Fate's Gaps

Morning came quietly and quickly.

Thin strips of light slipped through the cracks in the shack, landing across the floor in pale lines. Dust drifted through the air, the village already awake. Footsteps, voices, sounds of chopping wood all filled the nearby area.

He opened his eyes.

His body protested immediately. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, his limbs feeling heavy and uncooperative. This body had gone too long without proper food or rest.

He rose slowly.

Rushing now would only be foolish.

Every movement, each breath was measured and controlled. He learned long ago that impatience killed more cultivations than tribulations ever did.

Outside, the village looked no different from his memories.

He was thin, far too thin for his age. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, faded from repeated wear. His face was deathly pale, almost sickly. His eyes were dark and quiet, lacking the dullness common to village children. When he lowered his gaze, he appeared fragile and pathetic.

Mud roads, crooked houses, faces worn thin by hardship. This place had never mattered to Heaven.

That is why it was useful.

He carried on slowly walking to the riverbank, keeping his head lowered. To the villagers, he appeared no more than just another sickly boy, quiet and unremarkable. That invisibility was his greatest cover.

The altar stood near the water, half-buried and cracked. No one cared for it anymore. It was said to honor an old river spirit, but the villagers long since abandoned it, ceasing the offerings.

But they know not of what lay beneath it.

He waited patiently.

Two villagers passed. Then another. Only when the area was completely empty did he kneel and press his palm against the stone.

His eyes sharpened, fixated onto where he placed his palm.

So it was still here.

He moved to dig before the altar, ignoring the dirt staining his hands. His fingers brushed against something cold and smooth. A small, dull stone, no larger than a fingernail, surfaced.

It was a Spirit Stone Fragment.

Spirit stones were the most basic currency of cultivators, even the lowest-grade ones contained stable energy for cultivation.

Fragments, however, were different.

When Spirit Stones shattered, regardless of the method, had their structure collapse. What remained was unstable, a thing spread of energy that leaked away almost as soon as it appeared.

To most cultivators, fragments were worthless. They could not be traded, stored, and could not sustain long-term cultivation. Most would discard it at the moment they see it.

But that was precisely why it still existed here.

To Heaven, it was insignificant.

To the sects, it was trash.

To him, it was enough.

It would not raise his cultivation, or refine his Qi.

But it could strengthen his flesh slowly and quietly, without drawing the attention of Heaven.

He closed his fingers around it, feeling a faint pulse of energy, weak, but enough. Enough to begin repairing his body and survive the oncoming days.

He hid it inside of his sleeve and stood.

As he turned back toward the village, he felt it again.

That same pressure from before.

Fate.

A boy in stood near the road ahead.

Clean clothes, straight posture, clear blue eyes.

He was too clean for this village.

Their gazes met for a brief moment, the pressure intensifying.

"So this is him, the Child Chosen by Heaven." He murmured to himself

The boy frowned, as if sensing something off, then looked away. To him, this was just another villager, an irrelevant existence to him.

He memorised the face, bearing no hatred or anger, only deep calculation.

"Killing you would alert Heaven, I'll take everything you have instead." He thought to himself.

He walked past without another glance.

Above the clouds, Heaven adjusted probabilities, forcing events back into alignment, unaware that a piece of the puzzle had already been removed.

He returned to the shack and sat cross-legged on the floor.

Slowly, carefully, he pressed the fragment against his Dantian, energy seeping in.

His meridians began to scream, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.

He did not stop.
He could not stop.

Pain was familiar.
Failure was not.

By nightfall, his breathing had steadied, his body still weak.

But something had changed, the first crack, the first fissure had formed.

And once something cracks....

It can be shattered.