The acrid stench of Horned Beast manure and stale sweat was Lin Feng's usual perfume. Every morning, before the first ray of sun deigned to caress the Twin Peaks of the Scarlet Cloud Sect, he was already there, in the lowest stables, shoveling the steaming excrement of creatures that, even in their most docile form, possessed more dignity and spiritual power than he did. Or so he was reminded daily.
Today, the early morning sun barely managed to dispel the mist clinging to the lower valleys of the sect, a mist as persistent and gray as Lin Feng's own existence. His hands, covered in calluses and small wounds that never quite healed, gripped the worn handle of the shovel Veränderung. Every muscle in his back protested with a dull ache, an echo of countless days and nights spent on menial tasks that contributed little or nothing to his non-existent cultivation.
At seventeen, Lin Feng was the walking definition of a "trash disciple." In a world where martial strength and talent for cultivating spiritual Qi were everything, he was a a nobody. His meridians, according to the only deacon who had bothered to examine them superficially three years ago, were "murky and narrow as forgotten streams." It didn't matter how much he tried, how many hours he spent meditating until his legs cramped and his mind clouded; the ambient Qi seemed to shun him, slipping through his fingers like water.
"Hey, Feng trash!"
The voice, laden with a contempt as familiar as the ache in his muscles, cracked through the stale air of the stable. Lin Feng didn't need to turn. He'd recognize that nasal, arrogant tone anywhere. Zhang Fu. And where Zhang Fu was, his two shadows, Li Wei and Chen Hao, were never far behind.
He clenched his jaw, his knuckles whitening around the shovel. He continued his task, the rhythmic sound of metal against stone and manure a faint defiance to the interruption. Maybe, just maybe, if he ignored them, they'd move on.
A vain hope, like almost all those he harbored.
A sharp blow to his back sent him stumbling, the shovel clattering металлическийly. The air left his lungs in a painful hiss. Before he could recover, a boot adorned with low-quality silver thread—a luxury Lin Feng could only dream of—planted itself forcefully on his shoulder, crushing him against the filthy ground. The smell of damp earth and manure intensified, filling his nostrils.
"Can't you hear when you're called, scum?" Li Wei's voice, more sibilant and cruel, if possible, than Zhang Fu's, sounded directly above him. He felt a tug on his hair, forcing his head up to face his tormentors.
Zhang Fu, a sturdy youth in a relatively clean outer disciple's robe, looked down at him with a twisted smile. He was barely a year older than Lin Feng, but his cultivation at the third stage of the Qi Condensation Realm placed him in a different universe of power. Li Wei, thin and with small, beady eyes like a rat's, and Chen Hao, burly and simple-minded but with considerable brute strength, flanked their leader.
"Looks like the trash needs a reminder of his place," Chen Hao chimed in, his laugh a guttural grunt.
Lin Feng swallowed, the bitter taste of dust and humiliation mixing in his mouth. "I'm busy, Zhang-shixiong. The Supervising Elder wants these stables cleaned before noon." He tried to keep his voice neutral, devoid of the anger and frustration mãe that simmered beneath his skin. Showing weakness would only incite them further. Showing defiance… well, he'd learned the consequences of that already.
Zhang Fu let out a laugh. "Busy? And what importance does the busyness of trash like you hold? Tell us, Lin Feng, have you managed to feel even a speck of Qi today? Or are you still as useful as a spiritless stone?"
His words were like needles, each designed to pick at Lin Feng's deepest insecurities. Lin Feng looked away. "My cultivation is none of your business."
A mistake. The pressure from Li Wei's boot increased. "Everything وزير concerns you is our business, worm. Especially when you have something that belongs to us." Zhang Fu crouched down, his eyes glinting with greed as he searched the simple cloth pouch tied to Lin Feng's waist. With a tug, he ripped it дизайне.
Inside were only two things: half a ration of stale bread, saved from breakfast, and a small, almost insignificant lowest-grade spirit stone. It was payment for a week of extra chores, washing the clothes of a lazy inner disciple. Lin Feng had planned to use it tonight, in a desperate attempt to feel the slightest fluctuation of energy in his inert meridians.
"Well, well, what have we here?" Zhang Fu weighed the spirit stone in his palm. It was dull, with barely a hint of luster, but to Lin Feng, it represented a fortune, a spark of hope. "A spirit stone. How did trash like you get something so… valuable?" Sarcasm dripped from every syllable.
"Give it back, Zhang Fu," Lin Feng said, his voice a taut thread. "I earned it fairly."
"Fairly?" Li Wei spat near his face. "The only way trash like you gets anything is by stealing or begging. And we, as your seniors, have a duty to confiscate goods obtained so dubiously."
It was a justification as ridiculous as it was shameless, but in the Scarlet Cloud Sect, strength was the only law that mattered. And the three of them, combined, were infinitely stronger than him.
Zhang Fu pocketed the spirit stone with a smug grin. Then, he picked up the stale bread, sniffed it with a grimace, and threw it to the ground, crushing it under his boot. "Even your food stinks of failure, Lin Feng."
A wave of icy fury washed over Lin Feng. It wasn't the stone, or even the bread. It was the constant, incessant degradation. It was the way they stripped him not only of his meager possessions but of his dignity, of any shred of self-respect.
He surged to his feet, his fists clenched. "That's enough, Zhang Fu."
The three bullies looked genuinely surprised for an instant, before their faces twisted into even crueler smiles. "Oh, the trash wants to fight?" Chen Hao sneered, cracking his knuckles.
Lin Feng knew it was useless. They outnumbered him and outpowered him. But a part of him, a spark buried deep beneath layers of resignation, refused to be trampled any longer. Not this time.
He lunged at Zhang Fu, a choked cry escaping his lips.
The "fight," if it could even be called that, was brutally short. Zhang Fu dodged his clumsy charge with ease, and a single punch from Li Wei to his stomach stole his breath. Chen Hao grabbed him from behind while Zhang Fu delivered two punches to his face, making him see stars, and a knee to his side sent him back to the ground, this time gasping and with a sharp pain lancing through his ribs.
"Learn your lesson, trash," Zhang Fu spat, adjusting his robes. "Some are born to be at the top, and others… others are born to clean up shit." He laughed, and his two henchmen joined in as they walked away, leaving Lin Feng curled up on the stable floor, the metallic taste of blood mixing with dust in his mouth.
He lay there for long minutes, each breath an agony. Physical pain was an old companion, but it was the ache in his heart, in his spirit, that weighed the heaviest. As the world slowly spun back into focus, his eyes landed on the crushed bread. A perfect symbol of his life.
With a groan, he slowly pushed himself up. Everything hurt. He felt his ribs; probably bruised, maybe one cracked. Nothing new. What was new was the cold, silent rage settling in his chest, not the explosive fury from before, but something deeper, icier.
Someday, he thought, as he picked up the shovel and returned to his task, ignoring the blood dripping from his split lip. Someday, none of you will ever lay a hand on me again.
The promise was a whisper in his soul, almost inaudible even to himself, drowned out by years of failure.
Hours later, after finishing in the stables and performing another series of thankless chores under the contemptuous gaze of the Supervising Elder, a stooped little man with perpetually irritated eyes, Lin Feng finally had a respite. The sun was already high, warming the stones of the outer courtyard where the lower-ranking disciples congregated.
He avoided the stares and whispers. He knew the rumor of his "fight" and subsequent beating would have already spread. It was the sect's cheap entertainment.
He went to the communal fountain, splashing cold water on his face and hands. It soothed the sting of his wounds a little. He saw his reflection in the trembling surface of the water: a young, gaunt face, with cheekbones too prominent from poor nourishment, and dark eyes that seemed to hold a contained storm. His black hair was messy, a few strands stuck to his forehead with sweat. There was a hint of something else in those eyes, an intelligence, a resilience that refused to be extinguished. But it was so well hidden that most only saw the "trash disciple."
A fleeting image flashed through his mind, as quick and painful as a needle prick: a smaller, smiling face, bright eyes full of admiration… his younger brother, Lin Xiao. Xiao, who had always believed in him, even when no one else did. Xiao, whose last breath had been a plea for his older brother to become strong, to live for them both.
The memory brought with it the usual pang of guilt and failure. Five years had passed since the "Great Demonic Plague" had ravaged their home village, taking his parents and Xiao. He had survived, rescued by an itinerant elder of the Scarlet Cloud Sect, who saw in him… well, Lin Feng was no longer sure what he had seen. Perhaps just an extra pair of hands for dirty work. The promise he made to Xiao on his deathbed was the only ember still burning within him, though every day it threatened to be extinguished under the avalanche of his own incompetence.
He sighed, pushing the painful memories away. There was no use dwelling on the past. He had to focus on the present, on surviving another day.
Later that night, in the dilapidated hut he shared with three other low-ranking outer disciples (thankfully absent at the moment, probably trying to curry favor with some inner disciple), Lin Feng sat on his straw pallet. The air was cold and damp; the holes in the thatched roof didn't help.
From under a loose floorboard, he pulled out his most prized possession: a basic cultivation manual, "Fundamentals of Qi Flow," its corners собака-eared and pages stained. He had found it abandoned a year ago and studied it секретly every night.
He closed his eyes and tried to meditate, to follow the manual's instructions. He breathed deeply, trying to sense the spiritual Qi of Heaven and Earth around him. Most disciples, even the least talented, could feel at least a tingle, a slight warmth as they drew in Qi.
For Lin Feng, there was nothing. Only silence, the empty stillness within his body. It was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. He could vaguely sense it in the air, like a distant promise, but as soon as he tried to draw it into his meridians, it dissipated, refused to enter. The manual spoke of guiding Qi through the twelve major meridians, of refining it in the dantian. To him, it was like reading an arcane language without knowing the alphabet.
He pushed, concentrating with all his might, visualizing the energy flowing into him, remembering Xiao's encouraging words, Zhang Fu's contempt, the promise he'd made. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple. His muscles tensed. Frustration grew like a dark tide.
Suddenly, he felt something.
It wasn't the smooth flow of Qi the manual described. It was… different. A sharp twinge deep within his dantian, almost painful, followed by a strange vibration, a barely perceptible hum that thrummed through his body like a low-voltage electric shock. It lasted barely a second, so fleeting he almost thought he'd imagined it. But it was real. He'd felt it.
He snapped his eyes open, his heart pounding. What was that? It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, or anything the manual described. He tried to replicate it, but the sensation was gone, leaving him only with the same frustrating stillness as always.
He sat there for a long time, confusion warring with a new, tiny seed of… something else? He didn't dare call it hope. But it was an anomaly in the monotony of his failure.
A knock on the door startled him. He quickly hid the manual.
"Lin Feng, Deacon Su is looking for you. Seems there's an important announcement for all outer disciples. Something about the Spirit Beast Trial next week." The voice of one of his roommates sounded from the other side, tinged with a mixture of nervousness and excitement.
Lin Feng felt a chill run down his spine, and it wasn't just from the cold of the night. The Spirit Beast Trial. An "opportunity" for outer disciples to prove their worth, or more likely, to serve as a distraction while inner disciples hunted more valuable prey. For someone like him, it was little less than a death sentence.
The strange vibration in his dantian was momentarily forgotten, replaced by a much more familiar sensation: the cold grip of fear. Yet, beneath that fear, the icy rage from the morning still lingered, and now, just maybe, there was an infinitesimally small question: could that strange sensation, that second of anomaly, be something more than an illusion?
With a resigned sigh, he stood up. Another challenge to face, another chance to be crushed. But as he walked towards the door, one thing was certain: the bitter taste of dust from that day would remain in his memory for a long time. And a new determination, fragile yet persistent, was beginning to take root in the barren soil of his soul.