The next morning, Arin rose before even the hens stirred. The sky was deep indigo, dew clinging to bamboo leaves like whispered secrets.
Barefoot, he slipped into the backyard forest. The cold earth grounded him.
On his wrist, the jade glinted faintly—smooth, green, and ancient. He had carried it since he was three. His mother had pressed it into his palm with strange urgency.
> "Take this. But never show it to anyone."
He had asked why. She never answered. If it was so secret, why give it at all?
He murmured to himself, "Whatever it is… I'll earn the right to understand it."
Arin's tools were humble. A bamboo sword he had carved himself. A tattered book bought from a roadside stall, its pages yellowed, its diagrams cryptic.
He sat cross-legged, straightened his spine, and drew in a steady breath. Inhale. Exhale. Again.
Minutes passed. His chest rose and fell in rhythm. His thoughts sharpened with each cycle. He pictured the diagrams from the book, tracing the flow of qi through imaginary meridians. He waited for warmth, for a spark, for something.
But nothing came. No current. No resonance. Only the weight of his own breathing.
His eyelids twitched. Silence pressed harder than any blow. Disappointment sank deep in his chest, cold and heavy.
Still, he clenched his jaw and steadied himself.
> "One more time," he whispered. "Just once more."
For six hours, he repeated the cycle. Muscles ached. Mind frayed. But he refused to stop.
Then something shifted. The air grew still. The forest dimmed. Behind his closed eyes, a vision bloomed.
A figure stood before him, robed in twilight silk, eyes like ancient stars. His master.
Not a sect leader. Not a patriarch. Just a man who never stayed in one place long enough to be tied down—yet every disciple who crossed his path carried his mark forever.
The master's voice echoed, low and final:
> "When the time comes… get what you deserve."
The vision faded.
Arin's eyes snapped open. His heart pounded. That voice—it wasn't memory. It was something else. A message. A trigger.
He never got the chance to meet the seven senior disciples. Their names were scattered through stories, not introductions. They weren't part of any sect. No banners, no rules. Just seven wanderers, each chosen by the same storm of a man. And though he'd never stood before them, he felt the weight of their legacy—like distant thunder that still shakes the ground.
He stood, gripping his bamboo sword tighter.
> "I'll train until the forest breaks. I'll earn what's mine."
---
Beyond the grove, the storm had already arrived.
Cultivators in dark robes stood before his house. Their leader held a glowing seal, flickering like a warning.
> "He's here. The resonance is faint—but real."
Inside, Arin's mother stood firm. Eyes met the cultivator's—calm but unyielding.
> "There's no one here like that," she said.
"You're mistaken."
The cultivator narrowed his eyes. "We were told the child lives here."
She didn't flinch.
> "My son is ordinary. No Soulspring. No talent. Just a boy."
They searched the house. The rooms. The cellar. But the backyard was sealed—not by his father, a mortal, but by another. The wandering cultivator who had once sold Arin the strange book. His seal made the grove invisible to anyone but Arin and his family.
The intruders frowned at the edge of the yard.
> "The energy here… it's distorted."
Their leader shook his head. "The boy is not here."
One cultivator shoved Arin's mother roughly.
> "Where is the boy?"
She stumbled but stood firm, eyes flashing.
> "He's not here."
Another cultivator grabbed his father as he tried to step forward.
> "Don't interfere."
His father struggled, but a swift kick sent him sprawling. Blood splattered the wall.
The first cultivator struck Arin's mother across the face.
> "Answer! Where is he?"
She stood firm. Calm, trembling beneath.
> "My son is ordinary. He has no talent. You're mistaken."
The leader's gaze was sharp.
> "We were told the child lives here. If not him… then you'll do."
Glowing chains shot forward. His father tried to resist, but a flick of the cultivator's wrist threw him across the room. Blood sprayed.
> "Take them," the leader ordered.
The cultivators grabbed both parents, dragging them toward the broken door. Their cries cut off in the mist outside.
Within the sealed grove, Arin opened his eyes. The jade was quiet. The forest still. He did not yet know his parents had been taken. The broken door swayed. Floor stained with blood. Furniture shattered. Air smelled of ash and sorrow.
Something tugged sharply in his chest. A shadow pressed against his heart. Someone close was in danger.
He froze. The jade on his wrist was cold. No warmth. No qi. No Soulspring. As if the heavens had forgotten to carve his name into the cycle.
Heavy and uncertain, he rose. The book and bamboo sword lay untouched, but the air around them felt different—mourning.
Each step out of the grove felt leaden, as if the earth itself tried to hold him back.
Chaos appeared. The garden gate swayed. Smoke and ash drifted, curling like ghosts.
Furniture lay overturned, scattered like fallen soldiers. The front door hung open, creaking. Inside, the floor streaked with blood. Shattered wood. Smell of iron and ash.
Arin's knees trembled. Grip tightened—then loosened. Shock settled like frost.
Rain began to fall. Soft at first. Cold droplets soaked his hair. He barely noticed.
Step by step, reality sank in. Helplessness. Emptiness. Loss. A weight he could not lift.
Fists clenched. He had never felt so powerless—not when they mocked him, not when they called him trash. But now, the helplessness cut deeper.
Tears ran freely. Rain poured.
Above, thunder rolled once. Low. Distant. Sharp. Not from the storm. Something else. Deliberate. Stirred.
From the doorway, the old man appeared. Silent. Eyes heavy with pity. The wandering cultivator who had sealed the grove.
> "You're lucky," he said softly.
"The seal kept you hidden. But you weren't ready."
Arin turned, voice breaking.
> "You… you knew this would happen?"
The old man's gaze lingered on the jade. Eyes flicked to the sky. A single rumble echoed—too timed to be natural. That wasn't the storm. That was something else.
He looked at Arin's trembling hands.
> "If you had a Soulspring… you'd be strong enough to fight me today."
Then, after a pause, his eyes softened.
> "Still… I think you will. One day."