The world of cultivation was cruel.
Power ruled all. The strong soared through the heavens; the weak were crushed underfoot. Justice was a luxury only the powerful could afford. Mercy? A word for fools. In this world, weakness wasn't a burden—it was a sin.
And yet, for those bold enough to defy fate, this world brimmed with endless opportunities.
In a forgotten corner of the Lin Clan estate stood a crooked wooden shed—more hole than home. Wind howled through the gaps in its walls, and the roof leaked with every storm. No servant dared approach. No elder ever spoke of it. Only the youngest son of the clan patriarch lived there.
The boy they all called trash.
No one remembered his name. No one cared to.
Born beneath an unlucky star, his mother died giving birth to him. As if cursed, he showed no affinity for cultivation—no spiritual energy, no elemental root. His qi channels were sealed, locked tight like rusted chains. His body, thin and frail, broke beneath even basic training.
For years, the mighty patriarch of the Lin Clan tried to change his son's fate. He summoned doctors, fed him rare herbs, even consulted spirit seers. All failed. Eventually, the great Lin patriarch gave up. He let the boy remain—not out of love, but obligation.
The clan shared no such restraint.
His siblings spat on him. His cousins mocked him. Some beat him for sport. Others simply ignored him. Day after day, they reminded him of what he was: a stain on the Lin name.
But the boy never stopped.
While others flew on swords and commanded fire, he swept halls and scrubbed floors. While they cultivated under moonlight in sacred gardens, he sat alone in the dirt, trying to sense even a flicker of qi. He trained until his fingers bled and his vision blurred. No progress. No praise. Only pain.
Still, he trained.
And on this morning—his thirteenth birthday—he woke with something dangerous in his chest.
Hope.
Golden light spilled through the roof's cracks, warming the dusty floor. The boy stirred beneath a threadbare blanket, eyes opening to the soft hum of morning. For once, his gaze held no emptiness. Only fire.
Today was the day.
At thirteen, every child awakened their spiritual root. Most would inherit what their bloodline dictated. Some, blessed by fate, would discover rare affinities. A chosen few would touch the divine.
And sometimes—just sometimes—the ones the world had given up on would awaken something that should not exist.
He sat up, brushing hay from his tangled hair. His breath shook. His heart thundered.
Maybe—just maybe—this was the day he became more than a shadow.
Maybe today, he'd stop being trash.
He knelt in the center of the shed, legs folded, spine straight despite the aching bruises. Hands rested on his knees. Eyes closed. Breath slow.
He had watched others awaken—watched them glow, their roots blooming like celestial lotus flowers. He had never envied them.
He couldn't afford envy.
All he had was hope. Fragile. Treacherous.
He reached inward.
At first, there was nothing.
Just the dark. The familiar silence of a body that refused to listen. No qi. No stir of life. A void so deep it mocked him.
Not this time.
He pushed deeper—past the pain in his legs, the bruises on his ribs, the hunger gnawing at his belly. He pierced the silence with will alone, driving his consciousness toward the center of his soul.
And something stirred.
A flicker.
His breath caught.
There—hidden deep within the void—was a spark. Faint. Flickering. No larger than a grain of sand. It trembled like a candle in a storm.
He reached for it.
It flared.
BOOM.
Pain erupted through his chest, raw and all-consuming. Blood burst from his nose. His spine arched. His eyes snapped open, blind with white fire.
But he didn't stop.
The spark ignited—becoming a star, then a storm. Qi surged through his body, burning through his veins like molten light. His muscles spasmed. His bones cracked. His skin tore and bled, black sludge oozing from every pore.
It felt like death.
Maybe it was death.
He collapsed, writhing. His vision swam in red. Images flashed—his mother's smile, barely remembered. His father's back, always turned. His siblings' fists. His own tears, swallowed in silence.
Then—
Everything went white.
When he opened his eyes, the sun had shifted.
Light filtered through the gaps above, softer now. His body trembled. Every nerve screamed. But beneath the pain was something new.
Power.
He sat up slowly, hands trembling. Dried blood crusted his skin. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. But when he looked inward—
His breath caught.
There it was.
A spiritual root.
Massive. Coiled. Ancient. Not fire, nor water, nor wind. It pulsed with a cold, silver-black light—like moonlight dancing on obsidian.
It was not of this world.
And it was his.
He had no idea what it meant. Only that everything had changed.
He was no longer trash.
A knock split the silence. Sharp. Mocking.
"Still hiding, little worm?" came a sneering voice.
Lin Kai.
Tall. Cruel. Eldest son of the clan.
"Today's your Awakening Day, isn't it?" Another voice—Lin Mei, her tone soaked in poison. "Let me guess. You tried... and failed again?"
The boy said nothing.
He looked down at his hands—shaking, cracked, soaked in blood and something darker.
He had to hide it. For now.
"Come out," Lin Kai snarled. "Or we'll drag you out."
He stood.
Slowly.
Every movement was fire—but he didn't grimace. Didn't flinch.
He stepped into the sunlit courtyard.
Three of them waited. Kai. Mei. Lin Jue. Their faces were masks of contempt.
"Well?" Mei asked. "Still useless?"
The boy didn't answer.
Kai grabbed his collar. "Say something, trash."
The boy met his brother's eyes.
And this time, he didn't look away.
For a heartbeat, Kai hesitated.
"You'll speak when spoken to!" Kai roared, fist rising.
The boy didn't move.
He didn't need to.
The qi stirred beneath his skin. Coiled like a dragon. Waiting.
But he held it back.
Not yet.
Let them think he was still weak.
Let them keep their arrogance—for now.
He smiled.
A small, quiet smile.
"Soon," he whispered.
Kai scowled. "What did you say?"
The boy turned. Walked back into the shed.
His fists clenched—not with fear, but with promise.
Soon, he thought.
Very soon.