The Bonded God: Chapter 1

The Dawn of Spiritual Energy

Tree of Doubts

Another waterfall of sweat poured down my face. While punching and tormenting the poor tree closest to my quarters, I muttered aloud, “Am I ever going to become stronger? Or am I just tearing myself apart?”

A seemingly old elder who was passing by stopped and gazed straight into my eyes. For a moment, it felt as if the entire world held its breath.

My body seized with a shudder, and I collapsed backward without grace or warning. It didn’t matter — my mind went blank. The last thing I remember was a sensation like my soul being turned inside out, as if unseen hands were peeling something hidden within me.

When I came to, the geezer was standing there, staring intently at the distant stars. Then, he looked back and smiled — briefly, faintly, as if remembering something long forgotten.

“You are not going to get much stronger. Not like this. Not while doubting yourself so much… Someday, boy, you will have to decide: to shatter, or to break.”

When I finally blinked, he was gone. Only the wind remained — and within it, if I dared listen closely, a faint rattling… like ancient chains stirring beyond the veil of sight.

Whispers of Knowledge

The morning after was a bright one — deceptively so.

The Wholewind Sect stirred with the usual indifference, disciples weaving their routines like tiny insects against the immensity of the blue sky.

I moved through the pathways with a strange feeling gnawing at my chest — not pain, not fear… something heavier, something nameless.

They called me a working disciple. A boy in gray robes. A servant, not even worthy of a glance from the glittering figures of the inner court.

But inside me, something had shifted. Something that could not be folded back into the safe gray folds of before.

As I swept the floor of the kitchen — the endless sweeping, the empty hours — the world itself seemed sharper. The chatter of the inner disciples sliced through the air like clear bells. Their words, once a meaningless river, now seemed woven with hidden threads.

Mana. Pathways. Circuits.

At a corner table, a girl’s voice — bright and determined — caught my ear without my meaning to listen.

“The class about mana pathways this morning was confusing,” she said, voice tinged with frustration.

Another voice laughed — rougher, teasing: “Helena, don’t expect to understand the old geezer’s rambling in one go. It’s like trying to teach a rock how to swim.”

A third voice, sweet but firm, chimed in: “No one expects mastery overnight. First you learn to feel mana — only then can you gather it, guide it. There’s a rhythm to it.”

I froze, still pretending to wipe the table. Every syllable burned itself into my mind.

Feel it first. Guide it second.

As I kept my head low, pretending diligence, I caught a fleeting glance from the girl who had spoken last — a glimmer of mischief, curiosity, and something harder to place.

She smiled faintly, as if she had noticed me noticing them. Her gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary before she turned back to her friends.

“If you really want to start properly,” she said lightly to Helena, “you should read Mana Circuits for Dummies. The name sounds silly, but it’s probably the best for beginners.”

I almost dropped the tray I was carrying. Mana Circuits for Dummies.

It felt as if the universe itself had whispered a secret meant only for me.

Crossing the Gate

That evening, I wandered toward the library. There it was — ancient, cracked, aloof. A place where shadows and whispers lived.

And leaning against a pillar, arms folded, was Elder Li.

“Planning to polish the stones with that thing, boy?” he asked, nodding lazily at the cloth in my hands.

Face burning, I bowed deeply. “I wish to study, Elder.”

He studied me for a long moment. Then turned, motioning for me to follow.

Inside, among the heavy scent of dust and parchment, he questioned me: “How do you even know about mana circuits?”

I confessed everything — overheard conversations, childish curiosity.

Elder Li sighed deeply. “Outer disciples aren’t supposed to know. It’s dangerous. It breaks them.”

And yet — he slid a battered tome toward me: Mana Circuits for Dummies.

“You may study,” he said. “But only sensing. No opening. Not without guidance.”

He showed me into a private room — a place forgotten by time, lit with soft light and silent dreams.

“Spend the night,” he said with a shrug. “No rule against it. If you dare.”

The Silent Reverie

The room was quiet when the mechanism clanked open.

A harsh metallic groan split the air — the kind of noise that would have jolted any sane soul awake.

But not me.

I opened my eyes slowly, calmly, as if waking from a deep lake rather than a bed of stone and fatigue.

Elder Li stood in the doorway, his hand frozen halfway to the locking mechanism, an unreadable expression carved into his weathered face.

He took a step closer.

The bed remained untouched. The tome lay closed, undisturbed on the desk. And I — I felt… different.

Lighter. Clearer. As if something had settled inside me overnight without my permission, weaving itself into the fibers of who I was.

Elder Li’s gaze sharpened. He scanned me once, twice, suspicion flashing in his eyes — and something else too, harder to place. Worry, perhaps. Or disbelief.

“You,” he said finally, voice dry, “are not the same boy I locked in here last night.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I simply bowed — low and sincere.

“Thank you, Elder Li,” I said quietly. “For giving me this chance.”

He grunted, clearly uncomfortable, and turned on his heel.

“Don’t thank me,” he muttered over his shoulder. “I was just following the rules. You owe me nothing.”

But his steps were heavier than before as he walked away — as if he carried a weight not visible to the eye.

Sights of Mana

As I stepped into the light of morning, something strange stirred within me.

The world… looked different.

Subtler. Alive.

Everywhere I turned, faint wisps curled at the edge of my vision — threads of mist, luminous and multicolored, dancing and weaving through the air.

Not the deep, silent blue of mana as the sect’s teachings spoke of. Something else. A spectrum. Ever-shifting. Living.

The mist didn’t obscure my sight; if anything, it clarified it. It moved not with the wind, but with rhythms I could barely perceive — like music played by a hand too vast to see.

I paused, closing my eyes, reaching inward.

And there — within the hollow of my chest, tracing the channels of my body — the same mist flowed.

The lines of my being were etched with a faint, dark blue light where the pathways should be. But around them, and through them, danced filaments of other colors — foreign, vibrant, unruly.

This… was not what the teachings described.

This was not what anyone had prepared me for.

And somehow, I knew — This was mine alone.

A sight not meant for the eyes of others. A path not written in the doctrines of the sect.

I opened my eyes slowly, breathing in the colored mist.

The mist settled into my breath, my skin, my blood, my bones — and though I could not name it, I carried it within me.

Clash of Winds

The morning had barely unfolded when the peace was broken.

As I made my way toward the kitchens, steps lighter and swifter than usual, a cacophony erupted ahead — shouts, curses, the thudding of feet against stone.

I rounded a corner and stumbled into chaos.

Two inner disciples, robes dirtied and expressions twisted in rage, were locked in a brutal skirmish.

“Max, you lying scoundrel!”

“Chris, you slippery rat!”

Insults flew faster than fists.

Mana crackled visibly around them — not the serene mist I had seen, but violent, jagged streams bursting from their limbs with each blow.

They moved like storms given flesh, colliding with enough force to crack the courtyard stones.

I stood frozen, wide-eyed. This was mana used in anger. Raw. Unrefined. Powerful. It was terrifying — and mesmerizing.

The colors around them surged, the mist boiling in frantic tides whenever they clashed.

Suddenly, a cold presence settled beside me. Before I could react, a soft chuckle brushed my ear.

“Having fun, kitchen boy?”

I stiffened. Elder Ronald.

Infamous even among the worker disciples, he was a man whose punishments were legendary — and not in a good way.

I barely managed a stiff bow, but the elder didn’t even glance at me. His gaze was locked on the brawling disciples.

With a sigh of ancient disappointment, he vanished.

A breath later, he reappeared — right between the fighters.

Both inner disciples recoiled mid-strike, faces blanching as they recognized the man standing between them.

“You two again,” Elder Ronald said, voice colder than the northern winds. “Pathetic.”

Before either could offer excuses, two crisp slaps cracked through the air — one for each fighter.

Max and Chris crumpled to the ground, unconscious, ruby handprints blooming on their cheeks like marks of shame.

The elder gave me a sideways glance, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips, then vanished with the two bodies in tow.

I stood there, stunned, a foolish grin creeping onto my face.

“That,” I whispered to myself, “was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

A new goal burned quietly in my chest: One day, I would learn that move.

The Fading Echoes

By the time I reached the kitchens, the morning’s fire had begun to fade.

The mist still danced at the corners of my vision — but it felt thinner now, harder to grasp.

Each step was heavier than the last. Each movement, slower. My hands trembled faintly as I swept, scrubbed, carried.

The energy that had filled me earlier seemed to leak away like water through cracked stone.

Old Tom grumbled something about “sleepwalking pests” as I stumbled through my tasks, but for once, he let me be.

At lunch, the noise of the dining hall pressed against me like a tide. Words blurred together. Faces merged into a single, shifting mass.

I fought to stay focused, to remember orders, to move plates and trays without collapsing.

Across the room, a pair of clear eyes watched me. Ana. Not staring — just… noticing.

A faint crease marred her usually serene expression, as if sensing a dissonance in the air that no one else could hear.

I forced a smile, bowed clumsily, and retreated.

By the end of the shift, my body was a shell. Breathless. Empty. Rattling like a hollow drum.

I barely heard Old Tom shout as I wandered, half-conscious, toward the wrong exit — the one leading back to the library.

I think I smiled when I saw it. Or maybe I just collapsed.

Strong hands caught me before I hit the ground.

“Stupid boy,” a familiar voice muttered. “Trying to get yourself killed?”

Rough, but careful, Elder Li lifted me like a bundle of rags and carried me inside.

“Guess there are no rules,” he sighed, half to himself, “about idiots borrowing rooms two nights in a row.”

The last thing I remembered before the darkness swallowed me was the faint scent of old parchment and the sound of distant, patient breathing — as if the very walls of the library had decided to shelter me, just this once.

The journey continues.
Anchor your spirit in the Library of Ashes, or
return to The Path and walk beside your Echo.

Written by Ashen Vow
Between ruin and rise — I forge the unseen vows.