Peter was struggling.
His body was locked, flooded with light and pain—cold, hot, crackling through every inch of him. His thoughts were scattered, limbs trembling, nerves screaming.
And then he heard a voice.
No… he wasn't sure it was a voice. It didn't hit his ears. It hit everything—his chest, his bones, the inside of his head.
It wasn't loud, but it filled the world.
"Hear the Mandate of the Heavens."
The sound rang through the void like the toll of a bell that shook the sky. Calm. Absolute.
"The Realm of Earth has awakened."
"Cultivation shall now flow through your world like light through broken stone. Those who rise, rise against heaven itself. Those who fall, fall beneath its gaze."
"Strength shall define right. Power shall shape law. But karma shall follow all."
"Hear the Mandate of Heaven—
and know Heaven is watching."
The words burned through him like they were carved into the light itself.
The pain surged—full, consuming. Every breath dragged heat and pressure deeper into his body. His skin felt tight, his bones alive with strain. There was no space between the pulses anymore. Just sensation.
Then the voice came again.
Or whatever the fuck it was doing.
"Your first tribulation: Endure."
That was all it gave him.
Endure? His thoughts fought to catch up. What kind of shit was that?
Fuck…
Heat climbed through his chest. His limbs seized again. Every part of him stretched, heavy and shaking. He blinked, but his vision stayed white—too bright, too close, like the inside of the world was pressing against his eyes.
Endure…?
He breathed through gritted teeth. Muscles locked. Heart pounding.
He wanted this to stop.
No.
His family.
That thought hit hard—clearer than anything else. He held onto it.
He needed to see them. To know they were safe.
He could move later. Speak later. Think later.
But first—
He would endure.
He couldn't see.
White pressed in from every angle, blinding and thick like it had weight. But he could feel the ground beneath him—solid and uneven. He was laying down.
His body throbbed in waves, heat and pressure knotted deep in his muscles. Still, he shifted. Tried to rise.
The pain hit harder—like something reached inside him and twisted.
Dammit…
His breath tore out of him. He clenched his jaw, growled low in his throat.
Ahhh—
He pushed. One arm braced against the ground. Then the other. His knees trembled as they pulled under him. Every inch forward felt like a punch to the gut.
But to stay down?
To stay down was to lose.
And Peter Walker didn't lose. He didn't train for that. He didn't sweat through drills every day for that. He didn't run until his legs gave out, shoot until his arms burned, or chase rebounds until his lungs were on fire just to roll over when shit got hard.
He played to win. Always had.
Because winning felt right. Clean. Like something inside him clicked into place.
And this?
Whatever this was—he could feel it trying to bury him.
So he grit his teeth and forced his legs to hold.
Because that's what he did.
He stood. Or at least, he tried. Through the pain. Through the fire in his chest. Through the storm running under his skin.
First, he pushed himself up.
His palms dug into the dirt, fingers curling for grip, arms trembling from the inside out. As he lifted, the pain surged harder—waves of heat and cold and something sharp and humming, like static crawling up his spine. It wasn't just in his limbs or chest anymore. It had burrowed deeper—into muscle, into marrow—into something more central than bone.
He grit his teeth, breath catching in his throat.
Then it spiked again.
He screamed—or tried to. The sound barely registered, swallowed by pressure. His jaw locked, his body jerked once, but he didn't stop.
He planted his left foot. His right knee stayed grounded, trembling. The pain didn't fade. If anything, it pulsed harder with every breath. But he leaned into it, pushed his weight forward, slow and grinding.
And then he stood.
Barely. Legs shaking, hands clenched, back hunched forward from the effort—but he was upright.
The air buzzed in his ears, his heartbeat crashing through his chest like it wanted out. Pain still rolled across his skin, flared in his gut, pressed behind his eyes—but he stood there, breathing, locked in place.
Then the ground started to shift.
Not like before. This wasn't violent. It rolled beneath him, steady and deep, like the earth was stretching its spine after a long sleep. He looked down on instinct.
And that's when he saw it.
The cracks from earlier—the ones that had torn open around him, glowing white and deep and jagged—were being filled in. Slowly, cleanly. Light still pulsed from within them, but now it was moving inward. The breaks smoothed over with every breath he took. The fractures sealed like stone remembering what it used to be.
He blinked hard, struggling to keep his balance as the earth steadied under his feet.
Then he turned his head—and there they were.
His mom. His dad. Nicki.
They were laying a few paces away, their bodies still, faces calm. Their chests rose and fell. No tension. No strain. And that same light—soft and steady—glowed through them too. Lines of it moved beneath their skin, through their necks, across their forearms, pulsing gently like light riding a slow heartbeat.
Peter stared.
Breathing hard. Legs barely holding. Mind grasping for something that made sense.
What the fuck—
That was the last thought before his knees gave out and everything went black.
—————————————————
Peter stirred.
His body felt sore—tender in a way that didn't just sit in his muscles, but deeper, like something had twisted through him and left everything tight. Every small movement tugged at him. His arms, his back, even his fingers felt overworked. And he was hungry. Really hungry.
He shifted. Beneath him was a mattress—thin but real. Fabric swayed above him in the breeze.
Was he under a tarp?
His vision cleared, and he saw his mother sitting beside him. A small bowl rested near her knee. She dipped a cloth into it, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to his forehead.
"Wha… what happened?" he croaked.
She glanced down at him, smiling softly. "The light came, and we passed out. You never woke up after whatever happened yesterday morning."
She dabbed his forehead again, careful, steady.
"Your father and sister walked to town," she added. "They went to see if they could connect with other survivors."
Walked to town? Peter blinked. Survivors? That was a strange word to use.
He took a slow breath. It stretched tight across his ribs, and he winced. "It was… painful, wasn't it?" he asked, watching her.
She looked confused. "Pain? There wasn't any pain when the light hit. We woke up yesterday afternoon. You've been out since then."
His eyes searched her face. "And the voice? Or… whatever it was?"
She smiled again, a little bemused. "Yes. Apparently, we're going to be cultivators now." She laughed softly. "Can you believe that?"
Peter didn't laugh. "What about the tribulation?"
His mother blinked. "Tribulation? What are you talking about?" She looked at him, genuinely puzzled, like she had no idea what he meant. "I think you should lie down for the rest of the day."
"Sure," he muttered. "Can you get me some food? I'm starving."
"Of course." She stood and stepped outside the tarp, the light shifting for a moment as the fabric lifted and dropped.
Peter let his head fall back. His stomach growled, but his mind wasn't on food.
Why didn't they feel pain?
He stared up at the tarp ceiling, thoughts spinning.
Then he remembered.
Just one word.
Your.
Your first tribulation…
Apparently, the heavens didn't treat everyone the same, Peter thought, his jaw tightening as the quiet settled back in around him.