The dead of night descended like a heavy shroud over the Ye Clan estate. A pale, silvery moon hung high in the sky, casting a cold, indifferent glow into Ye Qian's small, broken room. He sat on the floor, the wooden floorboards creaking under his weight. In front of him lay the old scroll and the herbs the steward had risked everything to provide.
"The clan thinks I'm trash, and my father has forgotten I even exist," Ye Qian whispered to the empty room. He touched the dry, wrinkled herbs with trembling fingers, his knuckles white. "If the world won't give me a path, I'll burn one through the darkness myself. I will show them what this trash is truly capable of."
He hauled a large wooden tub into the center of the room and filled it with water, heating it over a small coal fire until it began to bubble and hiss. One by one, he added the herbs as the steward had instructed.
First, he threw in the Blood-Vine Root, a twisted, crimson root that looked like a dried, beating heart; as soon as it hit the boiling water, the liquid bled, turning a deep, bruised red. Next came the Iron-Shell Nut, which he had to crush into a coarse powder with a heavy stone to release its bone-strengthening oils. Finally, he added the Bitter-Leaf Grass, a jagged herb so pungent that the rising steam alone made his eyes water and his throat sting. The water was no longer clear; it was a thick, dark soup that smelled of iron, wet earth, and raw fire.
Ye Qian took a deep breath, stripped off his tattered shirt, and stepped into the tub.
The moment his skin touched the water, he nearly screamed. It didn't feel like a bath—it felt like stepping into a pit of molten lead. Thousands of tiny, invisible needles seemed to dive into his pores, boring deep into his flesh and clawing at his very bones. This wasn't a relaxing soak; it was a brutal, agonizing reconstruction of his entire body.
"Argh...!" He grit his teeth so hard he heard them creak. His muscles began to twitch and spasm uncontrollably. It felt as if his bones were being methodically snapped into pieces, only to be fused back together by the searing liquid. Sweat poured from his face, mingling with the dark medicinal water, but he did not climb out. He gripped the edge of the tub so hard his fingernails dug into the wood, drawing blood.
Endure it! he roared in his mind. If you can't handle this pain, how will you ever handle the people who spat on your mother? How will you ever look down on those who called you trash?
Time became a blurred haze of pain. The herbs were doing their work. The Blood-Vine stimulated his circulation, making his heart beat like a war drum in his chest. The Iron-Shell essence seeped into his skeleton, making his bones denser, heavier, and harder. The Bitter-Leaf acted as a violent cleanser, forcing dark, foul-smelling impurities out of his pores and leaving his muscles lean and firm.
After an hour of pure agony, the heat finally began to fade. The water, which had been dark and thick, was now clear and cold. The herbs had been completely absorbed into his body.
Ye Qian sat motionless for a long time. When he finally opened his eyes, they weren't the dull eyes of a tired servant. They were sharp and piercing, like a hawk's. He stood up, and for the first time in his life, he didn't feel the familiar, hollow weakness of his thin body. His skin had a faint, healthy glow, and his muscles felt like coiled steel springs under his skin.
He stepped outside into the quiet courtyard and took a deep, steady breath of the night air. He felt incredibly light, yet every step he took felt solid and powerful, as if he were rooted to the earth itself. He walked over to a thick stone wall at the edge of the yard and, without any fancy technique or mantra, threw a simple, straight punch.
THUD.
The sound was heavy and resonant, like a hammer hitting an anvil. Fine, spider-web cracks spread out from where his fist had landed, and stone dust drifted to the ground. Ye Qian looked at his hand—there wasn't a single scratch, not even a bruise.
"My body... it's different now," he muttered, a small, cold smile forming on his lips. "Not bad for a piece of trash."
He needed to see just how much he had changed. He slipped out of the estate like a shadow and headed for the mountain forest behind the house. He ran through the trees, and to his amazement, he didn't get out of breath. He jumped over fallen logs and climbed steep, jagged rocks with a speed and grace he never thought possible. His coordination was perfect; his body finally obeyed his will.
While in the forest, he followed the instructions on the scroll to look for more common herbs to keep his training going. He searched for Star-Shaped Leaves and Yellow-Rooted Weeds—simple things that grew in the damp shadows but were full of hidden energy. He gathered them carefully, knowing these would be his "fuel" for the coming weeks.
Standing on a high ridge, looking down at the dark, opulent towers of the Ye Clan, Ye Qian felt a cold, unwavering resolve. Those people were sleeping in their silk beds, dreaming of their "Spirit Roots" and their bright futures. They had no idea that in the shadows of the mountain, the trash they despised was becoming something far more dangerous than any of them could imagine.
"You called me trash because you were too blind to see the truth," he whispered into the cold wind. "I don't need your Spirit Roots. I will build my own strength, bone by bone, drop by drop."
The night was cold, but Ye Qian's blood was boiling with new life. He had tasted power for the first time, and he knew there was no going back. The long, lonely road of cultivation lay ahead of him, but for the first time, he wasn't afraid. He was a predator in the making.
true rebirth.