Morning came, gray and cold, washing the smoke-stained village in a weary light.
Jin Mu limped through the square, bandages wrapped tight across his ribs. The villagers' eyes followed him wherever he went—wide, uncertain, whispering behind cupped hands.
"That's him… the cripple who struck down two bandits."
"Not crippled anymore, is he?"
"Did you see the way the man's chest caved in? That wasn't normal qi. Too heavy. Too fierce."
"Maybe he's possessed."
"Or cursed."
The words cut sharper than the bandit's blade, but Jin Mu kept walking. His back was straight, his gaze fixed ahead.
At the well, he knelt, dipping his hands into the cold water. His reflection stared back—pale, bruised, but different. His eyes held a faint shimmer, golden sparks flickering deep within. He touched his chest. The qi stirred faintly there, sluggish but undeniable.
It felt wrong. Heavy. Every breath carried the weight of it, pressing against his bones. When he tried to guide it, the flow resisted, wild and violent. Not smooth like the cultivation stories told, but a storm barely chained.
He clenched his fists, water dripping from his knuckles. I don't care if it's wrong. It's mine.
"Trash pretending to be a hero again?"
The voice cut across the square like a blade.
Jin Mu rose slowly. His rival stood there, resplendent in the Iron Sword Sect's outer disciple robes. His golden root aura shimmered faintly, and a fresh sword hung at his hip. Behind him, a knot of villagers watched eagerly, waiting for entertainment.
"You think killing a couple of bandits makes you worthy?" The rival sneered, stepping closer. "Don't forget—you're still trash. A cripple with a fluke of luck."
Jin Mu said nothing. He met the boy's gaze, silent, steady.
The rival's smirk faltered for a moment under that stare, before twisting into a snarl. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or is it that you can't even speak properly?"
The crowd chuckled. The rival drew his sword, pointing the gleaming steel toward Jin Mu's chest. "Show them, then. If you're not trash anymore, prove it."
The villagers murmured, eyes wide. A duel—this was what they wanted.
Jin Mu's chest burned. The wild qi inside him stirred, pressing against his veins, urging release. His fingers curled, knuckles white.
He wanted to fight. Desperately.
But his foster mother's voice rang faintly in his memory: Don't. You'll only bring more suffering.
Jin Mu exhaled, forcing his fists to unclench. He stepped back, turning away.
The rival's laughter echoed across the square. "See? Still trash. Always trash." He raised his voice for all to hear. "Remember this, villagers! One golden root soars to the heavens—while your so-called savior crawls back into the mud."
The crowd roared with laughter. The rival sheathed his sword, smirk triumphant.
Jin Mu walked away, head lowered. But his fists bled from how tightly he'd clenched them.
That night, alone beneath the cracked roof once more, he sat cross-legged on the floor. He closed his eyes, focusing inward.
The qi was there—burning, heavy, alive.
He pressed his will against it, trying to guide it through his meridians. Pain lanced through him, sharp as knives. His breath hitched, sweat soaking his brow. But still he pushed, inch by inch, forcing the wild storm into a single thread.
For hours, he battled himself in silence.
When dawn broke, his body trembled with exhaustion. But the thread of qi flowed faintly, obedient for the first time.
A thin smile curved his lips, unseen in the dark.
The whispers of power had begun.