The days following Orion's arrival in Nythros passed in absolute silence, but nothing there was simple.
Every step he took through the city streets was charged with a hidden purpose—even if he did not immediately confess it.
The city pulsed.
Nythros, as he soon realized, was much more than a population center lost in the lower planes. It was a convergence—a point of intersection between technology, spirituality, and unmanifested potential. Towers built with celestial-energy alloys shared space with ancient sanctuaries, and young cultivators ran along streets paved with intelligent minerals. It was a harmonious chaos, where the old and the future coexisted.
Orion walked calmly, dressed in his black kimono marked by ruby-red accents, his presence wrapped in an aura that, although powerful, did not oppress. He did not need to hide who he was, and yet… no one dared to ask. There was something in him—something in his eyes, in his gestures, in his silence—that said, "I am the kind of presence you feel, but do not understand."
In the spirit markets, he observed artifacts forged by generations of alchemists. In the suspended gardens, he paused to feel the Qi flow among the roots of eternal trees. In every corner of the city, he saw not just a culture. He saw seeds. Seeds waiting for a burning… for a divine ignition.
Then he felt it.
Not a call… but a fragment.
Like a flame resisting wind, rain, and shadow.
A raw, unstable energy, loaded with pain and a fierce desire to survive.
It was not refined.
It was not celestial.
It was real.
And therefore, it was precious.
Guided by that spark, Orion left Nythros's golden center and entered the most forgotten neighborhoods—areas where the great clans rarely set foot, but where, ironically, the human spirit burned most fiercely.
And there, among humble buildings and dirt training grounds, he found him.
Icarus.
The slight boy, no more than eleven years old, with the air of someone carrying an entire world on his shoulders. He wore simple clothes, and his old, worn sword bore no clan insignias or mystical blessings. But every strike he delivered was an unspoken prayer. Each stance, a silent cry against abandonment.
Orion remained silent, observing.
It was not the technical movements that impressed him.
It was the look.
Icarus struck as though saying, "If I fall, no one will lift me."
And that, to Orion, said everything.
On the other side of the field, young nobles laughed. They wore expensive robes and lightly enchanted armor. They looked at Icarus with disdain, as if his mere existence was offensive.
"Still trying, trash?" one of them shouted. "You're not a cultivator. You're a beggar with a sword."
"You've been stuck at the same level for five years! Give up already! Go work as a porter!"
The words cut deep, but Icarus did not react.
He simply took a deep breath and resumed his training.
Sweat streamed down him; exhaustion was evident… yet he continued.
Orion took a step forward.
Icarus stopped, panting. His eyes widened at the sight of the man approaching. There was something in his aura—it was like looking at a starry sky, but feeling that each star was watching you back.
"Your sword cuts," Orion said in a calm, grave, deep voice, "but it is the weight you place on it that makes it fragile."
Icarus hesitated, unsure whether to bow or run.
"Who… who are you, sir?"
Orion stepped closer and stopped in front of him. His eyes met the boy's.
There was the spark.
The same look he had seen in kings before coronation.
In gods before ascension.
But raw, untamed.
"Someone who sees value where others see failure," he replied, lowering himself to the boy's level.
"Why do you keep going? Why do you fight… even without guarantees?"
Icarus clenched his fists. His voice faltered on the first attempt, but he forced himself to speak.
"Because… I have nothing left. But I still have my feet. And as long as I can move… I will move forward."
Orion closed his eyes briefly.
There was something sacred in that answer.
Without another word, he raised his hand.
A breeze brushed across the field.
It was warm, healing, gentle yet profoundly ancient.
The energy enveloped Icarus.
He wavered.
He felt something rearrange within him.
An old pain ceased.
A hole, once ignored, filled.
"My Spiritual Origin…" he whispered, gasping, "…it doesn't hurt anymore."
Orion nodded.
"I simply reminded your soul of how it was before it was broken."
Icarus trembled.
"This is…"
"A gift," concluded Orion, smiling. "But only because you never gave up earning it."
The boy fell to his knees, tears in his eyes.
Not of pain.
But of relief.
For the first time in years, he felt his soul light—not as one who has won a war, but as one who discovers he still has the strength to fight.
The silence between him and Orion was almost sacred.
Orion stood, and with a simple gesture, drew the universe toward himself. His fingers traced runes in the air, spinning golden and violet circles, creating a spiral of energy that resonated like a celestial chant.
Then, from the center of the spiral, a sword emerged.
Not an ordinary sword.
It floated as if the cosmos itself supported it.
Its blade was made of pure energy—a star-blue that shimmered between supernova-white and the violet of distant galaxies. The hilt was sculpted from living matter: fragments of condensed time, wrapped in inscriptions that shifted every second, as if rewriting their own existence.
Astraeus. The Celestial Sword.
"This sword was forged before the mortal realms formed," Orion said, his voice taking on a ceremonial tone. "It is alive. It chooses. And now… it has recognized you."
The sword floated slowly toward Icarus, like a divine bird choosing where to rest.
When he extended his hand hesitantly, it fit into his grip as if it had always belonged to him.
Icarus could hardly breathe.
The sword was not heavy. But he felt every memory it carried.
Stellar wars.
Cosmic sacrifices.
Broken promises.
It was like wielding a piece of eternity and knowing it would demand everything in return.
"Astraeus answers only to those who keep walking, even when there is no ground," Orion said, stepping back. "Now, close your eyes."
Icarus obeyed. And it was then that reality changed.
Before his closed eyes, a screen of light appeared—not as a cold projection, but as an inner voice, as if the universe, for the first time, decided to tell him who he was.
STATUS
Name: IcarusAge: 11 / 100Title: Prodigy of the Dao of the SwordRank: B — Sublevel 7 (Mortal)Awakened Dao: Dao of the Sword [Soul of the Sword]
Active Abilities:
Stellar Strike – Concentrates Astraeus's energy into a single cut. +30% damage and a chance to pierce spirit defenses (Cooldown: 20 seconds)
Sidereal Dodge – Manipulates fragments of space around the body. Allows evasion of up to two simultaneous attacks at extreme speed.
Passive Abilities:Resilience Strength – When vitality is below 30%, all attributes increase by 20%. This effect activates instinctively.Cosmic Bond with Astraeus – While wielding the sword, Icarus receives a permanent 500% boost to Status.
—
The interface dissolved as smoothly as it had appeared.
Icarus opened his eyes.
There were no words.
Only a silent tear.
The feeling of finally being recognized by the world… by the cosmos.
"Did you… create this system?" he whispered.
Orion crossed his arms, a serene smile on his face.
"It was inspired by ancient dreams. But here… you write the next chapter."
Icarus stood with the sword in hand. As he swung it, he felt the air mold around him. The blade cut the wind with a soft melody—as if the universe itself vibrated in unison with his soul.
"I… swear I will never give up again," he said. "Even if the world breaks me again."
Orion nodded, disappearing like cosmic dust.
"The world will try."
Icarus remained there, alone, but no longer broken.
For the first time in his life, he was more than a survivor.
He was a spark of something greater.
And in the distance, the eyes of destiny—once silent—opened.