The night in Zealtow, a semi-urban town caught between the restless hum of city life and the calm breath of the countryside, was unusually still. It was close to midnight, and the streets, usually alive with the faint buzz of generators or the distant chatter of night vendors, lay cloaked in an eerie quiet. The moon hung low and pale, veiled by thin wisps of drifting cloud, and even the wind seemed to have forgotten how to move.
Inside a small, dimly lit room on the second floor of a worn-out building, Justin Winder tossed and turned on his bed. Sleep evaded him like a cruel joke. He had tried everything—turning the fan to its highest speed, playing calming music, even counting the seconds in silence—but his mind refused to rest.
With a frustrated sigh, he reached for his console and switched on a game, hoping the flashing colors and familiar music would numb the unease in his chest. But after a few rounds, the joy he usually found in gaming dissolved into a dull boredom.
Just then his gaze drifted to the small wooden desk across the room, where an unassuming green book lay. He had picked it up earlier that day, lying abandoned by a dusty roadside stall. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a worn-out collection of poetry. The title, faintly embossed in gold leaf, had almost faded from the cover. He hadn't paid it much attention then, yet now, in the stillness of the night, the book seemed to call to him.
Almost unconsciously, he stood, crossed the room, and picked it up. The moment his fingers brushed against the cover, a chill ran up his arm—not the kind that made one shiver from cold, but something deeper, stranger, as though the air around him had briefly shifted.
"Just my imagination," he muttered, though his voice trembled slightly.
He sat by the window, letting the silver moonlight spill across the pages as he opened the book. The first page was blank. The second contained a few words written in an elegant, ancient script—letters that twisted and shimmered faintly, as though alive. He frowned, yet he could read them, though he had never seen such writing before.
> 'He who reads without purpose shall find none.
He who reads with desire shall awaken the Way.'
A strange warmth bloomed in his chest as he read the line. The words pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, and before he knew it, he was flipping through the pages. Slowly at first, then faster. Each turn revealed more symbols, diagrams, and verses that seemed to echo in his mind. His eyes moved without pause, his mind absorbing information at an impossible speed.
Minutes became moments. The boundaries of time began to blur.
The book seemed endless. Though it looked to be a slim, hundred-page collection, the pages refused to end. He flipped and flipped, yet the book only grew deeper, vaster, as if each page led into another dimension. The air thickened. The world outside his window faded into silence.
Soon, he was no longer reading with his eyes. The words flowed directly into his mind, weaving into his thoughts like streams merging into a great ocean. He could feel something ancient unfolding within him—a pattern, a rhythm, a force beyond comprehension.
The Celestial Way.
He somehow knew that was what he was learning—the most profound cultivation art ever written, one that was said to defy the limits of the mortal world. Stories of the Celestial Way had long been dismissed as myth among scholars and cultivators. Legends spoke of a technique so deep, so infinite, that even the greatest Grandmasters of the ancient era had only glimpsed fragments of its truth before being consumed by it.
Yet Justin read on.
Half an hour passed—or perhaps an eternity—and when the final page turned, a vast silence filled the room. The book disintegrated into green dust, scattering through the air like mist before vanishing completely.
Justin sat motionless, breathing shallowly. His eyes glowed faintly with threads of light, his body humming with quiet energy. Then, all at once, he understood. Every symbol, every line, every secret of the Celestial Way now pulsed within him.
He had done what no cultivator had achieved in the history of mankind—he had comprehended the complete Celestial Way.
A thunderous pulse of power surged through his body. His senses expanded; he could hear the distant rustle of leaves miles away, feel the heartbeat of every living thing around him. The air itself bowed to his presence.
He could feel a powerful aura emanate from within him, threatening to tear the fragile world around him apart. But just as quickly, instinct—newly awakened—told him to conceal it.
He drew in a slow breath and focused. The invisible aura that had begun to ripple outward—an oceanic wave of divine energy—folded back into him, compressing until it vanished entirely. His room returned to its ordinary silence, though the atmosphere still trembled faintly with suppressed power.
Justin stood, gazing at his hands. They looked the same, yet he could feel the galaxies of energy swirling beneath his skin. He clenched his fists, and tiny sparks of starlight danced in his palms before fading.
"What… happened to me?" he whispered.
He turned toward the window again. The moon had fully emerged from behind the clouds, and for a fleeting moment, its light seemed to bend around him, drawn as if by an invisible gravity. He realized then that he was no longer bound by the ordinary world.
He was something else—something beyond.
Outside, far above the calm roofs of Zealtow, the stars flickered strangely, as though bowing in acknowledgment. Somewhere, deep within the fabric of the universe, ancient entities stirred, sensing the birth of a new power.
Justin Winder had become the first True Celestial in a thousand generations.