Wang Chen wiped the sweat from his forehead. The stinging pain along his arm felt as if a red-tailed cobra had lightly bitten him, scorching his muscles, reminding him once again—when would the days of suffering from his Useless Spirit Root finally end?
The dawn mist still clung stubbornly to the slopes of Silon Mountain, swirling like pale ghosts above the martial arena. Beyond the arena, the mighty Chao Phraya River shimmered faintly in the dim light, carrying with it the smell of wet soil, incense ash, and the faint smoke of breakfast fires rising from the villages below. It should have been a serene morning, yet for Wang Chen, the air felt heavy, suffocating, almost mocking.
A sharp, grating laugh broke through the quiet. Then another. The sound stabbed at his chest like knives.
"Look at him! Still dragging himself here every morning, as if he belongs!"
Several outer-door disciples of the Muay Thai Sect had gathered in a loose circle around him. Their uniforms—freshly laundered white cotton, embroidered with the crimson emblem of the sect—stood in stark contrast to Wang Chen's faded, mud-stained robes. Their gazes gleamed with cruelty, their mouths twisted with sneers.
"You useless brat!" one of them spat, his voice full of scorn. He kicked at the ground, sending grains of sand scattering like tiny arrows toward Wang Chen's feet. "What else can you do besides feeding elephants at the base of the mountain?"
Another disciple, taller and sharper in tone, threw back his head with laughter. "Hahaha! He still dreams of learning Muay Thai. He can't even manage the Tiger Step, the most basic form! What a disgrace. He'll never rise above being a servant."
Their words poured over him like acid. Wang Chen clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. Veins bulged on the back of his hands, trembling with restrained fury. His heart hammered in his chest, every beat a drum of defiance and humiliation. He wanted to shout back, to roar at them, to tell them that they were wrong. But when he opened his mouth, no words came out—only silence.
The truth was undeniable. His Spirit Root—labeled by everyone as "useless"—had failed him time and time again. He could not absorb spiritual energy like the others. He could not advance even half as quickly as the younger disciples who had only just joined. Every training session was torment, every attempt at cultivation a bitter reminder of his weakness. The path that others sprinted along felt to him like climbing a cliff with broken hands.
Memories swarmed his mind: the elders shaking their heads, the instructors sighing in disappointment, fellow disciples laughing behind his back. "Why bother training him? His foundation is broken." "He's destined for mediocrity." "The sect only keeps him for menial tasks."
The voices of mockery echoed louder than any lesson, searing deeper than any wound.
Yet… beneath all the scorn, beneath the humiliation pressing against his chest like a mountain, a spark refused to die.
"I may be weak now," Wang Chen thought, his eyes narrowing as he lifted his gaze to meet theirs. The disciples smirked, expecting him to bow his head, to accept their cruelty in silence. Instead, though his body trembled, a stubborn glint flickered in his dark eyes.
"I may be useless today… but one day, I will rise above all of you."
The words were not spoken aloud, but he whispered them deep inside his heart, carving them there like an oath.
The laughter around him grew harsher. One disciple stepped closer, his shadow falling across Wang Chen's face. He jabbed a finger at Wang Chen's chest. "Even the wind avoids you, waste! You're a curse on this arena." With a sudden shove, he sent Wang Chen stumbling back against one of the wooden posts that marked the ring's boundary.
Pain shot up Wang Chen's spine, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out. He straightened, forcing himself to stand tall, even as his legs trembled.
"Look at him! Still pretending to be strong," another jeered, tossing a pebble that struck his shin. The others cackled.
But Wang Chen's mind was no longer on their words. He was watching—observing every detail with sharp focus. The way the tall disciple shifted his weight slightly to his right foot when laughing. The way another habitually clenched his fists too tightly, leaving gaps in his guard. The smallest flaws, unnoticed by them, etched themselves into Wang Chen's mind.
They thought his Useless Spirit Root made him blind to progress. They did not see that his weakness had forced him to endure longer, to pay attention where others grew careless. His spirit may have been deemed broken, but his will sharpened every day like tempered steel.
The mist began to lift, and with it, the arena revealed its rough, weather-worn glory. The wooden posts, scarred from countless bouts, stood like silent witnesses to his humiliation—and, someday, to his triumph.
Wang Chen reached down, tightening the worn sash around his waist. His arm still burned from the earlier sting, his pride throbbed with bruises, yet beneath all of it, his determination smoldered hotter than ever.
The disciples jeered a little longer, eventually tiring of their game. One spat on the ground near his feet before turning away. "Remember this, Wang Chen. The sect doesn't need useless trash. Stay in the shadows where you belong."
Their footsteps faded into the distance, mingling with the morning bells that signaled the start of training. Wang Chen was left alone in the misty arena, his breath uneven, his body aching, his heart raging with silent fire.
He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. The scent of damp earth filled his lungs, grounding him. His fists loosened slightly, but his resolve only grew firmer.
"I will not remain in the shadows," he whispered this time, his voice hoarse but steady. The sound startled even himself.
The mountain winds stirred, carrying his words away into the vastness of the morning sky.
This was not the end. It was the beginning.
The world could mock his Useless Spirit Root. They could laugh at him, strike him, push him down into the dirt. But they would never define him.
Wang Chen lifted his gaze to the river valley far below, where the golden light of dawn had finally broken free of the mist. Somewhere out there, destiny waited for him—not as a servant, not as a failure, but as someone who would carve his own path, no matter how steep the climb.
And when the day came, the disciples who mocked him would remember this morning not as his humiliation, but as the first step of his rise.