The first rays of sunlight barely pierced through the grimy window of the cramped servant quarters when Li Wuchen's eyes snapped open. At twenty-two, he had learned to wake before the others—not by choice, but by necessity. The small room he shared with five other servants reeked of unwashed bodies and despair, a constant reminder of his place in the world.
Wuchen rolled off his thin straw mat, careful not to disturb the snoring man beside him. His reflection in the cracked mirror showed a lean young man with kind eyes that had somehow retained their clarity despite years of hardship. His clothes were patched and faded, but clean—he made sure of that much.
"Another day of survival," he whispered to himself, a ritual he'd maintained for the past ten years since arriving at Azure Sky Pavilion as an orphaned twelve-year-old.
The Azure Sky Pavilion stood as one of the most prestigious alchemical sects in the martial world, renowned for producing miraculous pills and medicines that could extend life and enhance cultivation. For the disciples who trained here, it was a path to power and immortality. For servants like Wuchen, it was simply a place to exist.
As he dressed in his gray servant robes, Wuchen's mind wandered to the same question that had plagued him for years: why couldn't he cultivate? Every person in the martial world possessed some degree of talent for internal energy cultivation, even if minimal. Yet despite years of secretly attempting to sense qi flow or gather spiritual energy, Wuchen remained utterly ordinary—a complete failure in a world where strength determined everything.
The other servants began stirring as Wuchen quietly made his way to the kitchen. Head Servant Liu, a portly man with permanently bloodshot eyes, was already there, his face twisted in its usual scowl.
"You're late, trash," Liu spat, though Wuchen had arrived exactly on time. "The morning meal won't prepare itself."
"Yes, Head Servant Liu," Wuchen replied respectfully, bowing his head. He had learned long ago that arguing only led to worse treatment.
The next hour passed in a blur of chopping vegetables, hauling water, and dodging the occasional blow from Liu's wooden ladle. The hierarchy among servants was just as brutal as that among disciples—those with even a shred of cultivation talent looked down on those without, and Wuchen sat firmly at the bottom of that pyramid.
As he prepared the morning congee, fellow servant Wang Hai approached with a sneer. Wang Hai possessed the cultivation level of a Body Tempering novice—barely worth mentioning in the greater martial world, but enough to make him lord among the servants.
"Still dreaming of becoming a cultivator, Wuchen?" Wang Hai laughed, loud enough for others to hear. "Even my grandmother has more spiritual sense than you, and she's been dead for five years!"
The other servants joined in the laughter. Wuchen's complete inability to cultivate had become a running joke throughout the pavilion. Some claimed he was cursed, others that he wasn't fully human. The crueler ones suggested he should have been left to die as an infant rather than waste everyone's time.
"I heard even the pill-testing rabbits show more promise than you," added another servant, prompting fresh waves of laughter.
Wuchen continued his work in silence, ladling the congee into serving bowls with steady hands. He had endured worse insults, and these words had long ago lost their power to hurt him. Instead, he focused on the task at hand, finding a strange peace in the simple, repetitive motions.
The breakfast preparation concluded with Wuchen carrying heavy trays to the outer disciples' dining hall. As he served the young cultivators—some barely older than himself—he couldn't help but notice the casual way they manipulated spiritual energy. A gesture here to keep their tea at the perfect temperature, a small technique there to ensure their food remained fresh. Such simple applications of cultivation that seemed as natural as breathing to them, yet remained completely beyond his reach.
"Careful, servant," snapped a female outer disciple as Wuchen placed a bowl before her. "Your clumsiness might contaminate the spiritual essence of the food."
Her companion laughed. "What spiritual essence? This one couldn't sense qi if it bit him on the nose."
Wuchen bowed apologetically and continued serving, his face a mask of calm acceptance. But deep inside, a small flame of determination still burned. He didn't understand why he was different, why the heavens had seemingly forsaken him, but he refused to believe this was his final destiny.
After the outer disciples finished their meal, Wuchen spent the rest of the morning cleaning the dining hall and kitchen. The work was backbreaking and thankless, but it gave him time to think and observe. He watched the disciples practice their techniques in the courtyard, memorizing their movements and forms even though he couldn't replicate the internal energy that powered them.
By midday, his body ached from the constant labor, but his spirit remained unbroken. As he swept the courtyard where disciples practiced their sword forms, Wuchen allowed himself a moment of imagination—what would it feel like to wield such power? To command respect instead of enduring contempt?
"Keep dreaming, worthless one," he murmured to himself with bitter humor. "Perhaps in the next life, the heavens will be kinder."
The afternoon brought more chores: hauling water from the well, tending the herb gardens, and assisting the alchemists by cleaning their equipment. Each task was performed with meticulous care, not because he enjoyed the work, but because excellence in small things was the only form of pride he could maintain.
As evening approached and the other servants gathered for their meager dinner, Wuchen found himself alone in the herb garden, pulling weeds by the light of the setting sun. The repetitive motion was almost meditative, and for a brief moment, he felt something approaching contentment.
Tomorrow would bring the same cycle of servitude and humiliation, but tonight, he was simply a young man working in a garden, watching the stars emerge in the darkening sky. In these quiet moments, Wuchen could almost forget his status and imagine himself as someone of worth—someone whose life had meaning beyond mere survival.
"One day," he whispered to the stars, "somehow, things will be different."
He had no way of knowing that change was already approaching, carried by an old man stumbling down a mountain path not far from where he knelt among the herbs.