image [https://imgur.com/krDnYX0.jpg]
In the heart of the martial world, where mountains pierced the heavens and rivers flowed like silver threads across the earth, there existed an order as unshakable as stone.
The 10 Great Orthodox Sects—righteous in name but ruthless in practice held dominion over all things beneath the sky. They preached harmony while sowing discord, enforced justice with chains hidden beneath silk. Their banners raised proudly from their fortresses, each a symbol of power carved into mountaintops or raised from stretched plains. To defy them was to defy the heavens themselves.
Yet, among their countless vassals and pawns, whispers of rebellion lingered—faint, like the wind before a storm.
The small village of Blackstone lay at the base of Mount Qingcheng. To the Qingcheng Sect, it was a dot on the map, insignificant except for the resources it yielded and the oaths it upheld. Here, in homes of crass wood and fields scarred by centuries of labor, life was not lived, it was endured.
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The people worked, their backs bent beneath invisible chains: tribute to be paid, quotas to be met, honor to be preserved. These chains were forged not of iron but of fear, tradition, and the ever looming shadow of the Qingcheng Sect...the village's distant master.
Among these people was a boy who could not kneel.
He was not yet a man, not yet a warrior, but the fire within him refused to burn quietly. While the others bowed their heads and spoke of fate, Hei Tianmo spoke of freedom. While they whispered warnings of storms to come, he longed to dance in the rain.
This is not the story of a hero. Heroes abide by rules; they uphold order. Tianmo would do neither. This is the story of a fool—one who would challenge the world's great foundations and shatter its ancient chains, not out of righteousness but for freedom.
For freedom's sake, he would embrace chaos.
And the wind that began as a breeze would soon become a storm.