The morning sun crested over the Cloudshadow Mountains, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold. The mist that gave Azure Mist Village its name clung low to the fields, veiling the farmers as they bent over their crops.
Lin Xuan rose with the dawn, his thin blanket damp with night dew. His body ached from the ordeal beneath the shrine, but when he pushed himself upright, he noticed something strange: the weakness that usually chained his limbs was… lighter. Not gone, but no longer suffocating. His breaths, though ragged, came deeper, fuller.
He pressed a hand to his chest. There it was again—the faint, golden warmth flowing within him. Not much, just a thread, but it was alive. Qi.
For a moment, he sat in silence, trembling. Then a laugh burst from his lips, so raw it startled even himself.
Qi. He had truly drawn Qi into his body. The boy who had been called cripple since birth, the one whom healers had condemned, had finally touched the power of cultivators.
But joy was quickly followed by caution. He could not tell anyone. Not yet.
Pulling on his worn robes, he stepped outside. His father, Lin Wei, was already preparing his axe for another long day in the mountains. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and weathered from years of cutting timber. He glanced up as Lin Xuan emerged.
"You're up early," Lin Wei said with a smile. "Your color looks better today. Are you feeling stronger?"
Lin Xuan forced a sheepish nod. "Maybe. I'll try to help more today."
His father frowned but did not argue. Though he loved his son dearly, Lin Wei had long accepted that Lin Xuan's body was frail. Asking him to work like other youths would be cruel. Still, he allowed him small tasks—splitting kindling, gathering water, feeding the animals—so the boy would not feel useless.
That morning, Lin Xuan took the axe in hand. Normally, just lifting it made his arms tremble. Today, though, it felt lighter, almost manageable. He set a log on the chopping block, raised the axe, and brought it down.
Crack!
The wood split clean in two. Lin Xuan blinked. He had never done it in a single strike before.
He tried again. Crack! The second log fell apart just as easily.
His heart raced. It wasn't just his imagination—he was stronger. The thread of Qi in his body had reinforced his muscles, if only slightly.
Lin Wei, watching from the side, raised his brows. "Well now," he said, stroking his beard. "Maybe the boy isn't as frail as we thought. Keep this up, and you'll soon carry firewood without me."
Lin Xuan smiled faintly, hiding the storm of excitement inside him. If only his father knew the truth—that what had changed was not luck or health, but cultivation.
As the day stretched on, Lin Xuan completed his tasks with unusual vigor. He carried two buckets of water from the well without spilling. He swept the yard without coughing fits. Even the neighbors noticed.
"Strange," muttered Old He, the butcher. "That sickly boy looks lively today."
"Maybe he finally grew into his bones," another villager replied.
"Or maybe his father found a spirit herb in the mountains."
The gossip passed quickly, as all gossip did, but Lin Xuan kept his head down. He would not draw more attention than necessary.
After the chores were done, he slipped away to the edge of the forest. The shrine loomed ahead, silent as always, its broken roof sagging against the sky. This place was now more than a ruin to him—it was where his second life had begun.
He sat cross-legged before the altar, closing his eyes.
The scripture that had imprinted itself in his mind stirred again: Eternal Veins of the Dao. Lines of instruction unfolded within him, clear and precise, though written in no language he had ever studied.
"Breathe with the earth. Let the heavens carve rivers in your veins. The Dao is not given—it is seized."
Lin Xuan inhaled, guiding the faint thread of Qi within him. It was clumsy at first, like trying to control water with bare hands. The energy slipped, scattered, and at times left him breathless. But each failure taught him more.
Hours passed. Sweat drenched his robes, and his legs went numb, but slowly—slowly—the current obeyed. It circulated once around his body, completing a single weak cycle before dissipating.
He gasped, chest heaving, but his lips curved upward.
"A cycle… I really did it!"
For cultivators born with spiritual roots, such a thing was trivial. For Lin Xuan, it was a miracle. Every breath of Qi he refined was a step into the world that had been forever closed to him.
Yet he also understood the truth: his path would not be like others'. The scripture was unique, his method untested. Every step would carry risk. His veins might rupture, his body might collapse. Still, he would not turn back.
Because now he had hope.
But he held back. Revealing his change would only bring trouble.
Zhou Liang smirked at his silence. "That's what I thought. Remember, some of us are born strong, and some are born useless."
Lin Xuan turned away, jaw tight. His heart burned, not with shame as before, but with determination. One day, he swore, Zhou Liang's words would choke in his throat when he saw what Lin Xuan had become.
That night, as the village settled into quiet, Lin Xuan returned to the shrine once more. He dared not waste time. If he wanted to stand tall, to protect himself and his father, he needed strength.
The scripture guided him again. He sat cross-legged, drawing the faint Qi into his veins. The process was agonizing—his blood boiled, his body convulsed—but he did not stop. Again and again, he cycled the current, each time lasting longer before exhaustion claimed him.
Finally, after hours of struggle, the thread of Qi settled in his dantian like a tiny spark, glowing faintly.
He opened his eyes.
"Qi Gathering…" he whispered. "I've stepped onto the path."
The cripple of Azure Mist Village, the boy mocked and pitied, had taken his first real step as a cultivator. His body might be weak, his path uncertain, but his will was iron.
And as he gazed at the night sky, stars glittering like countless eyes, Lin Xuan swore again:
"I will rise. No matter how long it takes, no matter what I must endure—I will rise."
The shrine stood silent behind him, but for the first time, he felt as though it was listening.