Setting the Scene (Visual Cue: MC cleaning the sect courtyard)
The air was already thick with frost, a biting chill common to the high peaks of the Heaven-Blazing Sect. But the courtyard was not silent. From the main training field, the rhythmic thudding of wooden swords and the sharp, focused shouts of Qi ripped through the quiet morning, a constant, mocking percussion.
Hae-Won didn't look up. He didn't dare.
His rough hemp robes, patched and faded, were already damp with sweat despite the cold. His tool was a long-handled, stiff-bristled broom, not a blade. He pushed it across the slate tiles, raising a fine, gray cloud of dust—the only trace of movement he was allowed to make.
He was eighteen, an adult by the sect's reckoning, yet his only duty was that of a maintenance slave. He was not a disciple. Not truly.
The Curse (Narration: Born cursed, mocked as dead weight)
The noise from the training grounds was a constant reminder of his status. Every burst of energy, every soaring jump, highlighted his failure.
A failure not of will, but of body.
Hae-Won's mind recited the words of the medical elder for the thousandth time: "Your Qi channels are like choked riverbeds, Hae-Won. Sealed. Cursed."
He could feel the spiritual energy of the world—the vital source of all Murim power—pressing against his skin, trying to flow into him, yet his body rejected it like a poisoned meal. He was a perfect vacuum in a world of rushing currents. His internal energy, his Dantian, was an empty, useless bowl.
He was the single-most visible proof that the Heaven-Blazing Sect, an orthodox pillar of Murim, harbored a crippling shame.
"Look at the speed, boys! Flawless flow!"
The voice cut through the air—smooth, confident, and utterly dismissive. It belonged to Jae-Sun, the Sect Master's youngest son and the prodigy of the current generation. He possessed a Superior Earth Qi Talent—the direct opposite of Hae-Won's zero.
Hae-Won hunched further, trying to blend into the dust cloud he was raising.
The Confrontation (Hook: A rival throws a wooden sword)
Jae-Sun and two of his cronies strode off the training field, their clean, silk training uniforms catching the first rays of the sun. They moved with a proud swagger, muscles already hard with cultivated Qi. Jae-Sun stopped directly on the patch Hae-Won had just swept clean.
"Hae-Won, look at you," Jae-Sun said, his tone dripping with false pity. "Still playing with the dust you were born from."
The two cronies snickered, their eyes filled with practiced contempt.
Hae-Won kept his gaze locked on the broom handle, the rough wood digging into his palms. "Say nothing. Endure it. It will be over soon."
Jae-Sun tapped his foot impatiently. "The Master is arriving soon. Hurry up and sweep this filth away. You wouldn't want to soil his esteemed vision, would you?"
Hae-Won knew what was coming. It was the daily ritual. The verbal stab, the physical mockery, the reminder that he had failed to die or leave.
He swept the dust near Jae-Sun's expensive boots.
With a lazy, practiced motion, Jae-Sun unhooked the wooden training sword from his belt—a perfectly balanced piece of hickory that hummed faintly with the Qi Jae-Sun instinctively channeled. He lifted it, looked at Hae-Won, and then, with a casual flick of his wrist, slammed the hilt into the side of Hae-Won's head.
The strike was meant to humiliate, not seriously injure, but Hae-Won's vision still blurred for a moment. The pain was a dull, heavy throb. He swayed, catching himself on the broom, but he did not fall.
"Oops," Jae-Sun chuckled, not sounding sorry. "My Qi was flowing too strong. Did I bruise you, trash?"
Hae-Won's hands clenched so hard the broom handle was in danger of snapping. His teeth ground together. He tasted coppery blood, but he did not move a facial muscle.
Jae-Sun leaned in, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper meant only for Hae-Won. "Your Master keeps you here as a pet—a reminder of his charity. You'll never belong here. You'll never hold a real blade."
He then tossed the wooden sword carelessly. It tumbled through the air and landed with a sharp THUD at Hae-Won's feet, splintering a single tip on the stone.
Jae-Sun turned to his cronies, laughing heartily. "Let's go. We have true cultivation to attend to. Leave the cripple to his dirt."
They walked away, their laughter echoing across the courtyard.
The Will of Defiance
Hae-Won remained motionless until their footsteps faded completely. Only then did he slowly lower the broom.
He stared at the splintered wooden sword at his feet. The weapon that contained more latent Qi than his entire body ever would.
The pain in his head was irrelevant. The humiliation was just noise. What truly burned was the knowledge: They were right. They were right about the curse, right about the channels, right that he was forever locked out of the world of power.
He slowly knelt and picked up the broken piece of wood. It was light, yet in his hand, it felt heavier than any mountain.
If the world is built on Qi, and my body rejects Qi...Then I will reject the world.
A dangerous, corrosive thought took root—a stubborn, absolute defiance born of eighteen years of suffering. He would not stop. He would not quit. He would not die.
He stood up, his gaze lifted towards the peaks, no longer blank, but burning with a quiet, terrible focus.
He tossed the broken sword away and picked up his broom. The dirt was still there. And so was he.