Three Hundred Years After Lingshan Fell, I Found Half a Divine Talisman

Three hundred years after Lingshan fell, there are no true shamans left in the world.

The Blood Shaman Cult has seized control of the nine lineages, carving magical patterns into living people.

Monsters have carved out territories and made themselves kings, treating humanity as prey.

The deathly energy of the Netherworld pours forth, and across the vast wilderness, not a single patch of pure land remains.

The Xuanyuan clan has guarded a ruined hill, half a broken talisman, and a contract ignored for three thousand years. They have survived in obscurity for nine generations.

I am the tenth.

They call me a useless young clan leader. My mortal shaman core has been stuck at the first stage for twelve years, and I can’t even carve the most basic spirit-protecting pattern properly.

They say the shaman talisman is a fake. It hasn’t lit up in three hundred years, so it should have been thrown away long ago.

They say the shamanic path is dead.

I thought so too.

Until one dusk, as I was surrounded by the Shadowfolk, that half-stone warmed in my palm.

Just once.

I “saw” the last thought the Yellow Emperor left behind before Lingshan fell:

“Find the other eight lineages.”

“Renew the contract.”

“Otherwise, ”

He didn’t finish, but I didn’t need to hear the rest.

For three hundred years, the Xuanyuan clan hadn’t been guarding a hill. We had been guarding the first beacon tower.

It was time to light it.

As for the Blood Shaman Cult calling me a remnant, an ant trying to stop a chariot, the most laughable fool in this chaotic age?

Let them talk.

Before the beacon fire burns out, I’ll light the second, the third, and the ninth.

When the nine lineages are joined again, I’ll make sure that across this vast wilderness

nothing can keep the dawn from breaking.