision.

  It was so small.

  So broken.

  Just like him.

  He sank to both knees, cradling the sapling’s frail trunk between his palms.

  The bark was rough, scarred.

  Alive.

  A flicker of warmth spread from the sapling into his hands — a tentative thread weaving through his spirit.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He felt the connection form, tentative and fragile as spider silk.

  Felt roots sinking deeper into cracked soul-soil, groping for stability.

  Felt the first tendrils of Verdant Qi stir — not in his dantian, not in his meridians, but everywhere, like tiny shoots seeking the sun after endless darkness.

  It was wrong.

  It was impossible.

  No cultivator in the Verdant Heart Sect — or perhaps anywhere — would recognize this as true cultivation.

  No gleaming golden core.

  No whirling energy vortexes.

  Just soil.

  Roots.

  A garden, half-dead, struggling to breathe.

  And yet, it was his.

  More his than any sword form, any Qi-seizing meditation, any cold, glittering technique forced upon him by rote.

  It was alive.

  And it recognized him.

  "Life sleeps within death," the old voice murmured, somewhere deep inside him.

  "Tend the withered roots."

  "Awaken the Verdant Heart."

  Lin Xian pressed his forehead against the sapling’s trunk, feeling the rough bark scrape his skin.

  "I will," he whispered.

  He didn’t know what it would cost.

  He didn’t care.

  This — this fragile, desperate, stubborn thing — was worth more than all the polished, poisonous power the sect hoarded in its inner halls.

  This was hope.

  This was life.

  The sapling pulsed stronger.

  Roots dug deeper into the broken soul-soil.

  Tiny fractures in the ground sealed themselves, knit together by trembling tendrils of green.

  The mist that had choked the sky thinned, revealing faint stars glimmering weakly beyond.

  Lin Xian felt the Verdant Qi flow through him, slow but steady, feeding both sapling and soil alike.

  His body, broken and exhausted, drank it in greedily, knitting small wounds closed, easing bruised muscles, filling the hollow ache inside his chest.

  For the first time in his life, he was not empty.

  He sat back, breathing slow and deep, cradling the connection carefully.

  He could feel the Spirit Garden — small, pitiful, but real — anchored inside him now.

  A part of him.

  Growing.

  He reached inward, tentatively.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the sapling again — and for the first time, he saw tiny green shoots pushing up around it.

  Weeds, perhaps.

  Wild grasses.

  Nothing impressive.

  But life.

  New life.

  His life.

  Movement at the edge of the barren field caught his attention.

  He turned — and gasped.

  Shapes moved there: outlines of larger trees, thicker vines, flowering bushes — but faded, flickering like memories.

  Ghosts of what the garden could become.

  Or what it had once been.

  They beckoned.

  Promised.

  If he nurtured the garden.

  Fed it.

  Protected it.

  It would grow.

  It would thrive.

  It would become something more powerful — and more beautiful — than any golden core or spirit forge the Sect could offer.

  But already he felt the weight of the task ahead.

  The soul-soil was cracked and dry.

  The sapling was wounded.

  The Verdant Qi inside him was thin — a trickle, not a river.

  To survive, he would need to nurture it.

  Feed it with life, with care, with battles fought and lessons learned.

  If he failed... the garden would wither.

  He would wither.

  His entire soul would collapse into rot.

  There would be no second chance.

  Lin Xian opened his eyes slowly, breathing hard.

  The Sealed Grove blurred around him through the mist.

  The ancient dead tree above still cradled the spot where the seed had been — but now the roots pulsed faintly, answering the new life inside him.

  Somewhere far off, bells rang again — harsher now.

  Warning.

  Alarm.

  He did not have much time.

  Someone would come.

  Someone would notice.

  The Sect would not tolerate forbidden awakenings.

  They would not nurture what they could not control.

  He rose shakily to his feet.

  The cracked seed — the Verdant Heart Sapling — had vanished into him, leaving only faint green embers drifting in the mist.

  He placed a hand over his chest.

  Felt the steady, tiny pulse there.

  His Spirit Garden.

  Still small.

  Still weak.

  But alive.

  He bowed once — low and deep — to the hollowed corpse of the ancient tree.

  Not in worship.

  In gratitude.

  And in promise.

  He would not let this new life die.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  Behind him, in the mist, footsteps stirred.

  Lin Xian straightened, eyes narrowing.

  The path ahead would not be easy.

  But he had roots now.

  And roots, once set, could split mountains.

  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. ??