Green River Town glistened beneath the morning sun, its rooftops shining like polished stone and its banners fluttering with pride. Merchants smiled, nobles laughed, and guards walked with arrogance in their steps. To a stranger's eyes, it was a town of wealth and opportunity.
But Xi Chen had lived here long enough to see the rot beneath the shine.
He walked through the central district, past the marble statues of long-dead heroes and the towering training pavilions guarded by the children of nobility. Inside those compounds, the privileged trained in the martial arts passed down through bloodlines, nourished with pills, resources, and praise.
The outer districts—the commoner zones—were a different world.
Dust, cracked stone, and tired faces. That was the rhythm of the weak.
Xi Chen returned home in the afternoon, his clothes soaked with sweat and soot from the forge. The house was a simple structure of wood and clay, two rooms barely large enough for three people to live in. The walls were cracked, the roof had been patched with cloth, and the air smelled faintly of iron.
Yet, to Xi Chen, this place was a fortress. It was where his brothers lived, and that was enough.
Inside, Xi Xuan—the youngest at eleven—was sweeping the floor with a too-large broom. He looked up, his big eyes lighting up the moment he saw his brother.
"Brother! You're back!" he called, dropping the broom and rushing over.
Xi Chen smiled and ruffled his hair. "Did you help Bing with the reading today?"
Xi Xuan nodded enthusiastically. "I did! And I even memorized the names of the Five Mortal Realms—see? Skin Tempering, Muscle Tempering, Bone—"
"—Tempering, Blood Tempering, and Organ Refinement," Xi Chen finished with him, chuckling softly. "Good job. Keep that knowledge close. It may save your life one day."
"But… we can't cultivate, right?" Xi Xuan's smile faded a little. "So why does it matter?"
Xi Chen paused. That question struck deeper than the boy realized. "Because knowing the mountain's shape helps you climb it—even if you're barefoot."
He didn't tell them that one day, he would make sure they walked that path—not as beggars beneath the noble's scraps, but as cultivators on their own terms.
Later that night, after his brothers had fallen asleep, Xi Chen sat cross-legged in the backyard under a pale yellow moon. His body still throbbed faintly from yesterday's tempering, the sensation of heat nestled deep in his bones like cooling embers.
He opened his panel.
[Crimson Tempering Panel]
Body Cultivation Stage: Skin Tempering (Mid-stage)
Technique:Red Ember Tempering Art [Basic Grade – Evolvable]
Combat Art:Blunt Fist Form [Basic Grade – Evolvable]
Status: Stable
Bloodline: None Registered
Clan: None Registered
Cultivation Access: Denied by Class Restriction
Xi Chen narrowed his eyes at the line:
"Cultivation Access: Denied by Class Restriction."
Even the world itself denied him access. Everything about this realm was built to suppress those who were born without backing, without bloodlines, without banners. But they couldn't suppress what they couldn't see. And Xi Chen had already decided: his path would not require permission.
He clenched his fists.
His skin flushed crimson for a brief moment. The warmth spread again, familiar now—less painful than the first time. With each session, the Red Ember Tempering Art pushed his body closer to something new. His skin had taken on a slightly darker hue, not from sun or soot, but from subtle internal scorching. A faint heat pulsed under his flesh, like a hidden furnace.
He focused on his breathing. Every inhale brought in the night air; every exhale released the inner heat, letting it spread, letting it temper.
Hours passed in silence.
By dawn, Xi Chen rose slowly. His limbs ached, but his movements were sharper, steadier. He looked at his hands—his knuckles, once scarred and dulled from blacksmith work, now held a faint sheen, like steel beneath flesh.
Today was market day.
He gathered a bundle of hand-forged iron tools—hoes, sickles, nails—and set out. The forge barely made enough coin to buy a single meal per day. Still, he worked, because the town respected blacksmiths, even if only a little.
The market was a chaos of voices and smells. Xi Chen set up a small wooden table near the eastern square, where laborers and farmers would pass by.
An hour passed. Then two.
A young woman approached his table, draped in a clean brown cloak. She examined a sickle, tested the edge with a practiced finger.
"These are well-made," she said without looking up.
Xi Chen nodded. "They'll last through the season. I don't cut corners."
She glanced up, studying him with piercing green eyes. "You're not like the others."
"I don't try to be."
She placed a coin pouch on the table and picked up three tools. "Keep the change."
He watched her walk away, thoughtful.
Something about her stance… the way she moved… she wasn't just a farmer.
But he didn't ask.
That night, as Xi Bing practiced the simple body strengthening drills his brother had taught him, Xi Chen watched from the shadows of their dim room. His brothers weren't ready yet. But in three or four years, when their bodies matured, he would begin teaching them. Not the weak drills taught to servants—but real fist arts, born in heat and forged through pain.
Until then, he would continue tempering, training, and building. Quietly. Carefully.
Because the town only smiled for the strong.
And Xi Chen would not let his brothers grow up in a world that made them bow.