Wang Chen took the familiar path down to the menial quarters, away from the lofty martial grounds and into the shadowed valley at Silon Mountain's base. Every breath carried the metallic taste of humiliation, mixed with the damp, earthy stench of the valley—black soil soaked with runoff from the sacred peaks above. This was where the discarded lived.
He scrubbed courtyards until his knuckles split, hauled water until his shoulders screamed, shoveled dung from the elephant pens until the stench embedded itself in his skin. It clung to him like a second soul.
His hut was a fragile shell of bamboo and clay at the compound's edge. Inside, a straw mat and a cracked jar were his only possessions. He collapsed onto the mat, a dirt-streaked hand dragging across his face.
"Useless Spirit Root…" The words tasted like ash.
He remembered the testing day, seven years old and trembling as the elder pressed the crystal to his palm. Hope had burned bright—until the stone flared weakly, then went dark.
"Defective."
"Useless."
His mother had held him tight that night, but she was gone now. Only those words remained.
But even a worm in the dirt longs to see the sky.
That morning, as Wang Chen sat cross-legged, exhaustion weighing his eyelids shut, something shifted.
A sudden, alien pulse reverberated through his skull—not a sound, but a thought, sharp and cold as carved jade:
Sign-in location detected: Silon Mountain – Menial Quarters.
Would you like to sign in?
His eyes flew open. The hut was silent. "Who's there?" His voice cracked.
No answer. Only the disembodied thought:
Sign-in successful.
Reward obtained: Beginner's Breathing Technique.
A surge of molten warmth burst through his body, filling his limbs with tingling fire. His breath caught. For the first time in his life, the spiritual energy in the air didn't slip away—it lingered, clinging to him, faint but undeniable.
"This… this is real."
The technique unfolded in his mind, clear and whole, as if etched into his bones. He inhaled, following the pattern. The air filled his lungs, and this time, it drew Qi—fragile, shimmering, pooling at the base of his dantian.
Pain flared—raw, searing, like shards of glass scraping his veins. He doubled over, sweat pouring from his brow, but he didn't stop. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until blood beaded, using the sharp sting to ground himself. Another cycle. Another.
The energy wavered, almost slipping away, but he clung to it. At last, the flow steadied. Faint, barely enough to warm his fingertips, but it was there.
A laugh—broken, disbelieving—tore from his throat. For the first time in his cursed life, his Useless Spirit Root had drawn in Qi.
He collapsed onto the mat, chest heaving, body drenched in sweat—but his eyes gleamed with a light no insult could quench.