On the Azure Firmament Continent, the strong forge the rules, while the weak struggle to survive. Everyone dreams of treading the path of cultivation, but talent and resources are only given to the lucky few. Ordinary people live as farmers or hunters, while those who seek true power must join clans or sects to obtain the secret techniques and resources they need.
In this world, power is the only currency. The strong decide who lives and who dies, while the weak, no matter how hard they work, can only live in their shadow. One's talent, luck, and family background decide their fate—and more importantly, their dignity.
The path of strength is divided into seven great realms, each a mountain to climb. It begins with the Body Tempering Realm, where one strengthens the skin, muscles, and bones to withstand great impact and sense the first flickers of internal Qi. From there, one reaches the Foundation Establishment Realm, where Qi begins to gather and flow through the meridians, deepening mastery over one's breath and physical output.
As a cultivator advances, they enter the Core Condensation Realm, condensing energy within themselves to reach massive heights of speed and power. This leads to the Origin Opening Realm, where internal force can be projected externally to break stone or cast simple mantras. Higher still is the Spirit Communication Realm, allowing a cultivator to harmonize with natural energy and perceive every movement in their surroundings with superhuman reflexes.
Few ever reach the Tribulation Crossing Realm, the peak of human potential where one must survive the lightning strikes of a "Heavenly Tribulation" to transcend mortality. At the absolute zenith lies the Profound God Realm, where a master can command the vast forces of nature, space, and even life and death. Beyond the ninth stage of any realm, there is even a legendary Tenth Stage, an extreme pinnacle that most believe is nothing more than a myth.
In the local town, the Ye Clan was a powerful and prestigious family. But inside its walls, it was a cold and cruel place. The Main Houses hoarded every pill and manual, while children from the branch houses were treated like dirt—especially Ye Qian.
Ye Qian's mother was a lowly maid, a kind soul who had been used and abandoned by the Clan Head. When she became pregnant, the man who called himself a father ignored her, throwing her into a broken side-courtyard to be forgotten. He never cared if she lived or died.
She raised Ye Qian until he was six, then succumbed to exhaustion and illness. His father never even visited her grave. On her deathbed, she held Ye Qian tight and whispered: "Qian'er... you must rely on yourself to survive."
From that day on, Ye Qian was truly alone. His cousins called him "Trash" and even the servants bullied him. He was forced to do the demeaning jobs—sweeping the massive estate and washing blood-stained clothes. He never received a word of warmth, only insults and kicks. While his father enjoyed grand banquets, Ye Qian shivered in the cold, eating leftovers in the shadows.
Every morning, Ye Qian would sweep the fallen leaves in the courtyard. His back always ached, but he never complained. He made sure every pile was perfect; it was the only thing in his life he could control. Whenever he had a free moment, he would sit on the cold steps and practice the clan's basic breathing technique, feeling a tiny spark of Qi moving through his body.
"Trash," a cousin from the First House would sneer while walking past. "Why are you even practicing? You're a good-for-nothing who can't even sweep a floor right!"
"Ye Qian," another cousin would laugh, her eyes full of disdain. "Look at your thin arms. You'll never be a cultivator. You're just a joke in a tattered robe."
Ye Qian never talked back. He just squeezed his fists until his knuckles turned white. He knew that without strength, his words were useless.
To escape the bullying, he often went to the wild forest behind the estate. There, he practiced his movement and footwork in secret. He learned how to roll, how to dodge, and how to use the ground to his advantage. Every time he fell, he got back up. Every bruise made him tougher.
As night fell, he would curl up in his small shack. While the sound of laughter came from the main hall, he focused on his breathing. He told himself: To survive, I need power. To get respect, I need strength.
He spent years like this—lonely, hated, but growing stronger in the dark. He didn't know that something special was hidden in his blood, waiting to be awakened. He only knew one truth: to survive, he had to be his own hero. To live, he had to become the strongest.