The courtyard echoed with the sharp crack of fists striking wooden posts. Morning mist curled above the tiled roofs of the Lin Clan estate, catching the pale sunlight as dozens of youths drilled in unison. Their breathing thundered like war drums, their bodies glowing faintly with the rhythm of circulating qi.
Among them, a thin boy stood at the edge of the training ground, his fists clenched yet unmoving. His name was Lin Tianhai, son of the main bloodline—yet regarded by all as a cripple.
Every attempt he made to circulate qi ended in failure. His meridians, stubborn and resistant, refused to respond to cultivation methods. Where his peers drew strength from the ancient Lin Clan Sutra, Tianhai was left with nothing but silence in his veins.
"Why bother standing here, Tianhai?" one cousin jeered between strikes, sweat gleaming on his muscled arms. "You don't even have the qualifications to enter Qi Refinement. Go back to your scrolls."
Laughter rippled through the group. Even the instructor's gaze skimmed past him, as if the boy's existence was an inconvenience.
Tianhai lowered his eyes, but his fists only tightened. Hidden beneath his robe, wrapped in cloth, was an old, incomplete manual—his father's last gift before vanishing on a distant campaign. The faded characters on its cover read:
Bloodline Resonance Sutra.
No elder of the clan recognized it. They dismissed it as useless, a fragment of a forgotten art. Yet Tianhai felt its weight in his hands as though it pulsed with life. Each night, he studied its obscure passages, straining to comprehend the broken diagrams and riddles.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, he dreamed. Dreams of towering figures wreathed in blood-red light, fists that shattered heavens, voices calling his name across rivers of time.
The Sutra's words whispered of resonance—not with the present, but with the echoes of descendants yet unborn. A cultivation method that defied reason. A cultivation method that promised nothing… and everything.
On this day, as ridicule once more pressed against his ears, Tianhai raised his head. His dark eyes were not as dull as the clan believed. Beneath the scorn and despair, something stirred—like the first tremor of a storm far beyond the horizon.
If I am a cripple, then I will forge strength that no one can cripple.
The morning drills continued, but in the shadows of the courtyard, a new path had quietly begun.
The courtyard echoed with the sharp crack of fists striking wooden posts. Morning mist curled above the tiled roofs of the Lin Clan estate, catching the pale sunlight as dozens of youths drilled in unison. Their breathing thundered like war drums, their bodies glowing faintly with the rhythm of circulating qi.
Among them, a thin boy stood at the edge of the training ground, his fists clenched yet unmoving. His name was Lin Tianhai, son of the main bloodline—yet regarded by all as a cripple.
Every attempt he made to circulate qi ended in failure. His meridians, stubborn and resistant, refused to respond to cultivation methods. Where his peers drew strength from the ancient Lin Clan Sutra, Tianhai was left with nothing but silence in his veins.
"Why bother standing here, Tianhai?" one cousin jeered between strikes, sweat gleaming on his muscled arms. "You don't even have the qualifications to enter Qi Refinement. Go back to your scrolls."
Laughter rippled through the group. Even the instructor's gaze skimmed past him, as if the boy's existence was an inconvenience.
Tianhai lowered his eyes, but his fists only tightened. Hidden beneath his robe, wrapped in cloth, was an old, incomplete manual—his father's last gift before vanishing on a distant campaign. The faded characters on its cover read:
Bloodline Resonance Sutra.
No elder of the clan recognized it. They dismissed it as useless, a fragment of a forgotten art. Yet Tianhai felt its weight in his hands as though it pulsed with life. Each night, he studied its obscure passages, straining to comprehend the broken diagrams and riddles.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, he dreamed. Dreams of towering figures wreathed in blood-red light, fists that shattered heavens, voices calling his name across rivers of time.
The Sutra's words whispered of resonance—not with the present, but with the echoes of descendants yet unborn. A cultivation method that defied reason. A cultivation method that promised nothing… and everything.
On this day, as ridicule once more pressed against his ears, Tianhai raised his head. His dark eyes were not as dull as the clan believed. Beneath the scorn and despair, something stirred—like the first tremor of a storm far beyond the horizon.
If I am a cripple, then I will forge strength that no one can cripple.
The morning drills continued, but in the shadows of the courtyard, a new path had quietly begun.