He awoke to the creak of wood, a low, relentless rumble, and a steady clomping that pulsed with the pounding in his skull. Faint moans and soft weeping drifted around him, mixed with the overpowering stench of unwashed bodies—a smell he hadn’t endured in a lifetime. The nausea surged, forcing him to roll over and empty his stomach.

He let out a groan, trying to press his bound hands to his throbbing temple but finding them restrained by cold, unyielding shackles. The rough iron bit into his wrists, restricting his movements as he tried to focus.

Blinking against the dim light, he took in his surroundings. He lay on rough, splintered wood planks that made up the floor of a wagon, its interior cramped and filled with half a dozen people. Their faces were cast in shadow, but he could see enough to tell they were men and women of various ages, huddled together in defeated silence. None made eye contact with him. Most had hollowed cheeks, dejected eyes, and slumped shoulders as if their souls had long surrendered.

Above, spheres of cold, alchemical light swung from the roof of the cart, casting an eerie greenish glow that illuminated the metal bars around them. Chains rattled softly with the sway of the cart, binding each of them by their wrists and ankles, connecting them to a single iron rod fixed to the cart’s frame. The cloying scent of sweat, fear, and resignation seemed to thicken the air.

Beyond the bars, he caught sight of the guards walking alongside the cart. They all wore roughly stitched leather armor, worn but effective, adorned with straps and buckles holding small pouches or vials. Black hair, tanned skin, and dark eyes gave them a uniform, hardened look—muscular, yet lean and agile, like predators. Each carried a long spear or halberd, with a wickedly curved dao sheathed at their side, and a couple bore bows slung over their shoulders. Their casual gait and the easy grip on their weapons spoke of trained competence, as if they were used to handling unwilling prisoners.

As he peered out through the back of the cart, he noticed more oxen-led carts trailing behind, each one burdened with prisoners whose weary forms seemed to merge with the shadows around them. The dimly lit tunnel stretched out, a modest slave train moving in a grim, unbroken rhythm. Huddled figures in the other carts looked just as beaten down as those around him—faces hollow, eyes fixed on the ground. The clopping of oxen hooves and the creaking of wagon wheels echoed against the arched, 60-foot-wide tunnel walls, blending with the faint, distant groans of other captives.

The tunnel itself was striking, carved from dark granite with smooth, purposeful cuts that hinted at careful, perhaps ancient craftsmanship. Though it looked like it might have once been a natural cavern, the walls and ceiling had been reinforced and shaped, creating a rounded arch 30 feet overhead. Its dimensions, along with its oppressive atmosphere, conveyed both the power and permanence of those who had built it.

Dotted throughout the caravan, he spotted soldiers on horseback, their vigilant eyes sweeping over the train. They were better equipped than the foot soldiers who trudged alongside the carts—each wearing polished chainmail over hardened leathers, short spears secured across their backs, and single-edged daos sheathed at their sides. Their horses moved with a measured, disciplined pace, tails swishing, and hooves echoing against the granite floor in a steady, foreboding rhythm. Their presence radiated authority, a silent reminder of the grim control maintaining order in this subterranean march.

A swirl of questions clouded his mind, each heavier than the last. Where am I? The thought drifted sluggishly through his pain-wracked mind. Why am I shackled? His wrists ached against the iron cuffs, their weight adding to his sense of entrapment. A prisoner? He shifted slightly, the rough wood of the cart jolting him as he struggled to recall any hint of memory. Who… am I?

A voice answered in his mind, low and edged with a distant authority. We’ve only been in this world for about two days, it began. You were captured by slavers almost immediately after materializing here. And while I know who I am—a lifetime full of memories—I don’t know who you are. The voice held a note of irritation, as if the uncertainty was foreign, even offensive.

But I cannot recall anything from before those two days, the spirit continued after a pause, its reluctance clear.

The revelation settled heavily in his mind. Despite the spirit’s unclear responses, he felt a small measure of gratitude. Yet it gnawed at him that this presence could know so much, while he himself remained a stranger to his own identity. He found himself wondering if, in time, more would surface—or if these fragments were all he’d ever have.

As for this world, the spirit added, you’re in the land of Tal’Rayan.

The name stirred something deep within—a faint bell ringing in a distant memory, and with it, images suddenly flooded his mind. He glimpsed a realm alive with diversity, something he had not seen in quite a few lifetimes. He saw towering elven cities spiraling with ethereal light and dwarven fortresses carved into the bones of mountains. Dragon wings beat against painted skies, casting shadows over vast forests and valleys below. There were fields of strange creatures, exotic lands, and cities that seemed woven from stardust and steel.

Civilizations of all kinds, bound together across this immense land, lived, thrived, and struggled. A part of him marveled, grasping faintly that his last world was simpler, filled only with humans. This—Tal’Rayan—was nothing like that. Here, the world was mapped in its entirety; the grand civilizations moved freely across it, exploring and battling, coexisting and warring.

Then, shadows spread across the vision—hordes of demon armies spilling over borders, bearing chaos with them. He saw nations rallying, species standing together, fending off the onslaught with walls of iron and rivers of fire. The vision faded slowly, leaving him breathless.

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These… memories—they’re not mine, he realized. They belong to this spirit, a fragment of someone whose life had traversed Tal’Rayan’s lands and history in ways he could scarcely understand.

He paused, the memories of the spirit still fading from his mind. “Who are you?” he whispered, wondering if he was hallucinating from his injuries or exhaustion.

Who am I? The voice sounded almost amused, as if savoring the question. Perhaps just a remnant, a fragment left by some legacy. A whisper of a soul, nothing more.

The words sparked instant understanding, as though “legacy” and “remnant” were terms long familiar. Souls, he remembered, were indeed real—an essential force that not only empowered life in all its forms but also served as the cultivator's path to seizing power from the heavens. Cultivators knew the soul as their wellspring, and by deepening its connection, they could channel the energies of the world itself.

Legacies were treasures meant to guide, empower, and elevate those destined for greatness. Often, these legacies contained teachings, artifacts, or methods passed down from powerful cultivators to prodigies or those with immense potential. The most precious legacies were imbued with traces of a higher cultivator’s soul, allowing a faint echo of the original owner’s wisdom, experience, or personality to guide its inheritor. Such remnants could mentor a cultivator, imparting insights far beyond ordinary knowledge and offering a unique bond that felt as natural as breathing.

The stranger realized one of the guards was speaking to him, but the words were unintelligible. The spirit seemed to hear his unspoken question and murmured softly in his mind, The language of Gakkan. In that instant, comprehension flooded his senses. He understood every word, as if the language had always been his own.

A guard’s voice broke through, “Look, he’s finally awake,” the guard sneered, his gaze appraising the stranger with dark satisfaction. “I knew he had to be a cultivator—only one of them could heal fast enough to wake up this soon.”

Once again, his hand instinctively tried to move to his head, but the motion was stopped short as the shackles dug into his wrists. A dull, pulsing pain throbbed near his temple, hinting at a scabbed-over wound. His body ached with bruises, cuts, and scrapes, but none seemed life-threatening. Whatever had happened to him, his captors had ensured he’d survive.

A faint scoff echoed from the voice in his mind, sharper now, laced with disdain. Cultivator? it muttered. Fool. This body hasn’t even ignited its dantian.

As he considered the spirit’s words, vivid memories of cultivation practices surfaced. He recalled an enigmatic power drawn from the lifeforce of all living things—even remnants of powerful spirits. Mages called it mana, wielding it differently, but cultivators followed a unique path: transforming their bodies into vessels to refine chi into qi. This process was like a continuous alchemical reaction, linking qi with body, soul, and consciousness to form a unified, powerful core.

The journey, he recalled, was long and arduous. The initial stages—condensation, foundation building, and core formation—laid the groundwork, aligning one’s body with the energies of the universe. At higher stages, like nascent soul and immortal soul, a cultivator’s essence expanded, bridging the mortal and immortal realms. Some were said to transcend reality itself, reaching realms so high they became like gods, influencing the heavens.

The spirit’s words likely referred to the first step of the condensation stage: using a technique called the Sacred Breath to draw chi into the lower dantian, a spiritual reservoir at one’s core. This was no simple breath but a practiced technique to absorb and transform ambient energy.

In the lower dantian, chi would be altered by the cultivator’s spirit, becoming qi—the refined, potent energy that empowered them. Filling the dantian motivates a metamorphosis, "igniting" it, and marking the true start of the cultivation journey. This foundation was essential for all growth, deepening connections to body, soul, and consciousness.

But this body, his own, hadn’t begun this transformative path. So why would the guard think otherwise?

Could it be… you they’re sensing? he wondered to the voice in his head.

The voice gave a begrudging pause. Perhaps. Though I am but a fragment, I am still far beyond anything these simpletons would understand.

The guard noticed his movement and smirked, gesturing to the heavy iron shackles around his wrists. “Don’t bother thinking about escape, wanderer. Those are power-dampening shackles, made just for folks like you.”

The guard continued with a self-satisfied laugh, “Not that it matters. You’ve got no emblem, so nobody’s coming to look for you. Just a wandering cultivator, no sect, no ties.” His voice turned mockingly sympathetic. “A real shame, isn’t it?”

The stranger felt another flash of recognition at the guard’s words: wandering cultivator—a solitary life beyond sect protections, with no allegiance or obligations. Freedom, perhaps, or exile. He wasn’t sure if that title fit him, but the concept nestled comfortably in his mind, as if long known.

A question began to gnaw at him. How did he know these things? The language, the vision of the world—they felt foreign yet innately familiar. He could sense that much of it came from the spirit, but this other knowledge... it felt like it belonged to him. Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t recall why.

Did you show me all of this? he asked, probing the spirit.

No, it replied, an almost amused edge to its denial. I only showed you the world I remember and one of the languages I knew.

He was relieved to have this knowledge—it was like an instinct, a lifeline in this strange place. But he wondered, what else lay hidden within him, waiting to resurface? That thought lingered, leaving him with a mix of anticipation and unease.

The guard looked pleased with himself, as though this insight of his were some profound wisdom. “It’s lucky for us,” he continued, “because it doesn’t matter who you were. No one finds this place, and even if they did, you’ll never leave here alive.” He motioned to the others, who turned to laugh at him, their mocking voices ringing out, amplified by the cave walls.

The cart gave a sudden lurch, and he caught sight of a broad-shouldered guard gesturing with a nod. “You’re a strong one, and healthy, unlike the rest of these poor fools. You’ll fetch a good price. Best part—” he jerked his thumb toward another guard, who grinned back, “—it’s all profit for me, Ari, and the rest.”

The guards burst into another round of laughter, their voices low and menacing, as if they relished each prisoner’s despair.

“Don’t worry,” the guard said, voice filled with twisted mirth. “You’ll live out the rest of your greatly shortened life as a slave. That’s all you’re good for now.”

So they think, the spirit’s voice murmured with dark amusement in his mind. If they could sense anything, it’s only a fragment of what lies within you.

The stranger’s jaw tightened as he processed the guard’s words—and the spirit’s. He might be bound, powerless, and without memory, but a deep intuition told him that his story wasn’t over yet.