On the capital planet of the Leion Dukedom, Dan stood before the Central Collection of Arts—a colossal edifice carved from living stone and tempered crystal, its surface shimmering faintly under the twin suns. It towered like a relic from an ancient age, pulsing with the weight of forgotten knowledge and sealed power.
Within its vast halls slumbered the rarest treasures of the planet: one Esoteric Way and several Arcade Arts, each steeped in the heavy silence of centuries past, vibrating with an unseen hum that brushed against the soul.
Dan couldn't afford even a scrap of it.
Nearby, sleek luxury starships sliced the sky like silver leviathans, descending onto marble-white landing platforms. Their hulls gleamed with family crests and gold filigree, arrogant in their silent display of prestige. Dan had arrived in stark contrast—a rattling metro train whose broken windows let in the dust of the lower sectors.
He wore the finest thing he owned, which amounted to faded jeans and a shirt whose fabric had surrendered long ago to too many wash cycles. Tugging his fraying collar, Dan swallowed against the dryness in his throat and exhaled, the air feeling heavy with the scent of polished stone and ozone.
He wasn't here to buy.
His pockets were empty.
He was here to steal—not with his hands, but with his mind.
His gaze lingered on the translucent barriers of tempered glass that separated commoners from miracles. Inside, the Esoteric Ways rested like caged dragons, each a vessel of devastating mastery—arts so rare that entire nations had once bartered their futures for a single fragment. Few existed. Fewer could wield them.
Dan prayed that his Knowing Path could copy one.
But uncertainty gnawed at the edge of his thoughts like a cold wind.
What if it failed? What if someone noticed?
Failure wouldn't just mean death. It would mean obliteration—his existence wiped from memory.
Steadying himself, Dan turned inward, whispering the silent trigger. A shimmer, visible only to his eyes, unfolded before him like a breathing mirage.
Status
Inner Doctrine Arts:
Breath of Essences Mind Lotus
Arcade Arts:
Iron Fist Barrage, Shadowstep Pulse, Stoneguard Mantle, Skyfall Pierce, Soulflare Needle, Blaze Veil Wind Carve Dance, Golden Break (Peak)
The Knowing Path (25%)
One chance.
One heartbeat of opportunity.
Setting his jaw, Dan stepped toward the gates. As he crossed the threshold, a coolness brushed against his skin—subtle, deliberate—like the hand of the Collection itself assessing his worth.
Inside, the Central Collection unfolded around him—a cathedral of wisdom and danger. Marble columns rose like giants into the vaulted ceiling, and intricate mosaics depicting legendary martial artists danced across the floors, whispering forgotten glories to those who dared listen.
Dan moved swiftly, his footfalls silent on the polished stone, threading his way toward the restricted chamber—the sanctuary where the Esoteric Way slumbered under layers of lethal vigilance.
The guards stationed near the vault weren't mere sentries. They radiated the cold presence of seasoned killers—peak-level Arcade Martial Artists, each one a living weapon honed to a razor's edge.
As Dan calculated his grim odds, the world shifted.
A thunderous blast tore through the Collection. The walls shuddered, mosaics cracking under the shockwave, and the charged air vibrated with raw kinetic force. Vibrations rippled up Dan's legs from the trembling ground.
Shouts erupted, sharp and frantic. Several guards sprinted toward the source of the disturbance, leaving only three grim figures behind.
His chance had arrived.
Without a breath of hesitation, Dan summoned the technique that had given him the courage to stand here against all odds.
"Golden Break."
A golden shimmer briefly kissed the edge of his vision—a ripple in reality itself. For a few precious moments, the cosmos leaned in his favor.
He moved.
As the second explosion rocked the vault doors, splintering the massive structure and throwing clouds of dust and smoke into the air, Dan was already in motion. Activating Dancing Wind Curve, he surged forward, his body light and fluid like mist riding a gale. In the swirl of chaos, he reached the pedestal where the sacred scroll awaited.
No hesitation. No retreat.
Summoning the Knowing Path, he touched the scroll—and the world around him faded into a river of symbols and ancient knowledge pouring straight into his mind. The air crackled with unseen energy as mystic patterns seared themselves into his consciousness.
The scroll pulsed beneath his hand—alive, almost aware.
Mind racing, heart pounding like war drums, Dan ducked into a shadowed alcove formed by a fallen pillar. Smoke filled the grand chamber, thick and metallic, masking him from sight as he continued absorbing the Way.
But amid the chaotic symphony of screams and crumbling stone, a question stabbed at him:
Who would dare attack the Central Collection?
The answer came swift and brutal.
Whispers broke through the haze—terrified, broken voices clinging to a single name:
Warnack.
Terror gripped the Collection.
Warnack had come—and they hadn't come to steal alone. They came to conquer.
Where the noble guards fought with honor, the Warnack warriors fought like a force of nature unleashed.
One group of defenders unleashed synchronized Ice and Fire Techniques—a dazzling dance of elemental fury—but it faltered before a Warnack soldier who exhaled a thick Poisonous Mist Art. The guards collapsed in seconds, their bodies crumpling as though puppet strings had been severed.
Another attacker bent the earth itself, calling forth a Bone Lance that speared a guard cleanly through the heart, splintering the air with a sickening crack.
And then he entered—the storm's eye.
The High Warnack.
He moved like smoke on a battlefield, silent and swift, his blade a ghost flashing in the smoke. Two guards fell before they even realized they had been struck, the blade's passage marked only by the sharp scent of blood and ozone.
But then he paused.
Through the maelstrom of violence and chaos, his gaze locked onto something unexpected:
A lone boy, hunched in the ruins, utterly consumed by the scroll.
The High Warnack's brow furrowed.
A child, barely into manhood, clothed in rags, attempting what seasoned masters dared not.
For a moment, something strange flickered across his features.
And then—the impossible.
The air around Dan began to shimmer, waves of unseen force radiating outward. A profound stillness fell over him, a gravity that bent the smoke and noise around his form. He wasn't merely reading the scroll. He was entering solitude—the sacred trance through which martial artists transcended mortal limits.
The High Warnack's heart gave a rare, involuntary skip.
"He's doing it…" he murmured. "He's breaking through."
No master's guidance. No slow cultivation.
Dan was decoding the ancient art with raw instinct, threading through layers of meaning with sheer will.
One of the Warnack soldiers rushed forward, panic in his voice.
"Sir—the Esoteric Way is missing!"
The leader chuckled softly, his voice like iron wrapped in velvet. He tilted his head toward the corner.
"It's right there."
As the soldiers readied themselves to strike, the High Warnack raised a commanding hand.
"Let him finish."
They obeyed.
In the heart of the collapsing Collection, as war raged and blood stained marble floors, the intergalactic warlords stood silent—not as executioners, but as witnesses.
Watching a lone boy wrestle fate itself—and perhaps, unknowingly, reshape the future of worlds.
__________________________________________________
Dan had no idea how much time had passed. When he opened his eyes, a faint smile touched his lips—he had done it. He had broken through the Esoteric Way.
Still seated amid the lingering hush of solitude, Dan slowly rose. The chamber of the Central Collection of Arts was no longer how he remembered it. Smoke curled in the stale air, carrying the bitter tang of scorched parchment and blood. Faint embers still glowed on shattered pedestals, and the once-pristine stone floor was marred with blackened scars of battle.
Figures in sleek black uniforms encircled the sanctum like a tightening noose. Their formation was a living barrier—precise, methodical. Eyes, cold and gleaming with wary curiosity, fixed upon Dan as if he had become the axis upon which the world turned.
He didn't recognize them. His solitude had been a cocoon, sealing him away from the chaos. Now, reality crashed back with heavy finality. Yet Dan wasted no time. Calmly, without a flicker of hesitation, he strode toward the center where the esoteric scroll had once been housed—now cradled in his arms.
The circle of soldiers parted, just enough to let him pass, though their gazes carved into him with the weight of drawn blades.
With steady hands, Dan tossed the scroll to the nearest uniformed man—an offering, or perhaps a challenge.
Then, wordless and unshaken, he turned toward the exit. His steps were even, deliberate, as if the gathered threat was no more than mist before him.
But a voice cut through the tension like a falling guillotine.
"Capture him alive."
It was the man adorned in the most elaborate garb, bearing silvered pauldrons and a dark cloak stitched with the sigil of Warnack. His voice was absolute, sharp enough to split stone.
In a heartbeat, three men lunged.
Dan stopped. Outside, he was stone—unyielding, unreadable. Inside, his mind whirled, calculation racing through him like wildfire.
How do I survive this?
He called forth his status in his mind:
Esoteric Way:
The Art of Disguise The Knowing Path is evolving the Golden Break
Dan's heart dipped. The Art of Disguise—nothing more than a shell to change appearances. No weapons. No shield. No wings for escape.
But then—hope.
The Knowing Path is evolving the Golden Break.
The first attacker hurtled toward him, his arm transmuting into solid stone, a boulder-fist aiming straight for Dan's head. The air hissed with the weight of it.
Dan moved at the last heartbeat. Wind Dance Curve whispered through his limbs, guiding his body into a flowing twist that slipped the strike by a hair's breadth. In the same breath, his fist flashed forward—a coiled serpent of power—Iron Fist Art crushing into the attacker's ribs with a sharp crack. A grunt of pain burst from the man's throat.
The second assailant charged, a spear glinting in the fractured torchlight. Dan summoned Shadowstep Pulse—the world blurred—and he vanished two steps back, the spear cutting only empty air.
Yet the third was ready. From his hands, frost bloomed across the floor like an unstoppable tide, reaching for Dan's ankles.
Instinct screamed. Wind Dance Curve and Shadowstep Pulse braided together, surging through Dan's muscles. His form became a blur of movement, flickering across the forming frost with the grace of a drifting leaf.
Cries erupted. More guards poured in—now seven against one.
A fire arrow whistled through the thickening air.
Dan barely glanced—Stone Guard Mantle unfurled around him in a shimmer of ochre light. The arrow struck, its force sending him skidding back, boots grinding across the fractured floor—but the mantle held. No searing heat. No death.
From above, a shadow dropped—a blade slicing down like a falling star.
Dan reacted, flinging a Solar Flare Needle with pinpoint precision. It struck the attacker's shoulder mid-descent, sending him spinning off-course. Dan vaulted backward, his landing rough but alive.
No pause.
Two more soldiers closed in, cutting off escape with ruthless precision.
Dan's hand closed around the blaze veil—a hidden card. He hurled it. Midair, the cloth ignited, bursting into molten tendrils that lashed out, binding their limbs with living fire.
Relief flickered—and cost him.
From behind, a sledgehammer blow caught his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. He hit the stone wall with a brutal crack, the world flashing red.
Pain exploded through his side—broken ribs, no question.
And still, the soldiers came.
Dan gasped, blood staining his teeth. Every breath was a dagger. Yet through the haze of agony, a glimmer shone.
A message appeared before his fading sight:
The Knowing Path has evolved the Golden Break to Esoteric Way.
Dan's voice thundered in his mind— Golden Break!
A current surged through him. The chamber itself seemed to shudder in response—the air thickened, charged with unseen power. Even the scattered embers bent subtly toward him.
A strange clarity crystallized within him. The pain receded to the edges of his mind, replaced by a surging current of fury, will, and momentum.
He charged.
The four soldiers in his way hesitated—just a beat—but it was enough.
Even the leader, so composed, so certain a moment ago, now faltered, confusion flashing across his eyes.
How was this broken boy standing?
Dan didn't question it.
He moved with a purpose beyond thought—beyond fear.
Shadowstep throbbed beneath his feet, carrying him like a pulse of living wind. He was no longer man but motion itself—twisting, sliding, evading blades by breaths.
Steel kissed the air. Arrows howled past. Dan bent and pivoted, letting them scream harmlessly by.
In a heartbeat, he struck back. A barrage of Solar Flare Needles—each throw sharp, lethal, precise.
One needle pierced shoulder sinew. Another crippled a knee. Armor gaps were exploited with uncanny accuracy.
Gasps broke the rhythm of the enemy.
Shouts splintered the unity of their charge.
Their encirclement faltered.
Dan pressed harder—momentum a raging tide at his back. He spun, a whirling force of strikes and pulses. A final needle snapped out—embedding itself between a man's stunned, widening eyes.
A second later, Stone Guard Mantle reformed—shielding him from a desperate counterattack.
Without losing a breath, he called forth Echo Grasp—phantom arms of rippling energy sprang from his aura, ensnaring stunned soldiers in their invisible coils.
One smooth motion: Dan drew another blaze veil.
It soared.
Upon contact, fire bloomed—savage, consuming, final.
In seconds, four elite soldiers were downed, writhing under the unrelenting inferno.
Dan exhaled—a long, dragging breath that rattled with exhaustion and battered ribs.
But there was no time for victory.
A slicing chill tore across the sanctum—the air itself seemed to freeze.
Dan's instincts screamed.
He shifted just as the leader struck—a blur of speed and death, far beyond the others.
Dan activated Shadowstep Pulse and Wind Dance Curve at once, muscles screaming in protest. He moved by sheer will, dodging a deathblow by inches. Sparks burst from the stone where the blade grazed.
The leader pursued—relentless, flawless. His movements were a masterwork of technique and annihilation.
Dan gave ground, launching every minor Arcane Art he knew like flares in a storm. They slowed the leader's assault—but only just.
Still, amid the chaos, Dan saw it: the rhythm.
The leader's dance, the heartbeat of his strikes.
Dan roared within—and called forth his final gamble:
Skyfall Pierce.
Golden energy crackled from his core, lancing along his veins. He twisted, every muscle honed by instinct, and unleashed the strike.
Power tore through the chamber.
The leader staggered back—two, precious, unbelieving steps.
But Dan—Dan was thrown like a broken doll, crashing against stone with a sickening impact. White-hot pain speared through his body. Blood flooded his mouth.
He crumpled.
Darkness coiled around him.
The last thing he registered was the cold majesty of his enemy, standing tall as he fell.
Smoke drifted like dying spirits through the shattered hall, and blood still whispered on broken stone. In the center of the ruin, a boy moved—a lone, battered spark against a storm too vast to name. Eyes sharp as blades tracked his every step, yet he walked forward, each heartbeat hammering the silence thinner. Somewhere beyond pain and fear, something deeper stirred—something even the gathering darkness could not crush. And as the unseen currents thickened, the world itself seemed to lean closer, waiting to see if the last ember would flicker out... or ignite.