Ling Qin crouched low among the jagged rocks and moss, his hands carefully brushing aside soil and twigs. He was at the back mountain of the Ling Clan, a secluded spot only those tasked with the clan's medicinal herb collection dared enter. The wind carried the crisp scent of pine, mixed with the faint, almost imperceptible Qi lingering from the mountains. Tomorrow, the large clan test would be held—the ritual that determined the path of every thirteen-year-old in the Ling Clan.
His heart thumped with tension. Ling Qin had already failed the minor test six years ago, the one for six-year-olds that measured spiritual constitution and potential. That failure had left a shadow over his name. If he failed tomorrow, his future would be sealed—not just a personal disgrace, but a mark on his household. Those with low spiritual strength or weak constitutions were relegated to herb gathering or serving the clan's prodigies. Those with the worst fate became proper servants, scrubbing floors, tending fires, or cooking meals in the lower halls, and would remain in the clan's underbelly for life.
Even having the second elder of the clan as a father—Elder Yuan—could not shield him. Clan rules were unyielding, and ambitious factions within the clan's upper echelons would seize any chance to reprimand Elder Yuan for his son's failures. If Ling Qin stumbled now, the wolves of the clan would make sure his father's influence counted for nothing.
Ling Qin sighed as his fingers closed around a small, yellow sprig. It was the last herb on the scroll the clan had assigned him for today: Goldenleaf Grass, a delicate herb whose spiritual energy was faint, almost imperceptible to those with weak Qi. Without sufficient spiritual perception, the herb appeared to be nothing more than ordinary grass—yet its vitality carried the potential to heal, refine pills, or even strengthen meridians for those who knew how to harness it.
He pressed the herb between his fingers, trying to feel its subtle vibration. A weak tremor passed through his palm, barely discernible, and yet it was enough to remind him of his deficiency. His own spiritual Qi was like a candle flickering against the wind, barely able to sense the faint aura of the herb. His constitution, already weak, made it even harder; even with Elder Yuan's secret efforts to strengthen him, a bad constitution was a curse few could overturn. Only the most extreme, heaven-defying methods could alter it—but where would they be found?
Ling Qin's mind wandered to the weight of tomorrow. He was not the first son of his father, and both of his older brothers had already proven themselves competent. His own position was precarious: barely passing today's herb collection was no guarantee of survival in the eyes of the clan. Failure would mean a lifetime in the herb fields or worse, serving the prodigies in the upper halls of the clan—a life of obscurity, stripped of honor.
Yet despite the fear and the looming disgrace, Ling Qin felt a stubborn determination tighten in his chest. He had a faint glimmer of hope, a flicker of ambition. Even a weak constitution could be managed with careful cultivation, clever techniques, and perhaps, one day, the heaven-defying methods whispered about in ancient clan scrolls. But for now, he could only focus on the task in front of him.
The Goldenleaf Grass was delicate, its leaves almost translucent, shimmering faintly under the sunlight that filtered through the pine canopy. Ling Qin's fingers trembled as he secured it, then tucked it carefully into his herb pouch. One by one, he collected the remaining herbs on the scroll, each requiring the delicate touch of someone who could sense Qi faintly. A cultivator without perception would never know the difference—they would mistake even a rare, energy-rich herb for ordinary weeds.
As he straightened and gazed over the mountainside, Ling Qin felt the weight of destiny pressing down upon him. Tomorrow, every thirteen-year-old would stand in the great hall of the Ling Clan, Qi and constitution measured, potential weighed. And tomorrow, if he failed, the consequences would not just haunt him—they would haunt his family, his name, and the small Ling Clan household he belonged to.
He inhaled sharply, the scent of pine and earth filling his lungs, and muttered to himself, almost as if speaking to the mountain itself:
"Qi may be weak… my constitution may be flawed… but I will not be bound forever. Not yet."
With that, he rose, adjusting the herb pouch over his shoulder. His eyes, calm yet resolute, scanned the mountainside once more. Somewhere in the shadows of the forest, the faint shimmer of hidden herbs seemed to pulse in acknowledgment. Ling Qin, heir of the small Ling Clan, would face the trial of tomorrow—and if he survived, he would rise, one step at a time, against the weight of fate itself.