Memories of mockery and disappointment flooded him—elders shaking their heads, instructors sighing, disciples whispering behind his back. "Why train him? He's broken. Destined for mediocrity."
Yet, beneath the humiliation, a spark refused to die. Wang Chen lifted his gaze to meet theirs. Though his body trembled, a stubborn glint flickered in his dark eyes.
I may be useless today… but one day, I will rise above all of you.
The words remained unspoken, whispered only in his heart, carved like an oath.
The disciples laughed again, harsher this time. One stepped closer, his shadow falling across Wang Chen's face, and jabbed a finger at his chest. "Even the wind avoids you, waste! You're a curse on this arena." With a rough shove, he sent Wang Chen stumbling against a wooden post. Pain shot up his spine, but he straightened, refusing to cry out.
Another jeered, tossing a pebble that struck his shin. The others cackled, thinking him broken.
But Wang Chen's focus had shifted. He observed every detail—the tall disciple shifting his weight to his right foot when laughing, another habitually clenching his fists too tightly. Every flaw etched itself into his mind. They saw him as blind to progress; weakness had forced him to see what they could not. His Spirit Root might be useless, but his will was sharpening like tempered steel.
The mist began to lift, revealing the arena's weathered glory. The disciples, eventually tiring of their game, spat on the ground near his feet before turning away.
"I will not remain in the shadows," Wang Chen whispered, his voice hoarse but steady. The mountain wind carried his words, unheard by others.
And then—a flicker of silver light glimmered in the rising mist, far above the arena, unnoticed by anyone but him. A faint pulse of energy, unnatural and cold, brushed against his skin. His dark eyes narrowed, curiosity piqued.
This was not the end. It was the beginning.