The Sage Sect was a stark contrast to the storm-ravaged ruin Sunwok had fled. Nestled in a valley carved into the side of a less imposing peak, it was a place of quiet discipline and natural beauty. Simple wooden buildings with curved roofs dotted the landscape, surrounded by training courtyards and small gardens that, even in the harsh mountain climate, showed signs of careful tending. The air here was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, a world away from the metallic tang of blood.
Sunwok spent his first few weeks in a haze of grief and exhaustion. The Sage Sect Master, a man named Elder Ren, was patient and kind. He didn't press Sunwok for details of his trauma, simply providing him with warmth, food, and a quiet corner to rest. Sunwok was given simple robes, a small, clean room, and the space to simply be. He watched the other students from a distance – figures moving in synchronized forms in the courtyard, their movements fluid and controlled, a stark contrast to the chaotic violence he had witnessed.
When Sunwok was finally ready, Elder Ren gently introduced him to the sect's ways. His first lessons were simple – basic stances, breathing exercises, and the fundamental principles of Qi circulation. Sunwok applied himself with a fierce, desperate intensity. The memory of his father, the burning vow against the Red Moon Sect, fueled his every movement. He trained tirelessly, pushing his small body to its limits, hoping to feel the surge of Qi that would mark his progress.
But the progress never came.
His Qi was small, frustratingly so. While other students quickly grasped the concept of circulating energy, feeling it gather and flow within their meridians, Sunwok felt... almost nothing. A faint trickle, perhaps, a whisper where there should have been a growing current. He practiced the Wushu forms until his muscles screamed, the Tai Chi movements until his mind ached with concentration, the breathing exercises until he felt lightheaded. Yet, his Qi remained stubbornly stagnant.
He was a late bloomer, yes, but this felt different. This felt like a wall he couldn't break through. Doubt began to creep in, cold and insidious. Was he truly meant to cultivate? Was his potential simply too low?
Then his gaze would fall upon the single strand of black hair near his temple – his relic. He had acquired it the night of the attack, a strange, almost unnoticed manifestation in the midst of chaos. He kept it hidden, a secret burden. As his frustration grew, so did his resentment towards this seemingly useless object.
He saw the other students with their minor relics – Jian's sharp stone, Mei's agile leaf, others with small sparks of fire, ripples of water, or solidifying earth. Their relics were tangible, functional, granting them clear advantages and marking their progress. His? Just a piece of hair.
He started to blame it. This ridiculous, flimsy thing. Was it somehow blocking his Qi? Was it a burden, not a boon? It didn't do anything. It just sat there, a constant reminder of his difference and his lack of progress.
Three years passed.
Three years of relentless, fruitless training. Three years of watching younger students surpass him. Three years of the burning vow feeling like a distant, impossible dream. And three years of his frustration curdling into something else: rebellion.
The dedicated, desperate student was still there, buried deep beneath layers of bitterness and a cultivated carelessness. Sunwok became the Sage Sect's resident troublemaker. His boundless energy, once channeled into training, was now directed towards pranks and mischief.
He'd tie the sashes of meditating students together, causing a cascade of tumbling bodies when they tried to stand. He'd swap the salt and sugar in the kitchen, leading to some truly memorable meals. He'd hide training equipment, paint silly faces on the stone statues, or lead younger students on unauthorized "explorations" of the mountain that inevitably ended in minor chaos.
He wasn't malicious, not truly. It was a desperate bid for attention, a way to feel something other than the crushing weight of his own perceived failure and the unresolved grief. It was also a way to lash out at the world, at the unfairness of his situation, at the Red Moon Sect who had started it all.
His antics caused no end of stress for the junior instructors and even Elder Ren, though the master's patience seemed boundless. The other students, however, were less forgiving. The initial indifference had turned to annoyance, and for many, the mockery about his relic and his lack of progress only intensified.
"Still just got that hair relic, Sunwok?" Jian would sneer, sharpening his stone relic on a rock. "Maybe you should just braid it and give up on cultivation."
Mei would sigh dramatically, her leaf relic fluttering around her fingers. "He causes so much trouble. And for what? He'll never catch up anyway."
Their words were like small, constant jabs, reinforcing his own worst fears. He would retort with a careless grin, a witty insult, or another prank, but inside, the pain festered. He was Sunwok, the troublemaker, the late bloomer with the useless hair relic.
He still trained, sporadically, fueled by the ember of his vow, but the hope had dwindled. He still held the hair relic sometimes, feeling nothing but a dull resentment. It was just hair. It was useless.
Until one evening.
He was alone, sitting by a quiet mountain stream, skipping stones, his mind a tangled mess of frustration and anger. The red moon was a sliver in the sky, a cruel reminder of that night. He thought of his father, of the golden gleam of his crescent blade. He thought of the Red Moon Sect.
A wave of pure, unadulterated hatred washed over him, sharper and more intense than usual. He clenched his fist, the single strand of black hair he had been idly twirling caught within it. He wasn't even trying to cultivate, just lost in his dark thoughts.
Then, he felt it. A pulse. A warmth. Not the faint vibration he'd felt years ago, but a distinct, powerful thrumming. And from between his fingers, where the hair relic was held, a light bloomed.
It wasn't a faint shimmer this time. It was a clear, undeniable golden light, bright and pure, cutting through the twilight gloom. It pulsed with a wild, untamed energy, the same energy he had felt years ago when he shattered the dummy, but magnified a hundredfold.
Sunwok stared, his breath catching in his throat. The golden light illuminated his face, reflecting in his wide eyes. The hair relic, the object he had scorned and blamed for years, was glowing.
Golden.
Like his father's relic. Like the revenge he craved.
But it wasn't just glowing. As the light intensified, the single strand of hair began to change. It thickened, hardened, the golden light solidifying around it. It grew longer, heavier, the texture shifting from fine hair to something metallic, ancient. With a soft thrum, it completed its transformation, no longer a strand of hair, but a short, heavy staff, gleaming with that same brilliant golden light. It felt solid, powerful, and strangely familiar in his hand.
In that moment, sitting by the stream under the nascent red moon, the careless troublemaker vanished. The burning hatred was still there, but now it was joined by a spark of something else: hope, and awe. The hair relic wasn't useless. It wasn't a burden. It was a source of immense, hidden power, a power that could take tangible form. This golden staff... it was his. His power. His golden revenge.
He didn't understand how it worked, or why it had finally shown itself, transforming in his hand. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that everything had just changed. The years of frustration, the mockery, the troublemaking – they all faded in the face of this radiant, golden truth. His path to revenge, long stalled, had just found its weapon.