Mountains and rivers breed heroes—so many have bowed before glory.

But that’s the past. The ones who matter… are living now.

“Swish!”

In a rundown stone hut, a battered young man suddenly opened his eyes.

His gaze carried weariness, sorrow, a faint regret—and a hint of peace.

“Where… am I?” he murmured. He instinctively moved his left arm—then froze.

His stump… was whole?

And his right leg—it was back too?

But why did everything seem… so small?

He shot up, panic flashing in his eyes. The body was thin, frail, barely looked ten. His chest tightened.

“Reincarnated into a corpse?” The thought came fast. But before he could make sense of it, his eyes landed on a bronze mirror by the bed—and his mind went blank.

“That’s… me? When I was a kid?”

The young face in the mirror was his. No mistaking it. He glanced around, recognition settling in. The room—it was his childhood room.

“An illusion?” A new thought rose slowly.

The Eastern Continent, home to thirty-six cities, was the most chaotic region in the Sacred Domain. That’s why folks called it the Chaos Field.

No one knew how the four continents of the Sacred Domain came to be. But over the ages, this land had given rise to countless heroes.

Among them, Charles Whitecastle stood above all.

Unmatched in power, unrivaled in strength—but when his time came, he had no successor.

In the end, he chose to leave behind his legacy in Whitecastle City, waiting for someone worthy to take it on.

But for thousands of years… not a single soul had cracked the city’s secrets.

The legend of Whitecastle—cut short.

And in all those centuries, hunters flooded the continents like bloodthirsty sharks, chasing the scent of that legacy. Most were burned out by failure.

Brock Forrester was just one drop in that ocean.

But he—unlike all others—had managed to enter Whitecastle.

A secret locked tight for millennia, and he’d solved it alone.

Thing was, Brock wasn’t fit to enjoy it. He might’ve been in his early thirties, the prime of a man’s life, but sickness had aged him into a shadow. Crippled arm, shattered leg—he looked half-dead.

He thought he'd end up, like countless others, wasting away in some lost ruin. He never expected to stumble into Whitecastle’s truth.

"White clouds birth the cloudy city; deep in clouds, the city lies. Ask the clouds where they drift—high above, wide below, no need to fret."

It all sounded like nonsense. Until it didn't.

Everyone believed Whitecastle was some sky-city myth. The clue kept saying "cloud," so that’s where everyone looked.

But that assumption—that was Charles Whitecastle’s cruel joke.

The city? It was on the ground the whole time.

Buildings, elegant as jade, towers and pavilions standing proud. Even after thousands of years, not a single stone had crumbled.

Light fog swirled at times, like you could step out and walk among clouds.

Beautiful—breathtakingly so.As Brock Forrester stepped into the palace, the first thing that hit him was the sight of towering mounds of gold jade, like small mountains. On the other side stood a slightly smaller hill of violet jade.

In the Holy Domain's Four Continents, jade served as currency—green jade the cheapest, gold jade above that, and violet jade the most precious of all.

Brock gave a rough estimate—what lay here in violet jade could easily buy any of the thirty-six cities in the Chaos Zone, and still leave some to spare.

But what a pity…

He knew his days were numbered. No matter how much wealth lay in front of him, it couldn’t save what was already lost.

Beyond the jade mounds, his eyes fell on thirty-six stone tables.

His heart skipped a beat.

But the excitement faded—most of the tables were barren. Whatever treasures had once filled this place, time had already claimed them.

Still, if anything lasted thousands of years without rotting, it had to be extraordinary.

Brock only cared about one thing—Heaven-Crafting Elixir.

Only such a miracle pill, capable of breathing life into the dead and rebuilding ruined flesh, could patch up the broken body he had dragged all this way. Maybe even overturn his doomed fate.

If only…

Whether it was Charles Whitecastle’s unmatched sword or his peerless move, ‘Heavenly Sword Beyond Heaven’—none of it could help now.

“If I had found this place twenty years ago... I wouldn't be dying here like a dog. My family wouldn't have fallen. My adoptive father wouldn’t be dead. Damn it all!”

His voice cracked with rage, his eyes bloodshot. Madness danced in his gaze.

“RAARRGH!!”

A dragon’s roar shattered the silence.

“What—White Dragon? Could it still be alive?” Brock's breath hitched. That roar wasn’t from something dead.

“You've finally come, successor. But it’s too late.”

Thick mist suddenly rolled in from all directions, leaving only a single narrow pathway ahead.

Brock didn’t hesitate. At this point, with one foot in the grave, what was there to fear?

He followed the path for what felt like an eternity. Just as his legs gave out and he collapsed—

A massive claw caught him mid-fall and held him steady.

He looked up and his breath caught in his throat.

“So… you’re the one who gave Whitecastle its name?”

In the mist, a massive white dragon appeared, its body half-hidden. Its form flickered like it had merged with the very fog.

Long, sharp horns. A broad, powerful frame. Claws gleaming like frozen steel. There was no mistaking it.

“Yes,” the dragon said, voice heavy with sorrow. “The Lord was a man of unmatched vision… but the line ends here.”

“Yeah,” Brock said, leaning against the creature's warm side, catching his breath. “If I’d met you twenty years earlier, I’d have taken you out of here. We would’ve torn the world apart. Too bad… You're dying. So am I.”

Even from here, he could feel the dragon’s decaying life. Its wounds—deep, festering—had clearly been there for centuries.

How it survived this long, Brock couldn’t begin to imagine.

He himself had long since burned out his strength, a candle about to gutter.Maybe it was because both of them carried too many regrets and couldn’t let go of the past. In their final moments, man and dragon ended up talking like lifelong brothers.

The White Dragon spoke of its days following Charles Whitecastle—glorious battles, legendary adventures, sweeping through the Thirty-Six Kingdoms without fear.

Brock Forrester, on the other hand, shared his own path, starting from being taken in by the Hunter Clan, to becoming a hunter himself, walking the hidden lands of the four continents of the Sanctuary.

Time seemed to stretch, slowing down just for the two of them. Laughing at life and death, they let everything go. The burdens, the pain—they all felt like distant smoke, long since dissolved in each other's understanding.

When Brock finally finished telling the story of his life, the dragon’s body beneath him had already turned cold. From that massive wound, faint lights began to flicker—like fireflies under a moonless sky.

“I... can’t hold on anymore. Brock, if only I’d lived your life with you. It would’ve been something. But—my last wish—when I’m gone, bury my Dragon Pearl under that tree in the back.”

With those parting words, the giant body of the White Dragon scattered into shimmering light, disappearing before his eyes. What remained was a pearl, as big as a fist, breathing mist like the breath of the heavens.

Brock stared at it, drawing in one last breath. Every shred of will he had left, he used to fulfill his friend’s dying wish.

Staggering forward, every step burning through what remained of him, even a short ten meters felt like dragging his soul through a battlefield.

But he made it—finally reached that tree.

Collapsing to the ground, he dug out a small pit with his bare hands, barely enough, and laid the Dragon Pearl to rest.

“Guess… dying here isn’t that bad,” Brock whispered. There wasn’t a hint of panic in his voice.

He thought back to his younger days, riding beside his foster father, hunting spirit beasts like they ruled the world.

“I’m really not willing to die like this… Why? Why me? Why did the heavens curse me with such a life?”

Grief clung to his chest.

He hadn’t avenged his people. Hadn’t rebuilt his kingdom. Hadn’t repaid his father for taking him in.

Just as those thoughts swirled in his mind, a fruit fell from the tree above, veiled in white mist, smacking him square on the head.

“What the…”

He looked down, stunned.

It was weightless in his hand. Though wrapped in mist, the light inside was brilliant, shifting in rainbow hues like a living thing.

“Could this be... what the White Dragon meant at the end?” Brock’s heart skipped a beat, remembering that strange look in the dragon’s fading eyes.

He didn’t know what it meant, but with his last ounce of strength, he brought the fruit to his lips—but before he could take a bite, his body finally gave out.

“Too bad… I’ll never get a second chance…”

With that quiet whisper in his heart, Brock’s eyes closed for the last time.

Dead.

RUMBLE—!

In that instant, the fruit exploded with a blinding light, like sharp blades cutting straight through the fabric of space, splitting the heavens.

A surge of sword energy blasted into the sky, tearing a hole straight into the firmament.

The shock shook the entire Sanctuary. All four continents trembled.