The room was bathed in a soft, amber glow, flickering gently from the oil lamps hung along the walls. An air of calm stillness lingered—almost as if the very space was holding its breath in reverence for the day. Quiet whispers of celebration drifted like a distant song, warm and subtle.
At the center, Anthony, the elder of the family, leaned slightly over a carved crib, his lined face filled with a gentle pride. His eyes, softened by years of reverence, shimmered as he softly uttered, "Happy birthday, little Ethan," in a voice that held both awe and affection. His hand lingered, briefly brushing over the tiny blanket wrapped around the child just a few months ago, now a small, lively boy one year old.
Aurora, Ethan’s mother, stood beside him, her expression tender as she gazed down at her son. Her voice, warm and slightly trembling, whispered, "Happy birthday, Ethan," her words laced with joy and quiet hope.
Her fingers softly pressed into Ethan’s tiny hand, feeling the faint, rhythmic tremors of his breathing.
In his crib, Ethan—the baby in body but surrounded by the vastness of love—fidgeted with a clumsy, innocent shuffling of limbs. He made sounds—gurgles, goo goo, ga ga—the babble of a soul still finding its voice, unaware of the significance of the milestone, lost in pure, untouched wonder.
Despite the simplicity of his words, the scene was full of reverence—an unspoken acknowledgment that in this fleeting moment, the future shimmered just beyond reach. Around him, the family’s warmth poured out in glances, a quiet promise that he was cherished deeply, beyond what words could say.
Even when Ethan was born without spirit talent, their attitude remained unchanged. Their smiles never faltered, their hugs never lessened. In fact, they cared for him more, worried that any trace of decadence might seep in if they showed even a flicker of disappointment. The love they held was fierce, steadfast—more a silent vow than spoken vow.
As the days turned into weeks, Ethan’s understanding grew—slow but profound. Through the whispers of the elders and the stories told by flickering torchlight, he learned how vital spirit power was to the Drake legacy. It was the core of their strength, their future, their very essence.
Without it, the road of cultivation was like walking through a shadow—difficult, uncertain, perhaps impossible to reach the heights they aspired to.
The Drake family, they who called themselves kin to the mighty beasts etched into legend, were still human. Their strength was born of blood—blood that had survived catastrophe and reshaping. In ancient times, a battle shook the heavens—a clash between a Drake and a dragon that tore through the skies, deafening the world with its roar. The sound alone had been enough to crumble mountains and drown continents in dust and fire.
That battle’s echoes had long faded into myth, but the legend remained—tales told around fires, stories passed down through generations. No human had dared to face the fury of those monsters directly, for the chaos was too great, the cost too high. Creatures fell, civilizations crumbled, and in that chaos, the ancestors of the Drake lineage had teetered on the brink of death.
In desperation, one ancestor—faced with annihilation—consumed the blood of the Drake and the Dragon, the two primordial beings that nearly tore the worlds apart. His body, twisted by the mutation, changed forever—not entirely human, yet not divine. This desperate act had forged a new path for his bloodline, imbuing it with a divine resilience, a hint of the celestial that survived in every bloodline of the Drakes.
His sacrifice was etched into history, whispered as a source of reverence—proof that even in the depths of despair, a single life could change the course of eternity. His name, hushed but powerful, resonated across the continent, a reminder of that unyielding spark—fire born from ruin, hope born from blood.
And as Ethan lay here, innocent and dreaming, that legend silently flowed through his veins, ancient as the stars—reminding every soul that to endure, to fight, and to rise again was the true mark of their blood.
The Drake family’s legacy was woven with the love of the spirits themself—a dance of celestial energy that flowed through their lineage like a shimmering river. The spirit core, the essence of their power, was attained through two paths.
The first path was to be born with it—a spirit core that grew alongside its vessel, strengthening with each passing day, reaching its limits only when the spirit talent of the individual could endure no more. The second path was to receive a spirit core from the main lineage of the Drake family—these cores were weaker, ranging from beginner low level to middle intermediate level. These spirit cores did not grow with their owner but could be replaced if a stronger one was found. The only limit to one’s spirit core growth was the individual’s spirit talent.
After Ethan’s birthday, as the last echoes of celebration faded into the night, he successfully completed the first task given by the system. In the quiet darkness, the voice of the system resonated within Ethan’s mind: "Congratulations to the host for successfully completing his first system mission. The rewards are being distributed."
A fragment of the spirit-destroying power of the celestial (preliminary rank)—a force capable of obliterating obstacles and enemies alike—flowed into Ethan’s being, infusing him with a strength beyond mortal comprehension. Alongside it came the Soul Slashing Sword, also of celestial (preliminary) rank, a weapon crafted from the essence of shattered spirits, its edge humming with lethal potential.
As this was the first mission completed by the host, Ethan was also rewarded with the Nine Heaven Spirit Core—a treasure so rare and powerful that it was whispered about only in the oldest of legends. The core pulsed with an otherworldly light, its energy vibrating through Ethan’s body, merging with his very essence.
In that moment, under the veil of night, Ethan’s destiny began to unfold—a path carved by ancient blood and celestial power, guiding him towards a future that danced with the brilliance of the spirits themselves.
That night, in a quiet room tinged with a faint, sweet fragrance, a cute little boy with red lips and pearly white teeth peered through the gap in the window with a cautious expression. This little boy was none other than Ethan Drake. He had to be careful—his actions were tied to his future, to everything he held dear, to the people he loved.
Peeking carefully, Ethan confirmed that no one was watching his house from outside. Slowly, he closed the window, exhaled lightly, and jumped off his bed. With a determined step, Ethan moved to the center of the room and raised his little hand, palm facing up.
Bang. A ball of transparent energy, almost invisible to the naked eye, bloomed in his hand. It was one of the abilities of the Spirit God Body, a power that thrummed with an otherworldly pulse.
"Go," Ethan thought in his head, his voice still unable to form words.
The ball in his palm seemed to possess a spirit of its own, constantly splashing out like vibrant fireworks. It quickly expanded, covering the entire room in a shimmering veil of energy. With this, whatever happened within this room could neither be seen nor heard from the outside—a secret space carved by the power of the spirits themselves.