The wind tore across the northern plains like a blade, carrying with it the bitter scent of iron and snow. Jagged cliffs cut through the horizon, their black edges glinting under the pale, weak sun. In this forsaken corner of the continent, no orthodox sects raised their banners, no unorthodox clans carved their dominion—only the cold, the wind, and the scattered remnants of survival.
Twelve-year-old Kaelen hunched against a ridge, his clothes tattered, his bare hands clutching a crude spear his father had once fashioned. His breath came in white puffs, each one carrying the taste of frostbitten air and desperation. Around him, the plains were empty save for the occasional wolf pack that skulked through the shadows, hunting as relentlessly as the wind itself.
Kaelen's eyes were sharp, unnaturally so for his age. Black as midnight, they reflected both the bitter emptiness of the north and the storm that churned inside him. He had grown up without masters, without teachers, without a name among the great clans and sects. What he had, he had forged himself: cunning, patience, and an unyielding will.
The boy's gaze drifted to the distant horizon, where a faint column of smoke rose from a ruined village. Merchants traveling the northern trade routes were easy prey for roaming bandits, and the remnants of such raids often lay scattered in the snow like discarded toys. Kaelen's stomach tightened—not from hunger alone, but from anger. He had witnessed the truth of the world: the strong took without mercy, the weak died without justice. The orthodox called themselves righteous; the unorthodox, clever. Both were scum, and both would grind the powerless into dust without a second thought.
He clenched his fist, the skin cracking under the pressure. "One day… I'll build something they cannot touch," he muttered. The words were carried away by the wind, swallowed before they could reach even his own ears. Yet even in that solitary declaration, a seed was planted—a seed that would one day grow into a name whispered across the continent, feared by the mighty and loved by the downtrodden.
At that moment, a shrill cry broke the monotony of the northern wind. Kaelen's head snapped toward the sound. A caravan, barely a dozen carts, struggled through the snow, flanked by two bandits mounted on vicious-looking horses. The leader of the raiders wore a tattered cloak marked with the sigil of the Iron Crocodile Syndicate—a minor unorthodox faction known for plundering travelers in the northern reaches.
Kaelen's hand tightened around his spear. He did not hesitate. The boy may have been small, but his reflexes were honed sharper than any blade in these parts. He leapt from the ridge, landing with a roll that carried him to cover behind a jagged boulder. From this vantage, he could see the caravan driver attempting to negotiate, waving a pouch of coins like a white flag.
The bandit leader sneered, swinging a cruel iron chain. "You've got two options, merchant. Give us everything, or die in the snow."
The boy's eyes narrowed. In one swift motion, Kaelen spun, his spear slicing through the frozen air. The first bandit's horse reared, startled by the sudden precision of the strike. With a crack, the spear connected, embedding itself into the animal's side. The rider was thrown violently into the snow, unconscious before he even realized what had happened.
Panic rippled through the remaining bandit. "What the—!"
Kaelen did not wait for them to react. He darted forward, a blur of motion born from countless hours of running, hunting, and surviving in the unforgiving north. Spears, chains, and crude swords clashed against him, but each attack was anticipated and countered with instinctual precision. He struck not for honor, not for glory—only survival, and the protection of those too weak to defend themselves.
By the time the snow settled and the last bandit fled, leaving the caravan shivering and terrified, Kaelen stood alone, the spear slick with blood and snow. He breathed heavily, but there was no fear in his chest—only cold clarity.
The caravan driver, an old man with frost-bitten ears and trembling hands, managed to speak. "You… you saved us, boy. But who… who are you?"
Kaelen looked to the horizon once more, his eyes reflecting the storm-torn sky. "No one yet," he said, his voice steady. "But I will be someone. One day, they'll call me… something they cannot stop."
The words were more than a promise—they were a declaration of war against the world itself. Against the orthodox, the unorthodox, and every thief and tyrant who believed that might equaled right.
And in that frozen north, with only the wind and the snow as witnesses, the first spark of a demonic legend was born.
Kaelen did not know it yet, but the journey he had begun would stretch across the entire continent. He would forge a sect from nothing, wield a cultivation manual unlike any other, rise to Heavenly Master before most men could even dream of it, and reshape the balance of power forever.
For now, however, he simply wiped the snow from his hands, tightened the leather bindings of his tattered cloak, and vanished into the northern wasteland, leaving behind the terrified caravan, a trail of blood, and the first whispers of the legend to come.