The evening sun filtered through the window of Daniel’s rented room in Twin Moon City, spilling warm light over the wooden floorboards and the simple furnishings. The city outside hummed with distant activity, but inside, a quiet tension clung to the air. Daniel sat cross-legged on the floor, the scroll of the Primordial Dragoon Fist spread open before him. His fingers traced the faded ink, feeling the rough texture of the old paper. Each line of writing pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, like the heartbeat of a long-forgotten storm. It was unlike any scroll he had ever held. There was no elegance in the calligraphy, no delicate brushstrokes to signify beauty. The words were raw, jagged, and direct. Yet somehow they resonated with him. His body felt awake in a way it had not in months,
