Divinity

Meteorite

Deep within the vastness of space, a meteorite streaked across the stars, enveloped in brilliant, deep-blue flames that flickered like celestial tongues of fire. It hurtled with alarming speed, trailing ripples of profound laws and ancient mysteries, embodying the very essence of worldly truths and the Dao. The meteorite’s size was immense, its full length almost beyond comprehension, as if the heavens themselves had carved it from a star long forgotten. For hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, it drifted through the silent void of space before colliding with a small, obscure planet on the far edge of the universe. This planet, neither particularly large nor small, was home to countless lives and millions of inhabitants, all unaware of the impending cataclysm.

When the meteorite struck, it unleashed a series of deafening explosions that echoed like the wrath of gods, shaking the very foundations of the earth. Forests were obliterated, and mountains crumbled like brittle clay beneath the immense impact. Waves of deep blue flames surged across the land, devouring everything in their path with a fierce, unquenchable hunger. And yet, in a mystifying twist, when the meteorite made contact, no signs of life remained. Neither humans nor animals inhabited the land, as if the planet itself had somehow foreseen the disaster and emptied its land.

The blue flames raged for four long days and nights, painting the horizon with eerie, otherworldly lights before finally subsiding. What remained was a desolate landscape, a scorched ruin of barren earth and shattered stone that would take generations to heal. But, as time often does, the planet slowly began to recover. Lush flowers bloomed where the flames once danced, and vibrant wildlife returned to the land. Tribes rose and fell, their presence a fleeting memory in the grand scheme of time. For the next thousand years, the meteorite lay buried beneath the earth, unnoticed and forgotten by the world above. As centuries passed, powerful clans began to rise in the surrounding forests. Generations of warriors were born with astonishing bloodlines—men and women whose physical strength defied the natural order, leaving even the elders of their clans in awe.

After six thousand years, these clans had become the undisputed rulers of vast territories, overseeing the lives of hundreds of thousands. The Meng, Fang, and Bia clans, each with a lengthy millennium of history, ruled the area. One late night, Bia Xiao, a young warrior of the Bia clan, bravely attacked a tall tree with his bare hands and feet in a thick forest southeast of the clan's territory. His body bore countless bruises and cuts, yet he showed no signs of stopping. The sounds of his fists striking wood echoed in the cool night air; the rhythm of his attacks was almost hypnotic.

After four hours of punishing exertion, Bia Xiao collapsed against the tree, sweat pouring from his body like rain. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his vision blurred from exhaustion. Nearby, a small fire crackled softly, casting warm, flickering shadows on the ground. Two pieces of meat roasted slowly over the flames, their savory aroma mingling with the fresh scent of the forest, offering a brief comfort to the otherwise lonely scene.

"Hey Mom, hey Dad, don’t worry. Your son is doing well." Bia Xiao wiped the tears from his eyes as he gazed at two small, shabby graves a few meters away. The makeshift wooden headstones were barely holding together, weathered by years of exposure to the elements. He stood up, his fists clenched tightly, and returned to the tree, resuming his relentless assault. His blows were slower now, less precise, but he refused to stop.

“What do you think, Dad? The Raging Tiger Art you taught me is coming along, isn’t it?” His voice cracked with emotion as he spoke to his father’s grave, his tears flowing freely. He made no effort to hide them. In this forest, far from the scorn of the Bia clan, he could be vulnerable.

“Mom, I miss you so much.”

For hours, he lay between the two graves, speaking softly into the night. His words, though filled with sorrow, seemed to bring him a small measure of peace. As the first light of dawn began to creep through the trees, Bia Xiao finally rose to his feet, his body aching but his spirit unwavering. “It’s time for me to eat now.”

The meat had roasted to perfection, the juices sizzling as they dripped into the flames. Bia Xiao, driven by hunger, eagerly tore into the food, savoring each bite. He had learned to survive on his own—an outcast of his clan, he hunted wild game and foraged for berries. His parents had been killed three years ago by a clan elder, punished for refusing to send their only son to serve as a slave for the main branch of the clan.

The Bia family, numbering only around 1,300 people, was considered weak compared to the larger, more powerful factions of the clan. Every five years, the elders would demand slaves from the smaller tribes to serve the needs of the main branch. Those who refused paid the ultimate price. Bia Xiao’s parents had defied the order, and their defiance had cost them their lives.

Since then, the Bia clan has turned its back on him. His relatives despised him, seeing him as the reason for their misfortune. They left him to fend for himself, treating him like a pariah.

“Well, it’s time for me to head back now. Take care, and I’ll visit you tomorrow night.”

Bia Xiao cleaned up his makeshift camp and set off for the Bia tribe’s settlement. The two-hour run through the forest passed in silence, the rhythmic sound of his feet pounding the earth the only noise to accompany him. Upon arriving at the settlement's massive wooden fence, he was welcomed by the sight of the village.

The Bia tribe was nestled beside a wide river, its current flowing swiftly under the light of the moon. Hundreds of large wooden houses stood proudly along the riverbank, and a vast training field stretched out behind the settlement, filled with equipment for martial arts training. But Bia Xiao had never been allowed to train there. His exile was complete.

“Look, it’s Bia Xiao! He’s still alive after all that time in the forest. What a strange kid, talking to graves every night,” one of the guards on the fence sneered, his laughter grating in the cool night air.

“Hey, kid! Still talking about those graves?” Another guard jeered, clutching his belly in amusement.

Bia Xiao ignored the taunts. He had grown used to the tribe’s mockery over the years. His heart burned with a quiet, seething anger, but he showed no outward sign of it.

“One day,” he muttered under his breath, “I’ll make you all pay. Every single one of you.”

As he passed through the gates, the guards pelted him with plums, laughing cruelly as he brushed them off. At fourteen years old, Bia Xiao had been self-sufficient for years, surviving off the land since the age of ten. He had never once begged for food or complained about his situation. His only companions were the trees and his parents’ graves.

With a sigh, he pushed open the creaky wooden door to his small, rundown hut. Inside, there was little to show for his years of hardship—a simple wooden bed and a rough table made from tree branches. Everything else had been taken from him by the clan. Despite his circumstances, Bia Xiao felt a sense of pride in what little he had built for himself.

From his tattered robe, he retrieved a small booklet labeled "Raging Tiger Art" and carefully placed it under his bed. This secret martial art, passed down to him by his father, was the only connection he had left to his family. If the clan knew about it, they would have stolen it long ago.

As the sun rose high into the sky the next day, Bia Xiao awoke to the growling of his stomach. It was time to return to the forest for food, his daily struggle for survival beginning anew.