In a world where divine power is passed through bloodlines, the weak are forgotten—and the Giftless are erased.
Jin Ryu was born without a Gift, sentenced to a life of servitude beneath the sacred peaks of Azure Dragon Sect. Beaten, mocked, and discarded, his fate seemed sealed—until a dying cultivator's soul accidentally fuses with his own.
Now Jin holds a forbidden power: the ability to steal or give away the very Gifts that define a person's soul.
Feared as an abomination and hunted by the sects that once ignored him, Jin must walk a path of vengeance, memory, and survival—where every power he gains comes with trauma, and every ally may become a threat.
He doesn't know what he is anymore…
A thief? A weapon? Or a new god?
> The only thing more dangerous than a man without power—
is one who can take yours away.
From the novelization of mruim core saga
Genre: Epic Cultivation Fantasy
POV: Third Person Limited (Jin Ryu)
Tone: Dark, tragic, emotionally restrained
---
The mountain floated.
It was called Skyfang Peak, and it drifted through the heavens like a blade balanced on the wind, its edges veiled in thunderclouds and celestial fire. Upon its jagged surface sat Azure Dragon Sect, one of the Five Great Pillars of the world — a divine fortress where nobles cultivated in gilded palaces and trained under stars that mortals could barely see.
But far beneath that floating grandeur, hidden behind the smoke and ash of the outer sect kitchens, a boy scrubbed blood from an iron cauldron.
His name was Jin Ryu, though no one called him that anymore. He was "Ash Rat." "Dish Boy." "The Giftless Dog."
The pot burned his palms, but he didn't flinch. Pain was familiar. Cleanliness was survival.
He didn't belong here.
He wasn't born of a noble line. He had no Gift — no ancestral spirit etched into his soul, no fire in his veins, no divine right to cultivate. He was the lowest among the outer sect servants, and even among them, he was mocked.
But he was patient.
And patience, like fire, only needed time to devour.
---
"Ryu!"
The shout came from behind. Jin didn't turn — he already knew the voice.
Han Su, a second-year outer disciple, swaggered into the kitchen with two lackeys trailing behind him. His robes were embroidered with flame sigils, barely concealing the smugness in his eyes. The others laughed as he grabbed a pot of rice from Jin's station.
"Still scrubbing dishes, dog? The heavens must've truly cursed your blood."
Jin remained silent, bowing slightly. Eyes down. Breath held.
Han stepped closer.
"I asked you a question."
He struck Jin across the cheek with the flat of the rice paddle. Hot porridge splattered the floor.
Still, Jin said nothing.
There was no justice here. Not for servants. Not for the Giftless.
---
Later that night, as the storm clouds gathered over Skyfang Peak, Jin knelt alone in the servant dormitory, fingers bleeding from work, head lowered in the straw mat.
He closed his eyes and whispered.
"Why… was I born without one?"
---
The next morning, the Trial of Flames began.
It was a rite for outer sect disciples — a chance to earn advancement by channeling their inherited Gifts through fire. But Jin had not volunteered. He had been accused.
A "missing" phoenix feather talisman had been found in his sleeping mat.
Planted.
The Sect Elders didn't ask questions. Servants didn't get trials — they got punishments.
So they tied him to the pyre at dawn.
---
The courtyard filled with spectators — outer sect disciples eager to watch the "rat" burn. Han Su smirked in the front row, arms folded. Elders sat above, bored and cold-eyed. The sky above burned red with early sun.
Flames licked the edges of the woodpile.
And then—
A cough.
Someone was dying behind the pyre — an old man, collapsed at the edge of the dais, muttering through blood. A forgotten Elder, one who had once been powerful… now decaying in silence.
Jin met his gaze.
And in that instant — everything stopped.
---
A white-hot pulse ripped through the pyre like lightning. Fire curled inward instead of out. Jin felt his skin boiling — but not from heat.
From memory.
The old man's dying soul surged forward, and with it came… something.
A presence. A power. A Gift.
Jin screamed as the elder's soul-stamp branded his own. Flames turned silver. The world shook.
Visions poured into his mind: sword forms, war chants, names of lovers and brothers long dead.
And then—
Silence.
The fire was gone.
Jin stood among ash, ropes melted, his body steaming but whole.
He blinked. His eyes glowed faintly gold.
And Han Su stepped back, suddenly pale.
---
An Elder rose to his feet. "That Gift… how did you—?"
Jin didn't answer.
He looked at his hands, trembling.
> "Power is inherited," they had always said.
But now, his blood was singing.
> Then let me be the exception. Let me be the thief of fate.
---
End of Chapter