The candle flickered, casting long shadows across the worn stone walls of the Boundless Dao Sect's library. Disciples came here chasing secrets to climb from Mortal Foundation to Immortal Foundation, but Zhu Long — who had no meridians and no natal qi — came because it was quiet. And because mockery from scrolls was at least more dignified than mockery from other disciples.
He unrolled an ancient text, its edges frayed from centuries of desperate hands. Each brushstroke was a whisper, a thread of qi and power he could never touch. He read anyway.
"The Dao is the river that flows without end. The fool builds a dam, the sage learns to swim. The Dao is the flame that burns without fuel. The fool fans the ashes, the sage feels the warmth. The Dao is the mountain unmoved. The fool climbs in circles, the sage sits and becomes the peak."
Zhu Long traced the last character, lips quirking. If the Dao moves without effort, maybe I should stop trying so hard. Or maybe the Dao's just laughing at me. Figures.
The heavens had dealt him a void where his dantian should cycle qi. Other disciples cultivated toward Heaven and Immortal Foundations. Zhu swept floors. Still, persistence was its own rebellion. Every scroll he read was a spark hurled in the heavens' smug face.
The Dao sees all, he thought,
Encouraged, he unfurled a second scroll. The candlelight made the characters flicker like living things:
"When people see some things as beautiful, other things become ugly. When people see some things as good, other things become bad. Being and non-being create each other. Difficult and easy support each other. Long and short define each other. High and low depend on each other. Before and after follow each other. The wise see the unity in opposites, yet do not become entangled in extremes."
The words settled in his mind, a lesson for a boy barred from cultivation. His Mortal Foundation status was a shadow cast by the sect's radiant disciples. If high and low define each other, then patience and impatience are one in the same.
Perhaps that was the Dao's way of teaching him patience: understanding first, action later. Difficulty and ease were not enemies, but partners in a lesson he had yet to learn.
A faint breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the scent of incense and mountain air. Zhu Long inhaled slowly, letting the stillness seep into him. No words were spoken; no one passed the library at this hour. Even if they had, he would have bowed in silent reverence. He reflected, tracing the final characters with care. Perhaps the extremes I face are not punishments, but guides. Patience is key Zhu Long.
Zhu Long carefully rolled the scrolls back up, tying them with the worn silk cords that had held them for generations. Each scroll was heavy with knowledge, yet lighter than the weight of expectation pressing on him since the war. He set them on the low shelf where the library's caretakers stored the most precious texts, ensuring they rested flat and undisturbed. Even the slightest tilt could be considered negligence. Satisfied, he straightened his robes and stepped back.
The first hints of dawn were brushing the mountaintops with pale gold. The library was still quiet, the soft scent of old paper mingling with the faint incense from the morning ritual. No one stirred yet, except the occasional crow outside, calling to the waking world. Zhu Long adjusted the strap of the satchel slung across his shoulder and moved toward the library door. His steps were measured, careful not to disturb the order of the stone floors. Outside, the courtyard lay in shadow, and the air was cool against his skin.
He walked along the familiar stone paths, past the meditation halls and martialing yards, toward the kitchens. Even before the sun fully rose, the kitchens were already stirring: servants carrying firewood, cooks tending to early preparations, the rhythmic clatter of utensils blending with the murmurs of quiet conversation. Zhu Long joined them without a word, bowing politely to the head cook, then picking up a basket of vegetables to begin washing and chopping. There was no prestige in this work, only discipline, and in that discipline he found a kind of silent satisfaction. Around him, the other servants and junior cooks moved efficiently, exchanging brief nods and quiet instructions. Some glanced at him with mild pity, aware the boy had no cultivation potential; others barely noticed him at all.
Zhu Long focused on the rhythm of his work. The swish of water, the snap of chopping boards. Letting the motion clear his mind, preparing him for the long day ahead. Even here, among the mundane tasks of sweeping, washing, and cooking, he felt the subtle pulse of the sect's life around him. A mortal boy with no meridians, no natal qi, yet alive in every measured step, every careful motion, every quiet breath. Zhu Long carried a basket of vegetables toward the preparation table, bowing slightly to the head cook, a stern woman whose hands were perpetually streaked with flour.
"Try not to spill the vegetables this time," the head cook muttered. "Or I'll have you scrubbing knives for a week."
"Yes, Head Cook," Zhu said gravely, as though entrusted with a sacred relic.
Jien slid up beside him, carrying a stack of bowls. "You hear that? Don't spill anything. The sect might collapse."
Zhu smirked. "One carrot out of place and the heavens rain lightning. Truly, my shoulders bear the world."
Jien laughed. "Still reading those dusty scrolls at night? You think they'll finally teach you how to breathe qi through your toes?"
"If they do," Zhu said smoothly, "I'll teach you first. Imagine the glory—Jien, master of toe-breathing."
Jien nearly dropped the bowls, choking on his own laughter. "You're impossible."
"Correction," Zhu replied. "I'm innovative."
With breakfast cleared and the cooking utensils washed and stacked, Zhu Long wiped his hands on his robe. The kitchen smelled faintly of herbs and firewood, and the early sun spilled through the windows, illuminating the smooth stone floors.
Later, while washing dishes side by side, Jien elbowed him. "You actually survived without breaking a single bowl. Miracles happen."
Zhu nodded gravely. "Ancient technique. Step one: don't drop it. Step two: repeat step one."
"Truly profound," Jien said.
"Keep it down," Zhu muttered. "If the elders overhear, they'll add it to the sect's secret manuals."
Once the hall was tidy, the servants dispersed to other chores, and the disciples began moving toward the martialing yards. Zhu Long followed, carrying a small water bucket for the senior brothers to use in their stretching drills.
"Junior Brother Zhu," called a senior brother passing by, "even the mortals must move like they belong in the sect. Don't lag behind."
"Yes, Senior Brother," Zhu Long replied, bowing lightly and moving faster.
In the martialing yards, the air was crisp and quiet, broken only by the measured footfalls of the senior brothers and older disciples. Zhu Long stood at the edge, mimicking the stretching forms he had observed: slow arm circles, lunges, balance exercises. He had no qi to flow through his body, but he imagined it anyway, letting the motions guide him, letting patience and observation be his teachers.
"You really think copying them will help make you stronger?" Jien asked, crouching beside him.
"Not stronger," Zhu admitted, lunging carefully. "But smarter. If the river won't flow in me, I can still learn its path." He shot Jien a look. "Besides, you should try it. Might raise your intelligence by half."
"Half of nothing is still nothing."
"Exactly."
By the time the senior brothers began their formal drills, Zhu Long had finished his stretching and quietly moved through a few basic footwork patterns, careful to stay out of the way but observing everything. Every stance, every movement, every subtle adjustment was a lesson. He kept his eyes low, but he always noticed the senior brothers who considered him a filthy mortal.
"Junior Brother Zhu," a senior brother with sharp eyes and a sneer called, "don't just stand there staring, get moving. Or have you forgotten your place?"
Zhu bowed smoothly, faint smile playing on his lips. "Hard to forget, Senior Brother. Everyone reminds me daily. At this point, I should start charging a fee."
"What was that?" the brother snapped.
"I said, 'thank you for your guidance,' Senior Brother."
Jien hid his grin behind his sleeve.
Another disciple muttered, "Look at him. Sweeps floors, pretends to stretch, thinks he belongs here. How cute."
Zhu grinned to himself. Gross. He thinks I'm cute.
He shifted his stance, practicing a subtle balance move he'd been working on in secret. One wrong step, and the senior brothers would scoff. But he flowed through it gracefully, quietly demonstrating control without saying a word. Kuo frowned, not sure if it was skill or accident.
Kuo frowned, narrowing his eyes as he watched Zhu shift through the stance. "Hm… this one has audacity," he muttered to a nearby brother. "Amusing, if nothing else."
"Thank you, Senior Brother," Zhu said, keeping his voice calm.
"wasn't a compliment" He growled
Zhu smiled to himself and ran off to finish his drills. As the drills were wounding down, a ripple of qi pulsed through the yards, sharp and commanding, silencing the murmurs of the senior brothers. Martial Uncle Lian, a direct disciple of the sect master, strode into view, his robes flowing like liquid jade, his presence a mountain that dwarfed the morning sun. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, swept over the gathered disciples, lingering briefly on Zhu before dismissing him as one might a passing shadow. Zhu tightened his grip on the water bucket, heart quickening, and stepped back to the edge, Jien at his side.
"Boundless Dao Sect!" Martial Uncle Lian's voice cut through the courtyard like a blade, carrying even against the wind. His gaze swept over the disciples, sharp enough that a few straightened their backs without thinking.
"In nine months, our sect will host a tournament here on our own grounds."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, especially among the eager ones near the front. They quieted when his next words fell.
"This is important—not only to the sect, but to each of you. In one month's time, I'll recall those of you out on missions. You will have a choice: finish your mission and forfeit entry… or return and prepare."
Senior Brother Kuo stepped forward, voice steady but edged with concern. "Martial Uncle, what of those with missions still pending? What if we're injured and can't fight?"
Lian's eyes narrowed. "Then that is how fate falls. Better not to be injured. In fact…" His gaze swept the yard, hard and unblinking. "I will increase your mission quotas each week until one month before the event. You will be sharpened like blades before you set foot on that stage."
Groans broke out around the courtyard, low and bitter, but none dared voice them too loudly.
Lian ignored it all. "The White Lotus Sect has agreed to four days of matches. There will be only two rules: no killing, and no maiming. They are our peers, not our enemies. You will fight with honor."
He let that sink in before continuing. "The top four competitors will claim their choice of natural treasures from the vault—two apiece. The top three will also earn a body-refining elixir, brewed by Martial Uncle Chen himself. Second place will receive all of that, as well as a spirit-bound weapon crafted by Immortal Shen, blacksmith of the Imperial Palace."
A ripple of excitement surged through the yard. The senior disciples were already grinning as though the prizes were theirs by right.
Lian raised a final hand. "And for the champion: everything I've mentioned—and a year of training at the Imperial Palace itself. You will walk its halls, study its techniques, and temper yourself in its hospitality, its grounds, and its treasures. Few ever glimpse such things. Fewer still return."
The courtyard erupted. Cheers and shouts crashed against the stone walls like waves, some disciples already boasting of victory.
Zhu nudged Jien. "So the big prize is a year in the Palace? What's that get you, some better robes and free meals?"
Jien stared at him like he'd grown horns. "Better robes? Zhu, people leap entire realms in there. Earthly to Spirit! It's priceless!"
Zhu swirled the water bucket in his hands. "Sounds like a very expensive prison. With homework."
Jien groaned, rubbing his face. "Why do I even talk to you?"
"Because I'm charming," Zhu said.
"Because you're impossible," Jien corrected.
Zhu only smiled.