Nestled beneath the shadow of the Dark Jade Mountains, the impoverished village of Yunchuan lay like a den of rats rather than a place for humans. Houses of clay stood frail, their thatched roofs tattered and worn, lining a rocky valley perpetually shrouded in thin mist. The scent of burning charcoal, used to warm shivering bodies, mingled with the damp smell of earth, while the faint sounds of village children playing with wooden sticks on dusty paths drifted through the air, occasionally interrupted by the hoarse shouts of an old vendor in the desolate market, peddling cheap rice and dried yams at unreasonable prices. Yunchuan was not a place for dreams—only for survival, and even that felt like a futile struggle.
In the world of Tianxu, cultivation was everything. Power determined one's right to live, and the weak were nothing but dust beneath the feet of the strong. At the peak of the hill overlooking the village, the gray stone pavilion of the Gray Stone Sect—a minor branch of the Immortal Mist Sect—stood majestically, surrounded by carved wooden fences adorned with dragon motifs and jade lanterns emitting a soft glow. The sect's disciples, clad in luxurious dark blue silk robes with gleaming swords at their waists, often passed through the village streets, looking down on the villagers like Ling Tianhao and his family with disdain. "In Tianxu, without cultivation, you're no more than an insect," Ling Zhantian, Tianhao's father, muttered one night, his voice heavy with regret as he gazed at the pavilion from afar, his trembling hands still clutching a worn bamboo broom, its bristles nearly gone.
The Ling family was a stain in the eyes of the once-glorious Ling Clan, now reduced to a mere name in Tianxu. Ling Zhantian, an old sweeper at the Gray Stone Sect, spent his days hunched over, sweeping the sect's courtyard with slow, deliberate steps. His body was thin, his back bent, and his face etched with wrinkles, but his eyes always held a spark of warmth. Every night, he sat beside Tianhao on a tattered straw mat, recounting ancient folktales of cultivation heroes who rose from nothing, like the Jade Emperor who conquered the heavens with a single sword. "My son, though we are poor, these stories teach us never to give up," he said, his voice filled with hope despite the coughs that racked his lungs, damaged by years of dust. Tianhao, only ten years old, listened with shining eyes, imagining himself as that hero, soaring through the skies with a billowing robe and a sword in hand, though he knew it was just a dream.
His mother, Ling Xueyin, was a frail woman whose beauty had long faded under the weight of hard labor. Her once-lustrous black hair was now dull, tied simply with an old wooden hairpin, and her hands were covered in calluses from scrubbing floors and washing the sect disciples' robes in the icy river. Yet, amidst her suffering, she always found ways to bring warmth. While working, she often hummed softly, singing an ancient folk song about a lotus blooming in a swamp, "A lotus in the mud, still pure, still beautiful," a mantra that reminded their small family that beauty could be found even in hardship. Whenever Tianhao returned with his small hands covered in scrapes from carrying baskets of laundry or buckets of water, Xueyin would heat water in a small stove, gently clean his wounds with a worn cloth, and say, "We may be poor, but we have each other, Tianhao." Her tired eyes always brimmed with love as she offered a faint smile, making Tianhao feel that the world wasn't entirely cruel.
Ling Tianhao, their only child, was just ten years old, but his eyes already held shadows no child should bear. His body was small and thin, his hands covered in scrapes, and his back often ached from carrying loads too heavy for his fragile frame. Every day, he ran back and forth, delivering cold, bitter tea to the lazy sect disciples or helping his mother carry baskets of dirty robes to the river for washing. His payment was a single copper coin, not even enough to buy a steamed bun, but he never complained—not because he was strong, but because he didn't know who to complain to. The sect disciples often mocked him, calling him "Sweeper Boy" or "Trash Sheep," and it wasn't uncommon for him to return home with bruises on his arms or cheeks after being slapped for being too slow. "Hurry up, filthy child!" one disciple, Huo Gang, barked one day, shoving Tianhao until he fell, the tea in his hands spilling onto the dusty ground, the other disciples' laughter echoing like knives in his ears.
Yet, behind his suffering, Tianhao harbored a burning dream. In the corner of their shack, when night fell and the cold wind slipped through the cracks in the walls, he often practiced simple movements he'd seen from the sect disciples: standing with his legs apart, his small hands swinging gently, mimicking cultivation techniques even though he knew his body lacked talent. "I'll become a great cultivator, for Father and Mother," he whispered, his eyes filled with determination, though his legs trembled from exhaustion. He often imagined himself soaring through the skies, wearing a silk robe like the sect disciples, protecting his family from all suffering. In his dark eyes, there was a small ember—not of hope, but of vengeance, slowly growing with every injustice he witnessed.
The Ling family's home was a dilapidated shack made of clay, its earthen floor cold and piercing to the bone, its thatched roof leaking during rain, forcing them to sleep with cloths over their heads to shield from the dripping water. The old wooden table in the center of the room barely fit three small bowls, and the walls were riddled with holes patched with dried leaves to block the wind. Yet, on that wall, there was one thing that always made them smile: a simple drawing Tianhao had made at the age of five, depicting three figures holding hands beneath a sun, sketched with charcoal and cheap ink he'd found at the market. "This reminds us, Tianhao, how creative you are," Zhantian would say whenever he looked at the drawing, his voice full of pride, and Xueyin would add, "This is our home, where we'll always be together."
Though poor, the Ling family found happiness in small things. Every night, they sat in a circle around a small stove, sharing a bowl of watery rice porridge that Xueyin made from cheap, nearly spoiled rice, seasoned with a pinch of salt for flavor. "It tastes simple, but it's filled with Mother's love," Tianhao said, smiling faintly as Zhantian joked about his long day, "Today, I swept faster than the wind, but the elder said I was still too slow!" They laughed together, their laughter filling the tiny shack, as if the world outside didn't exist—just them, a small family who loved each other dearly. Tianhao always looked forward to these moments, when he could forget the sect disciples' taunts and feel the warmth of his family, even if his stomach often remained hungry.
A few months ago, the village held a small festival to celebrate the Lotus Blossom Festival, though it was modest, with only simple paper lanterns and music from an old bamboo flute. Xueyin danced with Tianhao beneath the lanterns, their clothes tattered but their faces full of smiles. Zhantian stood nearby, tapping a wooden board to keep the rhythm, shouting, "Come on, Tianhao, show Mother your great moves!" Tianhao grinned widely, twirling with his small steps alongside his mother, his tiny hand held tightly by Xueyin's calloused but gentle one. That night, for the first time, he felt the world wasn't so cruel. "We may be poor, but tonight, we're happy," Zhantian said, his eyes shining as he embraced his wife and son, and Tianhao felt his chest swell with warmth, as if all his suffering melted away in that embrace.
But behind their simple happiness, injustice always lurked. Tianhao often saw sect disciples beating poor children in the village streets for amusement, their arrogant laughter making his small fists clench, though he could do nothing. One day, he witnessed a village elder toss a copper coin into the mud, ordering Xueyin to pick it up like a dog while the other villagers lowered their heads, too afraid to defy him. Xueyin bowed her head, her hands trembling as she retrieved the coin, tears falling down her cheeks, though she quickly wiped them away so Tianhao wouldn't see. Tianhao, watching from a distance, felt his chest burn with rage. "Why must Mother be treated like that?" he muttered, his eyes filled with an anger no child his age should bear.
That night, as he sat in the corner of the shack, staring at his small, scraped hands, he heard Zhantian whisper softly, "Forgive me, Tianhao, I can't give you anything." The voice was laden with regret, and Tianhao could only nod, unsure of what to say. Deep in his heart, something grew—not kindness, not goodness, but a desire to rise, to destroy the world that had trampled him since birth. He didn't know how, he had no power, but with every beat of his small heart, he swore: one day, he would make them all kneel before him.