The mountain winds whispered gently through the tall pines, carrying with them the scent of dew and earth. Morning sunlight poured through the clouds, striking against the stone courtyard where Ming stood barefoot. His blue eyes reflected the light like calm rivers, while his long black hair fell behind him like a dark waterfall.
His teacher sat cross-legged on a flat stone, robes fluttering gently in the breeze. His presence was like a mountain itself—immovable, vast, and untouchable.
"Ming," the teacher said slowly, his deep voice echoing in the stillness, "today you begin the Body Tempering Realm. This is the first true step of cultivation."
Ming's gaze sharpened. "Teacher… what must I do? Will my body… change?"
The teacher's lips curved into a rare smile. "Change? Yes. But slowly. Body tempering is not about brute force. It is about discipline. Ten levels stand before you. Each one will hammer your body like iron in the forge—skin, bone, blood, marrow, and organs. If you endure, your body will become a vessel fit to carry qi. If you fail, you will remain weak, unable to step further."
Ming clenched his fists. His heart was not burning with ambition, but with endless questions.
"Teacher… why must the body be tempered first? Why not the soul or the qi?"
The teacher's eyes softened slightly. "Because even the brightest flame cannot burn in a broken lamp. Even the strongest river cannot flow through shattered banks. The body is the vessel of all things. Only by tempering it can you hold the weight of realms yet to come."
Ming lowered his head, thinking. His cleverness did not let him accept things blindly—he had to understand. After a long silence, he nodded. "Then… I will temper it."
The stone courtyard grew silent once more. Only the sound of the mountain wind brushing against the pines accompanied Ming's heartbeat.
The teacher raised his hand and pointed at the bare ground. "Remove your shoes. Feel the earth beneath your feet. Let the mountain steady you."
Ming obeyed. The cold stone pressed against his soles, rough and uneven, sending a strange shiver up his legs.
"Good," the teacher said. "Now stand. Breathe. Do not think of strength, do not think of weakness. Simply exist."
Ming inhaled. The cold mountain air rushed into his lungs like ice. He exhaled, uneven and shaky.
Minutes passed. His legs trembled. Sweat formed across his brow, dripping down to the stone.
"Teacher…" Ming finally whispered through clenched teeth. "Why is this… so hard? I'm only standing still!"
The teacher's calm gaze never wavered. "Because your body is soft. Weakness hides not in great battles, Ming, but in small things—breath, stance, balance. If you cannot control yourself here, how will you control power later?"
Ming gritted his teeth. His clever mind searched for an answer. His body wanted to collapse, yet his curiosity whispered: What if I adjust? What if I shift?
Slowly, instead of resisting the trembling, Ming bent his knees slightly, adjusting his stance like a tree swaying in the wind. His breathing steadied, his trembling lessened.
The teacher's eyes flickered with a hint of approval. "You see? Not brute strength, but understanding. This is your path."
Hours slipped by like this—breathing, standing, adjusting, thinking. When at last Ming collapsed onto the stone floor, the teacher finally spoke again.
"Your body has touched the first thread of tempering. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, you begin again. Each step you master will temper your skin, bones, blood, and beyond. Endure this tenfold, and you will have forged your vessel."
Ming's blue eyes burned with exhaustion, yet also with a spark of triumph. He was not powerful, not yet. But he had taken his first step.
The night was deep. Stars scattered across the sky like countless eyes watching silently. The mountain wind grew colder, but Ming sat cross-legged in the courtyard, refusing to sleep.
His body ached from standing all day. Every muscle felt like it was tearing apart. Yet in his heart, a fire burned.
"Teacher said ten levels… but how do I even reach the first?" Ming muttered to himself. His clever mind refused to give up. He looked at his trembling hands, his pale skin, his shallow breath.
Weak… yes, but not hopeless.
Closing his eyes, he recalled the stance, the breath, the trembling. Then he thought: The mountain does not resist the wind… it bends, yet it never falls. If I force my body, it breaks. If I flow with it, perhaps it will change.
He steadied his breath. Instead of pushing against the pain, he let the pain spread naturally, following it like water following cracks in a stone. His body shivered violently, then suddenly… steadied.
Deep within, something stirred. A faint warmth flowed through his veins, like embers glowing inside cold ashes.
His blue eyes snapped open, reflecting the starlight. His long black hair fluttered in the wind as if answering the rhythm of his breath.
This… this is it.
The warmth surged, spreading from his chest to his arms, legs, and bones. His skin felt tougher, his blood warmer, his breath deeper.
The teacher, who had silently been watching from afar, finally spoke. His voice was calm, yet tinged with approval.
"You have entered the First Level of Body Tempering. Not by force, not by luck—but by understanding. Remember this, Ming. Strength gained without wisdom is a blade without a handle. Dangerous to all, including oneself."
Ming's lips curved into a faint smile. His body still hurt, but now it carried a new strength.
For the first time, he had truly stepped onto the path of cultivation.
The following days were filled with relentless practice.
Every morning before dawn, Ming rose to the sound of mountain winds brushing through the trees. The stone courtyard became his battlefield, the sky his silent witness.
His fists struck the air until his knuckles bled. His legs trembled as he held stances for hours, sweat dripping like rain. His breath followed the rhythm his teacher taught—inhale with the rising sun, exhale with the setting moon.
Yet Ming was not reckless. Unlike many who charged blindly into pain, he questioned every movement.
"Why do my arms tire before my legs?"
"Why does the breath falter when the body tenses?"
"Why does pain sharpen when I resist it, but fade when I let it flow?"
Each question gave birth to an answer, and each answer became a step forward.
By the seventh day, his skin had grown tougher, no longer bruising from simple strikes. His bones felt heavier, carrying his weight with ease. The warmth inside him had thickened, flowing like molten metal through his veins.
One evening, as the crimson sunset bathed the mountain in gold, Ming sat cross-legged. He calmed his breath, guiding the warmth deeper. His body shuddered violently as if hammered from within.
"Haaah…" His breath burst out, carrying with it a faint mist.
The teacher, watching silently from the stone steps, nodded slowly.
"First Level of Body Tempering," and not brokethrough. he murmured. "The boy advances faster than most… yet he never rushes. He searches, he understands, and then he steps forward."
Ming opened his eyes, blue like a calm lake after storm. He was exhausted, but in that exhaustion was joy.
"Teacher… this path… it hurts, but it feels alive," he whispered.
The teacher's gaze grew distant, unreadable. His robes swayed gently in the wind. Alive… yes. But to remain alive on this road, one must endure storms far greater than pain.
He said nothing aloud. Instead, he simply turned away.
For Ming, this was only the beginning.
"The night deepened, and the mountain wind carried the scent of pine and stone. Ming's body trembled from exhaustion, but inside him, a faint warmth pulsed—subtle, steady, like the first spark of a hidden flame. It was the beginning of a long, arduous path, yet in that fragile glow, he felt the promise of strength waiting to be forged".
"If you enjoyed Ming's first real step into cultivation, please leave a comment or add this book to your favorites—it means the world and helps me write more!"