The rain over the Jin Clan compound was a cold, grey whisper. It wasn't the furious downpour of a summer storm, but a persistent, soul-dampening drizzle that clung to the air and turned the world the color of old iron. It fell on the elegant, upturned eaves of the main hall, where the clan's true disciples practiced their sword forms, their movements clean and sharp. It fell on the polished stones of the inner courtyards, where elders meditated, their inner energy a palpable warmth against the chill.
And it fell on the muddy, refuse-strewn path of the outer yard, where Jin Mu's world ended and began.
He hauled a sloshing bucket of kitchen waste, the coarse rope handle digging into his raw palms. The reek of old fish and soured vegetables was a familiar perfume. Each step was a measured effort, his thin frame braced against the slick mud that tried to steal his worn straw sandals. He kept his eyes downcast, his presence deliberately small, a shadow even in the dim light of the dying day.
It was a skill he had perfected over sixteen years. To be seen was to be noticed, and to be noticed was to invite pain.
"Look, the clan's precious 'Nothingness' is taking out the trash."
The voice was laced with the casual cruelty of youth and power. Jin Mu didn't need to look up. He recognized the speaker: Jin Wei, the third son of the second elder, a boy whose talent was as loud as his arrogance. He and his two companions stood under the shelter of a side gate, their fine silk robes untouched by the rain, their hands resting on the pommels of their practice swords.
Jin Mu continued his slow, steady pace, his face a mask of weary indifference. Don't react. Don't give them a reason.
A foot, shod in an embroidered boot, shot out, catching his ankle. The world tilted. Jin Mu fell, his shoulder slamming into the mud with a dull thud. The bucket overturned, spilling its foul contents in a greasy wave that soaked the front of his drab hemp clothes. The stench was immediate and suffocating.
Laughter erupted from the gate. Sharp, bright, and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Careful there, Mu," Jin Wei sneered, withdrawing his foot. "Wouldn't want you to spill. Oh, wait."
Jin Mu pushed himself up slowly, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder. He said nothing. He simply began to scoop the filth back into the bucket with his bare hands, the cold mud squelching between his fingers. This was the ritual. Their power, his submission. To fight back was to invite a formal 'disciplinary' beating for 'disrespecting' a main-line disciple. He'd learned that lesson in blood long ago.
"Look at him," another disciple chuckled. "Like a dog eating its own vomit. It's pathetic. How can we even call this thing a member of the Jin Clan?"
"He isn't," Jin Wei said, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "He's just the orphan of two nameless deserters. A boy born with a sealed Spirit Gate. An empty vessel. Useless."
Useless. Empty. Nothingness.
The words were stones, worn smooth by countless repetitions. They no longer hurt. They were simply a fact, like the rain, like the hunger in his belly, like the hollow ache in his lower dantian where a universe of spiritual energy was supposed to reside.
He finished cleaning up the mess as best he could, his movements mechanical. He righted the bucket, lifted it, and prepared to walk on.
"I didn't say you could leave," Jin Wei's voice sharpened.
Jin Mu froze, his back to them. He waited. He could feel their eyes on him, hungry for a reaction, for a flicker of defiance they could punish. He gave them nothing. He was a stone at the bottom of a river, feeling the current but unmoved by it.
A pebble flicked through the air, striking the back of his neck with a sharp sting. Then another.
"My arm is getting tired from sword practice," Jin Wei said conversationally. "I need a good target to help me relax. Don't you think he makes a perfect target, brothers?"
Jin Mu's knuckles whitened around the rope handle. His jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He could hear them drawing their wooden practice swords. The dull thwack of wood against bone and flesh would be next. It wouldn't be the first time.
But today, something was different. The ache in his dantian was sharper. The hollow space felt… colder. A profound weariness, deeper than any physical exhaustion, settled over him. It was the weariness of a thousand beatings, a million insults, a lifetime of being less than human.
He closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw a fleeting image: the gentle, smiling face of a woman he could barely remember, her hand tucking a smooth, cool object into his infant grasp. A memory, or a dream?
His fingers instinctively went to his chest, closing around the simple jade pendant hidden beneath his soaked robes. It was cool to the touch, smooth and featureless. The only thing his parents had left him. Another useless object.
Is this it? a voice inside him screamed, a voice he had suppressed for years. Is this all my life will ever be? Mud, and pain, and laughter I can't escape?
He felt a despair so absolute it was like drowning in an icy sea. His breath hitched. His carefully constructed wall of indifference cracked. A single, hot tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek.
And in that moment of pure, undiluted misery, something answered.
It was not a sound. It was not a thought. It was a feeling, a resonance that bloomed from the jade pendant and echoed in the desolate emptiness of his soul. A whisper from a place beyond time.
...Ah... such sorrow... it reminds me of the day the heavens wept...
The voice was impossibly ancient, filled with a melancholy so profound it made Jin Mu's own despair feel like a child's tantrum. It was a voice that had witnessed the death of stars and the fall of gods. It was the sound of a blade's edge grieving for its master.
Jin Mu's eyes shot open. The world around him seemed to slow. The raindrops hung in the air like suspended crystals. The sneering face of Jin Wei was a frozen mask of contempt.
He was no longer just a boy in the mud. He was the epicenter of an ancient, awakening grief. The jade pendant pulsed with a faint, internal light, visible only to him.
"What are you waiting for?" Jin Wei's voice snapped, breaking the spell. He stepped forward, his wooden sword raised. "Let's begin the lesson."
But Jin Mu was no longer listening. He was listening to the whisper in his soul, the echo of a forgotten legend that had just stirred from its long, sorrowful slumber.