The night was heavy with silence. The moonlight poured faint silver into the secluded training ground, and Xu Lan sat cross-legged, his breathing calm and steady. Inside his dantian, the faint whirlpool of Qi spun steadily, feeding both his body and spirit.
He had taken the first step. He was a cultivator now.
But he also understood one thing clearly—cultivation wasn't just about absorbing Qi. Without arts, his strength was nothing but a fragile flame before a storm.
During the day, he had ventured back into the sect's library, not into the forbidden section, but among the dusty scrolls that most disciples ignored. Ordinary techniques, overshadowed by the sect's prestigious ones, lay forgotten there. Xu Lan carefully chose three:
Flowing Iron Body– a body-refining art meant to harden flesh like tempered steel.
Falling Leaf Strike – an offensive palm technique designed for swift, precise bursts of power.
Stone Wall Guard– a defensive stance that stabilized the body like an immovable mountain.
None were outstanding. To most disciples, they were trash-tier arts, foundations for outer sect disciples to train before receiving proper guidance. But to Xu Lan, they were the building blocks of survival.
He began with the Flowing Iron Body.
Circulating Qi through his limbs, he followed the strange diagrams within the manual. Each breath drew Qi into his bones, each exhale condensed it into his muscles. Soon, a searing heat coursed through him, as if his very marrow was being forged in an unseen furnace.
Sweat poured down, soaking the dirt beneath him. His arms trembled, veins bulging as pain rippled through his body. Every inch of him screamed to stop.
But Xu Lan clenched his teeth.
Pain is proof of progress.
Hours later, his skin faintly glowed under the moonlight, as though polished by fire. The pain dulled into a throbbing ache, yet beneath it lay an undeniable sense of sturdiness. He clenched his fist, and for the first time, he felt the raw weight of his strength.
The next morning, he turned to the Falling Leaf Strike.
The technique was deceptively simple: concentrate Qi into the palm, then release it in a burst as light and sharp as a falling leaf cutting through air. Yet when Xu Lan tried, his Qi scattered uncontrollably, slipping through his fingers like sand.
Again.
Dozens of attempts. His palms stung red, his meridians ached. Still, he persisted. Slowly, he felt the rhythm of Qi aligning with his breath. On his fiftieth attempt, the air cracked faintly when his palm shot forward. Leaves from a nearby tree fluttered to the ground—split clean in half.
A small smile tugged his lips. Progress.
Finally came the Stone Wall Guard.
This technique required not attack, but endurance. Xu Lan planted his feet, rooted his stance, and circulated Qi along his spine and legs. Again and again, he threw himself against a boulder, absorbing the shock and redirecting it through his body. His bones rattled, muscles screamed, and bruises covered his arms, but with each impact, his stance grew steadier.
By dusk, he could withstand a strike without flinching, the boulder itself cracking faintly from the repeated blows.
---
As the sun dipped, Xu Lan collapsed on the grass, chest heaving. Every bone felt shattered, every muscle torn. Yet in the depths of his exhaustion, he felt alive.
He had no master, no guidance, no system to hold his hand. But he had something far greater—an unyielding will.
Looking at his calloused palms, Xu Lan muttered to himself,
"Technique, strength, endurance… this is only the beginning. One day, the sect will recognize me. And those who look down on me—"
His eyes hardened, glowing faintly with determination.
"—will regret it."
The night wind whispered across the courtyard, carrying away his vow, but deep inside, Xu Lan knew. His path had only just begun.