Lin remembered the day he first realized waiting could rot a person from the inside.
He was six years old then, standing barefoot on the cold stone of the clan courtyard with his small hands clenched behind his back the way children were taught to stand when elders spoke. The air smelled of incense and iron. Banners bearing the Emperor's sigil fluttered above the platform, catching the sunlight like divine approval made visible with their threads.
One by one, names were called.
Children stepped forward.
Some trembled. Some cried. Some looked proud beyond their years.
And some, were marked.
When the Emperor's envoy extended his finger and pressed it against a child's brow, the world itself seemed to hold its breath. A symbol burned into the skin, luminous and fleeting, sinking into flesh and soul alike. The mark never faded. It was not merely permission.
It was recognition.
Those who received it were no longer ordinary mortals. They were acknowledged. Allowed to walk the path of cultivation. Allowed to draw in qi, temper their bodies and refine their souls without fear of punishment.
Without fear of death.
Because in this world, cultivation without the Emperor's mark was not bravery.
It was heresy.
Lin stood among dozens of children that day, feeling the faint warmth of qi inside his body like a sleeping ember. He had felt it for as long as he could remember. The clan physician had once whispered that it meant potential.
But potential meant nothing without permission.
"Lin Yao," the envoy called.
His heart leapt.
Lin stepped forward with his small feet slapping softly against stony path. He raised his face as his eyes brightened with hope he did not yet know how to hide.
The envoy looked at him.
Then looked away.
"No mark."
The envoy words were flat and merciless.
Lin was gently ushered back into line.
That night, his mother held him while he cried with her fingers combing through his hair again and again.
"It's all right," she whispered. "Many are chosen later."
Lin believed her.
He would believe her for a long time.
---
By the time Lin was ten, he understood the rules of the world better than most adults.
The Emperor did not rule merely with armies and laws. He ruled through cultivation itself.
Every known cultivation method, every orthodox scripture, every sect-sanctioned technique... none of them could be practiced without the Emperor's mark. The mark bound the soul. It tethered cultivation to imperial authority.
Those who cultivated without it were hunted and executed.
They were branded heretics, enemies of order, threats to the balance of heaven and earth. Imperial enforcers specialized in such matters. Once identified, a heretic cultivator's lifespan was measured in days... sometimes hours.
Their families were erased.
Their homes burned.
Their names struck from records.
It was said that cultivation was the privilege of the chosen.
And so everyone waited.
Children waited.
Families waited.
Clans waited.
Waiting was so normal it became invisible.
Lin waited too.
He watched others advance while he remained still.
At age six, some children began cultivating and their qi was guided and shaped under the careful eyes of elders. At age eight, they were already stronger than ordinary adults. At ten, they sparred, flew short distances, shattered stone with their palms.
Lin swept floors.
He ran errands.
He bowed.
He smiled politely and kept his head down.
He was weak, timid, obedient...
And painfully aware of time.
Everyone knew that cultivation was best started young. Six was ideal. Eight was acceptable. Ten was already late.
Fourteen?
Fourteen was almost a death sentence.
The body stiffened. Meridians lost flexibility. Qi became harder to guide. The foundation cracked before it was even laid.
And Lin was fourteen.
Still unmarked.
His father had been a guard.
He wasn't a cultivator... he was just a man with a blade and loyalty to the clan. He had died on a routine mission escorting supplies between territories. Bandits, they said. Or beasts. The details were vague, unimportant.
What mattered was that he never came back.
After that, things changed quietly.
Meals became smaller.
Their courtyard moved farther from the center of the clan grounds.
Elders stopped greeting them.
Lin's mother worked constantly, mending clothes, cleaning halls, doing anything to make herself useful. Liabilities were not tolerated in a world built on strength.
And strength came from cultivation.
Which they did not have.
When Lin turned fourteen, the clan summoned them.
The hall was vast and cold. Pillars carved with dragons that seemed to sneer down at him were stationed across the surroundings. Elders sat in judgment with distant and bored expressions.
"The clan has deliberated," one of them said. "Your husband is dead. You possess no cultivation. Your son remains unmarked."
Lin's mother bowed deeply. "We will continue to serve—"
"There is no need," the elder interrupted. "The clan cannot afford dead weight."
The words struck harder than any blade.
"You will leave by sunset."
Lin's mother went pale.
"But… but my son—"
"If he were worthy," another elder said calmly, "the Emperor would have marked him."
Silence followed and that was the end of it.
They were given no compensation. No protection. Only a small sack of belongings and an escort to the outer gates.
Lin did not cry.
He held his mother's hand tightly as they walked past familiar halls, past children training, past elders who would not meet their eyes.
The gates closed behind them with a dull, final thud.
Just like that, they no longer existed.
---
They settled in a border town where cultivators rarely passed through.
Life was hard.
Lin worked odd jobs—hauling water, repairing roofs, carrying goods twice his weight. His body grew lean, scarred, exhausted. At night, he lay awake feeling the qi inside him churn uselessly, like a river dammed at every turn.
He knew what would happen if he tried.
Everyone did.
If he cultivated without the mark and someone noticed even a slight increase in strength, an unnatural resilience... someone would report him. They always did. Fear was contagious.
And the Emperor's hunters would come.
Lin imagined them sometimes.
Faceless figures clad in black and gold, descending without warning. A single touch, and his soul would be crushed. His body reduced to ash.
And his mother?
Collateral.
He did not hate the Emperor.
Not yet.
He hated himself.
For being weak.
For being patient.
For waiting.
Every year, an envoy would come through the region, announcing another marking ceremony in the capital. Names would be recorded. Applications submitted.
Lin submitted his.
Every year, it was returned unanswered.
Rejected without explanation.
He stopped counting how many times.
His mother never complained. Never blamed him. She smiled, encouraged him, told him stories of people chosen late who still achieved greatness.
But Lin could see the truth in her eyes.
Hope was thinning.
Time was running out.
At fourteen, unmarked and cast out, Lin stood at the edge of the world's mercy.
He did not know yet that this waiting was forging something inside him far more dangerous than resentment.