The Ashen Sky World believed in patience.
Stone did not crack easily here. Rivers carved valleys not through force, but through endless persistence. Even spiritual energy moved as if burdened by invisible chains, reluctant to gather, slower to respond.
This world punished haste.
Which was why it suited him perfectly.
—
At two years old, his body was still small, his steps uneven, his strength laughable by any cultivator's standard. To the family, he was an ordinary child—slightly quieter than most, slightly sturdier than expected, but nothing worthy of attention.
That illusion was carefully maintained.
In truth, his body had reached a critical threshold.
Not strength.
Readiness.
His bones had finished their first natural growth cycle. His organs had stabilized. His bloodline's passive reinforcement had fully integrated with his flesh.
The foundation was no longer fragile.
It was empty.
And emptiness could be shaped.
—
He chose the moment carefully.
Late at night, when the compound was silent and the air carried the least disturbance, he sat cross-legged on his small wooden bed. His posture was clumsy, imperfect—but that did not matter.
Form was irrelevant.
Understanding was not.
He slowed his breathing until it matched the natural rhythm of his heartbeat. Then he slowed it further, letting the body slip into a state between sleep and wakefulness.
No spiritual energy entered him.
None was summoned.
Instead, he turned inward.
To flesh.
To bone.
To weight.
The Body Building Realm was misunderstood by most cultivators. They treated it as a preliminary hurdle, something to be rushed through on the way to Qi.
Idiots.
The body was not a container.
It was the first Dao.
—
He began with gravity.
Not conceptually—physically.
He became aware of the constant pressure bearing down on every part of him. The weight of his own body. The resistance of the bed beneath him. The subtle compression of the world's laws.
Then, he accepted it.
Muscles tightened microscopically, not in exertion, but in alignment. Bones adjusted by fractions too small to be seen. Organs shifted into positions of optimal support.
No pain.
No strain.
Just adaptation.
His body responded instinctively, as if it had been waiting for instruction all along.
Good, he noted. The bloodline reduces rejection.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
His body temperature rose slightly. Sweat dampened his clothes. His breathing deepened, steady and controlled.
This was not cultivation.
This was tempering.
—
When dawn approached, he stopped.
Immediately.
There was no triumph, no satisfaction—only evaluation.
He assessed the changes with ruthless clarity.
Bone density: improved, but uneven.
Muscle cohesion: better, but still immature.
Organ resilience: acceptable.
Meridians: untouched, as intended.
Enough for one session.
Anything more would introduce imbalance.
He lay down and slept like a normal child.
—
Days passed.
He did not repeat the tempering immediately.
Instead, he played.
He ran, fell, climbed, carried small stones across the courtyard. Each movement reinforced what he had begun internally.
To observers, he was simply energetic.
To himself, every action was precise.
Movement is refinement, he reminded himself. Stillness is comprehension.
Both were necessary.
—
A week later, he tempered again.
This time, he focused on tension and release.
He let muscles contract slowly, then relax completely, guiding the process from within. Micro-tears formed and healed almost instantly, leaving behind stronger fibers.
His body trembled faintly.
Pain surfaced.
He endured it without reaction.
Pain was feedback.
Nothing more.
—
The bloodline responded subtly, reinforcing recovery without accelerating growth beyond natural limits.
Perfect.
This was how a true foundation was built.
Layer by layer.
—
By the end of the month, the changes became visible.
He moved more smoothly. Fell less often. His grip was stronger than it should have been for his age.
The elders noticed.
"This child… he's unusually steady," one murmured.
"Good health," another dismissed. "Nothing more."
They turned away.
He did not.
—
One evening, as he sat alone watching ash drift lazily from the sky, he tested something new.
He exerted force.
Just a little.
A small stone lay beside him. He pressed his fingers against it—not with Qi, not with strength, but with structure.
The stone cracked.
A thin fracture ran across its surface.
He withdrew his hand at once.
His fingers ached slightly.
He stared at them calmly.
The body remembers force now.
That was enough.
—
That night, as sleep claimed him, a familiar certainty settled deep within his consciousness.
When I begin Qi Gathering…
This body will not need to be rebuilt.
Above him, the Ashen Sky remained unmoved, indifferent to the quiet transformation unfolding beneath it.
But the path had been set.
And once a foundation like this existed—
The heavens could no longer dictate the outcome.