25%
35%
45%
I've been sitting here for three days doing nothing but trying to open my dumb meridians. I haven't eaten, haven't had a drink, haven't even stood up! Can I even stand anymore? I don't even want to find out at this point. Still, I guess it's better than sitting here and going crazy.
Slowly, I push myself up from the bed, my legs completely numb from disuse. They give out instantly, and I collapse, smashing my forehead against the wooden floor with a loud thwack. Another yell of pain and frustration escapes me, followed by a full-blown cascade of cursing.
Once I've screamed myself hoarse, I sit up and start massaging my legs, trying to bring the feeling back. As I rub the soreness away, still simmering with frustration, my eyes land on something—just behind the bed, a single cracked board in the wall.
It's not much, but I could work with it.
As soon as I can feel my legs again, I shove the bed aside and grab the broken board with both hands. I yank hard. The first try doesn't budge it. Neither does the second. On the third pull, the board finally snaps free, and I stumble backward, landing hard on my ass—but I scramble back up quickly, crawling over to the exposed hole in the wall and peering through it with wide eyes.
Nothing. As far as I can see, just sand and scattered cacti. No buildings. No roads. No smoke. No people.
That's The Frontier for you—barren, brutal, and endless. Still, I'd been hoping to spot a town… maybe a train passing through… anything. But no. Just more of the same.
Sitting back, I grab hold of another board and start pulling. Unlike the last one, this one hasn't rotted through—it holds firm, completely refusing to budge. I guess this building is sturdier than I gave it credit for. Shifting my position, I start kicking at the board, hoping brute force will do the trick. All I manage to do is make my foot hurt like hell. Great. Still stuck.
With a groan, I crawl out from under the bed and toss the rotting board aside. It lands with a soft thud, just another piece of useless scrap. I sit back down with a sigh, resigning myself to the painfully slow process once again.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jaeho
Returning to the rubble of a once-flourishing town, we find ourselves again on the blood-soaked ground where Jaeho flails around with a sword far too big for him. Rage twists his face into something unrecognizable. With one wild upward swing, his grip falters and the sword goes flying, landing with a dull thud just a few feet from a horse.
The rider atop the horse swings down, boots hitting the earth with a heavy thump. He takes off his hat and looks down at the boy.
"Are you Sun's kid? The refugees told me what happened."
"Yeah, I am. And who the hell are you?" Jaeho, normally a respectful young man, looks up at the stranger with all the fury he can muster.
"I'm Ji-hoon. I was a friend of your father."
"Then why are you here now?" Jaeho shouts, fists clenched tight. "If you were his friend, why weren't you here to help him?"
"I don't have any excuse," Ji-hoon says plainly, his voice steady. "But I'm here now, kid. Your father and I had an agreement. If he were to die, I'd take care of you. So you can either come with me and learn, or stay here on these blood-stained grounds and keep flailing like a fool."
Jaeho doesn't respond right away. Instead, he pushes past Ji-hoon and picks up the fallen sword, holding it awkwardly in both hands. He glances up at the horse, then back at the man. A pause lingers before he finally speaks, his voice laced with reluctant embarrassment.
"...I need help getting up."
Ji-hoon lets out a dry chuckle before stepping forward. With a practiced motion, he lifts Jaeho and sets him on the back of the horse. Climbing up behind him, he gives the reins a light pull, and the two begin their journey toward the town of Ashwind.
The travel takes a few days. Along the way, Jaeho begins to warm up to Ji-hoon, slowly drawn in by the stories the older man shares—tales of his father, of the times they fought side by side, and the values he carried. The stories help soften the edge of Jaeho's grief, letting him remember the good instead of drowning in the pain.
But the truth still lingers, heavy in his heart: his father is dead, taken from him by the world's cruelty. And Jaeho knows, deep down, that the world won't stop taking—unless someone makes it. Those filthy outlaws took everything.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Bakma - One month Later
My throat's dry. Lips cracked. But I can't waste the water. The closer I get to 100%, the slower it crawls. Why does this have to be so damn hard? It was speeding along earlier, but now it's like trying to squeeze blood from a stone.
"I feel like I'm bashing my head into the wall… again," I mutter, my eyes settling on a small red stain smeared on the wooden planks. I don't even remember when I did that.
I push myself off the bed with a grunt and limp over to the supply sack, digging through the contents. There's barely anything left—just crumbs and a handful of empty canteens. That's it? Why didn't he leave me more? If he was gonna lock me away in this shithole, why not stock it better? Guess he didn't think my Talent would be this low. Lucky me.
At the bottom of the sack, I find one last canteen. I give it a shake—there's a bit left. Just enough to tease me. I twist the cap off and down what's left in one gulp. Barely a mouthful, but it hits my tongue like cold heaven. Then the anger comes.
With a shout, I hurl the empty canteen at the door. It slams against the wood with a loud thud before clattering to the floor uselessly. Still stuck. And now, completely out of water.
Opening the system, I stare at the skill taunting me once again—78%. I let out a defeated huff and flop back onto the same spot on the bed, returning to my endless loop: wake up, cultivate, scream, cultivate, sleep, repeat. It's getting old. Is this really what cultivation is? If it is, then cultivation sucks.
As I grumble, I feel an odd sensation creeping closer. It's like the usual pinpricks I'm used to drawing in… only this time they're hot to the touch. Well, whatever—it can't change much—so I continue drawing it in slowly. But as the energy grazes my skin, something strange happens: what normally feels like fingers tapping on a wall now burns straight through it. And what's that smell? It's like old black powder.
Whatever—it's something different. It can't hurt to let it through. I sit there, cultivating, while the scent of gunpowder grows stronger. Time loses all meaning as the smell captivates me I don't know why, but the smell of gunpowder its like heaven. I only snap out of it when I hear a ding from the system and feel a rush of hot air.
[Qi Circulation has reached LV: 1][Meridians have begun to open]
I leap off the bed, shouting in excitement—finally, after a whole damn month, there's real progress. Then I turn toward where the hot air rushed in: the doors have flown open. I burst out into the burning sun. God, I never thought I'd be this happy to feel that dreadful heat again.