The morning sun bathed the Royal Academy of Martial Arts in a golden glow, scattering streaks of light across the expansive courtyard. Students had already begun assembling in neat formations, their robes fluttering like banners, weapons glinting in the sunlight. Today was the Entrance Trial, a ceremony meant to reveal the skill, potential, and raw talent of every new student. It was the day everyone would see who had been born strong—and who had been born weak.
Han Wei-Lin stood at the very back, his posture slouched, shoulders tight with anxiety. His palms were slick with sweat, and his heart pounded in his chest like a drum echoing through the silent anticipation of the crowd. Around him, other students whispered and glanced sideways, their eyes a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and pity.
"Look at him…" a boy with spiky black hair muttered to his friend. "He can't even hold a proper stance. Did they even check his background?"
Wei-Lin didn't raise his head. He had grown used to ridicule over the years. No sword mastery, no magic, no affinity for elemental arts—nothing that could set him apart from anyone else. All he had was determination, practice in solitude, and the quiet hope that one day, it might be enough. Today, however, all that effort would be weighed against the skill of prodigies who had been training since childhood. And he knew how far behind he truly was.
"Move forward," an instructor barked, pointing sharply at him. "Step onto the platform when it's your turn. Do not waste the crowd's time with incompetence."
Wei-Lin obeyed silently. Each step felt like dragging himself through thick mud. Around him, students demonstrated their techniques effortlessly. Knives spun in deadly arcs, wind bent leaves into sharp, whistling lines, flames danced across hands like living creatures. Every display reminded him of what he was not—what he had never been—but he memorized every motion with sharp, calculating eyes. Observation would be his first weapon. If he could not fight with strength yet, he could fight with strategy, understanding, and patience.
Finally, his turn arrived. The headmaster's gaze fell upon him, cold and unwavering, sweeping across Wei-Lin's entire form as though measuring him against an invisible standard. The crowd fell silent, their whispers fading into anticipation.
"Han Wei-Lin," the headmaster intoned, his voice deep and resonant, echoing across the courtyard, "show us your strength."
Wei-Lin's throat tightened. What could he possibly show? He had trained tirelessly in the courtyard for countless nights, swinging a wooden practice sword until his hands were raw, until his arms ached, until the only thing he had left was determination. And still… he was nothing compared to the students around him.
He lifted the stick, trembling, and swung at the practice dummy before him. The wooden sword made contact with a faint thud, barely leaving a dent. The crowd laughed.
"Pathetic!" shouted Zhang Kai, a boy with a smug grin. "Even a child hits harder than that!"
Wei-Lin's face burned hotter than the sun overhead. Shame coursed through him, an almost tangible weight pressing on his chest. Yet beneath the humiliation, something stirred—a flicker, faint and almost imperceptible, deep within his chest. It was not strength, not yet. It was the echo of every failure he had endured, every fall he had faced alone, every drop of sweat he had shed in the empty courtyard. That spark whispered a single truth: he could grow. Slowly. Painfully. But he could become more than this.
He swung again, harder this time. The dummy shivered under the impact. His arms screamed in protest, his grip burned, yet the faint flicker inside him grew stronger. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but undeniable. For the first time, he felt the faint brush of progress against the harshness of reality.
The headmaster's eyes narrowed. "Interesting. You are weak… far weaker than anyone here. But there is something hidden within you, buried beneath inadequacy and failure. Persevere, and perhaps one day, you will show it."
Wei-Lin's heart raced. For the first time in his life, someone had seen more than his weakness. Someone had seen the possibility that he could rise above the ridicule, above the mockery, above the crushing weight of expectation.
The trial ended, and students began to disperse, laughter and whispers still following Wei-Lin like a persistent shadow. But he did not move. He stayed, staring at the dented practice dummy in front of him. It was simple wood, yet it now bore the evidence of his effort, the first tangible proof that even he could leave a mark.
"I will not remain like this," he muttered under his breath, his voice quiet but firm. "I will grow. I will surpass them all… even if it kills me."
The courtyard's shadows stretched longer as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the stone floors in hues of red and gold. For most, it was the end of a day. For Han Wei-Lin, it was only the beginning.
Somewhere in the distance, almost imperceptibly, a shadow shifted, as if the world itself were watching him. A chill stirred in the air, carrying the faint scent of power and danger. Deep within him, the spark continued to pulse, growing ever so slightly stronger—a heartbeat of potential, the first whisper of a power that could one day challenge even gods.
Wei-Lin turned away from the dummy, gripping the wooden sword tightly. Each step he took back toward the edge of the courtyard was deliberate. Every fiber of his being screamed that this was just the beginning. Somewhere ahead, danger, challenge, and unimaginable power awaited. And one day… he would rise to meet it.
The wind carried his cloak behind him, fluttering like a banner announcing his resolve. And beneath the quiet sky, beneath the judgment of all who had mocked him, Han Wei-Lin made a silent vow: he would endure. He would grow. He would become someone no one could ignore—not today, not ever again.