Wang Chen wiped the sweat from his forehead. The stinging pain along his arm felt like a red-tailed cobra had bitten him, its venom a constant reminder of his reality—when would the days of suffering from his Useless Spirit Root finally end?
The dawn mist clung stubbornly to the slopes of Silon Mountain, swirling like pale ghosts above the martial arena. Beyond it, the Chao Phraya River shimmered faintly, carrying the smells of wet soil and incense from the villages below. It should have been a serene morning, but for Wang Chen, the air was heavy, suffocating, and mocking.
A sharp, grating laugh shattered the quiet, followed by another. The sound stabbed his chest like knives.
"Look at him! Still dragging himself here every morning, as if he belongs!"
Several outer-door disciples of the Muay Thai Sect circled him. Their crisp white uniforms, embroidered with the sect's crimson emblem, glimmered in stark contrast to Wang Chen's mud-stained robes. Their sneers were sharper than any blade.
"You useless brat!" one spat, kicking dirt so that grains scattered like arrows at his feet. "What else can you do besides feeding elephants at the base of the mountain?"
Another, taller and sharper in tone, laughed loudly. "Hahaha! He still dreams of learning Muay Thai. He can't even manage the Tiger Step, the most basic form! What a disgrace."
Wang Chen's fists clenched until his knuckles whitened, veins bulging. Every nerve in his body screamed to lash out, but no sound came—only the oppressive truth. His Spirit Root was deemed useless. Every attempt at cultivation had failed. Every training session was a bitter reminder of his weakness.