The Skyfall Scroll felt alive in Chen's hands.
Not heavy. Not ancient. Just… right. Like it had been waiting for him.
He waited until dusk—after dinner, after Xiao's bedtime, after Yan had gone to spar with friends—to open it.
In the lantern-lit storeroom, he unrolled the parchment.
No fancy diagrams. Just seven lines of tight, sharp script—and one character repeated like a heartbeat: ⚡.
Qi gathers in the palm, not as fire, but as storm.
The fist does not strike. It releases.
Like thunder after silence.
Like rain after drought.
Hold the breath. Feel the pressure build—
Then—
Let go.
That was it.
No stages. No warnings. Just… truth.
Chen closed his eyes.
He didn't try to do it. He just… felt it.
His Qi—still weak, still grey—slowly pooled in his right hand. Not forced. Not strained. Like water filling a cup.
He held it.
Five seconds. Ten.
His palm grew warm. Then hot. Then—pressure. A deep, humming tension, like a bowstring pulled to its limit.
He remembered Xiao's snowflake—how it floated, then let go.
He exhaled.
And pushed.
CRACK!
The sound wasn't loud—but it was clean. Sharp. Final.
The burlap sack of dried roots beside him didn't tear.
It vanished—reduced to fine dust in a perfect circle, as if a stone had dropped from the sky and struck only that spot.
Chen stared.
His hand tingled. Not pain. Clarity.
He hadn't moved his arm. Hadn't even clenched his fist.
Just… released.
A dry voice chimed in his mind:
"Grade 5 technique. First try. Not bad… for a snail."
(System Note: Efficiency: 78%. Room to improve. Try not to blow up the herb shed next time.)
Chen almost laughed.
He carefully rolled the scroll, tucked it away.
Tomorrow, he'd practice. Quietly. Far from the house.
Morning came—and with it, Greenpine City's gossip.
Chen heard it at the market, while helping his mother buy salt.
"—three pills? To old He?"
"Zhao Lei? Generous? Did he hit his head?"
"No, no—I heard it was Lu Chen. Gave them away. Said 'everyone deserves a fair chance.'"
A pause. A snort.
"Still a snail. Just a polite one."
His mother squeezed his arm. "Ignore them, Chen-er."
But Chen didn't feel insulted.
He felt… seen.
Not as a failure. But as a choice.
At the herb-drying yard, he got his chance.
Yan was training—Crimson Tiger Fist, again and again against a sandstone dummy. Sweat poured down his face. His knuckles were raw.
"Again!" he growled, punching—thud—thud—thud.
The dummy cracked. But the form was off. His stance wobbled on the third strike. His Qi flared… then sputtered.
Chen watched.
Saw the tension in Yan's shoulders. The frustration in his jaw.
He walked over.
"Can I?" Chen asked.
Yan lowered his fists, breathing hard. "What, give me a pep talk?"
"No." Chen stepped beside him. "Let me help you feel it."
Yan frowned. "You? You can barely gather Qi."
"Maybe," Chen said. "But I just… understood something."
He didn't explain. Just stood beside his brother, mirroring his stance.
"Breathe in," Chen said softly. "Not for power. For balance."
Yan scoffed—but breathed.
"Now… let your Qi flow down—not to your fist, but to your feet. Like roots."
Yan hesitated… then tried.
His stance steadied.
"Good. Now… when you strike—don't push out. Push through. Like water breaking a dam."
Yan's eyes narrowed. He reset.
Inhale.
Root.
Strike—
CRACK!
The sandstone dummy didn't just crack.
It shattered—exploding into gravel, dust blooming in the air.
Yan stood frozen, fist still extended. His Qi—crimson, steady, strong—swirled around him like a living flame.
He turned to Chen, stunned.
"How…?"
Chen shrugged. "You already knew. You just needed to stop fighting it."
In his mind, the scroll glowed:
[GIFT RECORDED]
— Item: Effort & Insight
— Recipient: Lu Yan (Brother)
— Intent: Loyalty. Belief.
Return Ready.
🔸 [QUANTITY]
🔸 [Quality]
Quantity, Chen thought. Let him have it all.
✅ Return: 10,000 hours of muscle memory — Crimson Tiger Fist (Perfected)
Yan didn't glow. Didn't surge with power.
But when he threw the next punch—slow, testing—
His fist moved like liquid fire. Every angle precise. Every shift of weight effortless. The air sang around it.
He looked at his hand. Then at Chen.
"…You're weird, little brother."
But he clapped Chen on the back—hard, proud.
"Teach me that 'water' thing again."
Noon. The training yard.
Word had spread.
A small crowd gathered at the fence—disciples from minor families, shopkeepers, even a few Pill Hall apprentices.
Zhao Lei stood at the front, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Chen ignored them.
He walked to the far corner—where the old "Breakstone Test" stood: a waist-high block of river granite, pitted with decades of failed strikes.
Stage 3 Qi Gatherers could chip it.
Stage 5 could crack it.
Only Foundation cultivators shattered it cleanly.
Chen placed his palm flat on the cold stone.
He didn't gather Qi first. Didn't tense. Just… stood.
Feel the pressure. Hold the breath.
His Qi—still grey, still thin—flowed into his hand. Not a wave. A drop.
Like thunder after silence.
He exhaled.
THOOM.
Not a crack. Not a shatter.
The granite imploded.
One moment—a solid block.
The next—fine grey sand, piled neatly where the stone had been. Not a shard out of place. Not a grain scattered.
Silence.
Then—a gasp.
Zhao Lei stepped forward, eyes wide. He knelt, sifted the sand through his fingers.
"Impossible," he whispered. "That's… Thunderclap Palm. But it's lost. My grandfather's—"
He looked up at Chen.
Chen met his gaze. No triumph. Just calm.
"I found a scroll," he said simply. "Thought I'd try it."
Zhao Lei stood. Slowly. He didn't smile. But the arrogance was gone.
"Try it again," he said. "Higher."
He pointed to the Grand Breakstone—a two-foot cube of black ironwood, laced with spirit-hardened ore. Only Core Formation experts dared it.
Chen shook his head. "Not today."
"Why not?" someone called.
"Because," Chen said, brushing sand from his tunic, "power isn't for showing off."
He turned to leave.
Then paused.
Looked back at Zhao Lei.
"You trained all night, didn't you? Trying to replicate it."
Zhao Lei stiffened.
Chen smiled—small, knowing.
"I'll show you. Tomorrow. After the herb run."
And he walked away.
Zhao Lei stared after him.
Then, quietly, he said to no one in particular:
"…He's not a snail."
"He's a storm holding its breath."
That night, Chen stood once more on the roof.
The jade scroll glowed:
[DAILY SIGN-IN AVAILABLE]
Streak: Day 2
Rewards:
🔸 1 × Spirit Stone (Low)
🔸 Herb: Moonpetal (Rare, enhances Qi clarity)
🔸 Minor Insight: Dantian Stability (Qi Gathering Stage 3)
Streak Bonus (7 days): ???. Don't break it.
He chose Moonpetal.
A soft silver flower materialized in his palm, petals glowing like captured starlight.
He didn't keep it.
He climbed down, crossed the courtyard, and slipped it under Xiao's door.
She'd need clear Qi to control her Ice Affinity. To keep the frost from turning cruel.
Inside her room, a soft blue light pulsed—once—then settled.
The scroll added:
"…You're going to spoil her rotten. Just so you know."
Chen smiled.
He looked up.
The stars were bright tonight.
And far to the east—past the city walls, past the mountains—a faint, rust-red glimmer hung in the sky.
New.
Uncharted.
The System didn't comment.
But for the first time, its silence felt… watchful.
Chen turned back to the house.
Lights glowed in every window.
His father's cough was quiet tonight.
His mother hummed as she sewed.
Yan practiced Crimson Tiger, movements now fluid as a river.
And in Xiao's room, a single snowflake drifted in a circle above her palm—steady, serene, strong.
Chen touched the Skyfall Scroll in his pocket.
He wasn't strong yet.
But he was giving.
And in this world of hoarders and hunters…
That was the rarest power of all.