The next days passed in whispers.
"Did you hear? The Iron Sword Sect chose five disciples from our village."
"Yes, yes. All with silver roots—and one golden! That boy will become a great cultivator, mark my words."
"…And the cripple? The one who couldn't light the stone?"
A laugh. "What cripple? He doesn't exist anymore. Forget him."
But Jin Mu still existed.
He carried water from the well, patched the roof with straw, and tilled the stubborn earth of his foster parents' field. The work left his body aching, his hands blistered, but he did it silently. Always silently.
When he walked through the village, children turned their faces away. Adults smirked. His rival—now hailed as a sect disciple—strode with a sword on his hip, his new robes immaculate, his hair bound with pride. Wherever he passed, people bowed.
Wherever Jin Mu passed, they spat.
One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, Jin Mu returned from the fields with a bundle of firewood strapped to his thin back. He moved slowly, each stick digging into his skin. At the well, laughter echoed.
The rival stood there, surrounded by a small crowd. He twirled his new sword with practiced arrogance, the blade flashing crimson in the fading light.
"Brother disciple," one villager gushed, "you must be destined for greatness!"
The boy smirked. "It is only natural. Not all are chosen. Some of us are born to climb the heavens. Others—" His eyes slid to Jin Mu as he staggered by. "—are born to crawl in the mud."
The crowd laughed. The rival's smirk sharpened. He stepped forward, blocking Jin Mu's path. "Tell me, trash. Do you envy me?"
Jin Mu lowered his head, saying nothing.
The rival's smirk faltered at his silence. He pressed closer, his voice cruel.
"Speak! Or are you so broken that even words escape you?"
Jin Mu's hands tightened around the rope binding the wood. His knuckles whitened. His chest rose, then fell. But he did not speak.
The rival shoved him. The bundle crashed to the ground, scattering firewood. "Look at you. Too weak to carry sticks, too useless to cultivate. You shame even this village."
Jin Mu stumbled, landing hard on one knee. His palms scraped stone, blood welling fresh.
He did not rise. He did not strike back. He simply looked at the rival.
For the first time, his eyes were steady. Quiet. Burning.
The rival froze for a heartbeat under that gaze—dark, unyielding, a silence sharper than any sword. Then, scowling, he turned with a scoff.
"Stay in the mud, trash. That's all you'll ever be."
The crowd dispersed, laughter fading into the dusk.
Jin Mu knelt in the dirt, his hands bleeding, firewood scattered. Slowly, he gathered each stick again, one by one, until the bundle was whole. His back straightened under its weight, his steps slow but unbroken as he carried it home.
That night, as his foster parents slept, Jin Mu sat outside again. His palms were raw, his body trembling with exhaustion. But his eyes… his eyes were clear.
He looked at the moon. Pale, distant, unreachable.
One day, he swore in silence, I will climb higher than even you.