The wind in the Ashfall Wastes never stopped—it just shifted from cruel to crueler. It scraped over the land like dry breath across a corpse, carrying the sting of dust, the ghost of something once green, and a silence so deep it pressed into the bones. Karim Grete, fourteen cycles old and toughened by a life with no softness, didn't flinch at the cold anymore. His tunic, little more than stitched rags and memories, clung to him as he moved through the grey light like a shadow.
He was one of many—an orphan scrabbling for life beneath the jagged outline of the Black Peaks. Out here, survival wasn't a lesson. It was law. The kind that didn't care if you were clever or strong—only whether you could last long enough to see another dawn.
Karim wasn't strong. Not yet. But he was fast, quiet, and too stubborn to die.
That morning, hunger gnawed at his belly like a rat. The cold had gotten into his hands overnight, numbing his fingers. But something sharp lingered in the air—a scent that made his stomach twist. Smoke. Char. Meat. Faint, but real. It led him to what was left of a camp, half-swallowed by the ash dunes. Ironfangs, judging by the wreckage—and the scattered bones.
He hesitated. Bandits didn't forget to clean up after themselves. But the smell was there, and hunger didn't leave room for caution.
He found it near a scorched wagon wheel: the carcass of a desert gazelle, stripped nearly clean by ash-wolves. Still, a few scraps clung to the bone. Karim scanned the dunes—silent, empty—then pounced. He ripped a sinewy piece free and chewed fiercely. It was cold, tough, and perfect.
That's when he saw the glint.
At first, he thought it was just charred metal. But buried beneath ash and debris, half-hidden beneath the wagon's broken axle, was a book. Leather-bound. Intact. The cover bore strange curling symbols, as if fire had tried and failed to burn them away.
Karim blinked. Books were worthless here—no food, no firewood, no trade value. Still... something about it felt wrong. Or maybe right. He couldn't tell.
He took it.
Back in his hideaway—just a fissure in the rocks, tight and quiet—he opened the book. The script inside made no sense. It wasn't a language he knew. It moved, somehow. But on the first page, there was a single diagram. Circular, swirling, full of tiny notches and lines that made his eyes ache if he stared too long.
He stared anyway.
Almost without thinking, he reached out. His fingertip brushed the parchment.
And everything changed.
A sudden, warm pressure surged through his hand. It wasn't pain, not quite. More like heat pooling in his gut, spreading through his limbs. His breath caught. His heart thumped once, hard—and then slowed. The silence in the cave shifted. He could feel the air now. Not just the cold, but something else. Something beneath it. Alive.
He sat still for a long time, breathing slow and steady without meaning to. The air tasted strange—metallic, almost sweet. Every inhale fed the warmth. Every exhale carried away the ache in his bones. He didn't understand what was happening, but he knew—deep down—that it mattered.
Over the next few days, Karim didn't scavenge much. He didn't need to. The constant hunger that had ruled his life dulled, replaced by a steady hum beneath his ribs. He kept practicing the breathing, tracing the diagram from memory. He couldn't explain why, but each session left him stronger. Sharper. More awake.
By the fourth day, he could hear the beetles shifting under the sand. He could feel the heat of the rocks fade with the sun. His balance improved. His speed—already good—became uncanny. He didn't feel tired anymore. Just... full.
He didn't know he was cultivating. Didn't know what a Spiritual Core was, or what realm he'd entered. He only knew that something had taken root inside him. Something powerful.
And then came the test.
A sand viper, nearly invisible in the dunes, struck without warning. In the past, Karim might have flinched or screamed or died. But not this time. His body moved on its own—fluid, sure, fast. He sidestepped, then drove his palm into the viper's skull. There was a sickening crunch, and the creature went still.
He stood there, breathing hard, staring at the thing twitching in the dust.
He'd killed it. Not with a rock or a trap. With his hand.
And the strange warmth inside him pulsed in response—almost pleased.
Karim didn't smile. But he felt something rising. Not joy. Not even relief. Something older, heavier. A sense of purpose.
This wasn't just about surviving anymore. This was about becoming.
The Wastes had taken everything from him—his family, his comfort, even his name, once. But now, they had given him something back. Not mercy. Not kindness.
Power.
And Karim, eyes fixed on the horizon, realized something terrifying and beautiful all at once:
He was no longer just another orphan scrounging for scraps.
He was awakening.
And soon, the world would know it.