It pressed lightly against my ribs—strange, considering those ribs currently qualified as “cracked pottery held together by spite and herbal glue.” My body throbbed with the dull ache of jade-realm training, and yet my thoughts were clearer than they had been in days. The chaos of fear, shame, and adrenaline from yesterday had settled into something quieter.
Not courage.
Not confidence.
But resolve.
The prodigy would face me today.
And I would stand. Even if the standing lasted three seconds.
Flow Cycle drifted through my first meridian in a strained but steady loop, like water forced through a clogged pipe that still refused to burst. Spirit Anchor pulsed beneath my thoughts, calmer now—firmer, denser. Not because fear was gone, but because I’d finally stopped pretending it wasn’t there.
When I sat up, the dormitory was still dark. A few servants were stirring, others turned in their sleep. For the first time since arriving in this clan, I felt eyes following me in the dark—not hostile, not mocking, but… cautious.
Like I was no longer predictable.
Outside, cold air hit my face. Mist clung to my clothes. The courtyard was already busy—servants hanging lanterns, disciples sweeping the arena steps, elders’ aides rushing across bridges with scrolls and formation plates. Everyone preparing for the show.
The execution.
My execution.
Whispers crackled around me like dry twigs underfoot.
“—the prodigy won’t hold back today—”
“—Elder Xun said he’ll end it quickly—”
“—heard the servant landed a real strike yesterday—”
“No way. Elder Xun would have the judges flayed if that were true.”
“Well, someone must have seen—”
“You saw wrong.”
“You dreamt it.”
“It was a fluke.”
I pulled my robe tighter and walked toward the water jars, pretending not to hear any of it.
Someone waited there.
Of course she did.
Mei was tying her hair back with shaking fingers, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. She wore a plain gray servant’s robe, but I had never seen anyone look more like they were about to march into battle without armor.
When she finally noticed me, she almost dropped the poultice she’d been clutching.
“You’re up,” she said. Her voice cracked halfway through.
“Barely,” I said. “Half my body tried to quit during the night.”
“No quitting allowed,” she muttered, stepping forward. “I told your organs already.”
I nearly laughed, but my ribs vetoed the idea.
She pressed the poultice into my hand. It was warm—freshly heated, wrapped in clean cloth. Her fingers brushed mine, and I felt the tremor there.
“Mei,” I said softly, “it’s okay.”
“No. No, it isn’t.” Her breath hitched. “They’re all expecting—everyone is expecting—”
She couldn’t finish.
“Hey.” I touched her shoulder lightly. “Just breathe.”
“I am breathing,” she snapped. Then she winced. “Sorry. I just… I don’t know what happens after this. If Elder Xun decides you embarrassed him twice…”
I swallowed. “Mei—your family—”
“We’ll manage,” she said. But the way she said it meant: We won’t.
I tightened my grip on the poultice. “I’ll try not to get you in more trouble.”
“You being alive is enough,” she whispered.
And there it was—the thing I’d been trying not to admit.
For me, this fight was about survival of ego, pride, standing.
For Mei, it was survival of her family.
And somehow, that mattered more to me than my ribs, my fear, or the prodigy’s inevitable plan to punish me for making him stumble metaphorically before he could do it literally.
She dabbed the poultice under my ribs. I hissed.
“You need to stay standing long enough to prove the strike yesterday wasn’t a mistake,” she said. “Even if it’s one more second than they expect. Even if it’s just one more breath.”
Her voice steadied.
“That will be enough.”
My chest tightened with something warm, painful, and unsettling.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
She forced a smile—it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll be watching. Don’t make me regret caring about you.”
“No promises,” I said.
This time, she did laugh. A real one. And then she hurried away before I could see how frightened she really was.
By the time the gong sounded, the arena was overflowing.
Clansmen packed onto the stone terraces. Disciples crowded the railings. Elders settled into the judging pavilion, robes pristine, expressions carved from cold stone. The air shimmered faintly with the activation of protective formations.
The clan didn’t gather like this for entertainment.
No.
This was ritual.
Tradition.
A reminder of hierarchy.
And today’s schedule included: one prodigy demonstrating overwhelming superiority, plus one servant-shaped punching bag.
I stepped onto the stone walkway leading to the arena. My limbs trembled. My heart thudded. Flow Cycle vibrated unevenly until Spirit Anchor snapped it back into place.
The murmurs began immediately.
“That’s him.”
“Poor fool.”
“He won’t last a breath.”
“Five meridians against one? It’s cruelty.”
“It’s justice.”
The walkway felt twice as long as yesterday.
A shadow fell across the arena.
He arrived.
The prodigy didn’t walk so much as glide—each step made with absolute certainty, no hesitation, no wasted motion. His robes fluttered slightly, though there was no wind. Five meridians pulsed beneath his skin like glowing veins, shimmering with a pressure that hit like humidity mixed with gravity.
The moment he stepped into the arena circle, the entire atmosphere changed.
Qitan Flesh in the air thickened.
My breath caught.
Spirit Anchor braced instinctively.
The prodigy looked at me with a level, unreadable gaze. Not hostile. Not smug. Just… profoundly confident.
“I told you,” he said, voice quiet but carrying across the arena. “You’ll lose to me.”
I swallowed. “Probably.”
A faint smile ghosted across his lips.
The overseer stepped forward, lifting one hand.
“Shu Ren of the outer labor branch,” he declared. “Progeny of Elder Xun’s direct line—Wu Jianxu.”
The prodigy didn’t acknowledge the introduction. His eyes never left mine.
The overseer continued: “This match is until one fighter is incapacitated, knocked out of bounds, or yields.”
I did not plan on yielding.
Incapacitation felt likely.
But out of bounds, I could work with.
“Begin!”
The prodigy vanished.
No warning. No sound. Just—
Gone.
My body panicked.
—Left? Back? Where—?!
Spirit Anchor slammed into place like a hammer, anchoring my spiraling thoughts.
Flow. Don’t think. Observe.
A tremor in the air to my right—movement too fast for my eyes but not too fast for my training.
An afterimage.
Just like Master Jian’s illusions.
I rooted.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Iron Root Stance solidified under me a fraction of a breath before the prodigy reappeared, fist already inches from my shoulder.
Impact.
It felt like a cart hit me.
Pain detonated down my side, but the stance held. The stone beneath my feet seemed to absorb part of the blow, spreading it into the earth.
The crowd gasped.
And the prodigy blinked.
Only slightly.
But enough.
He vanished again.
My ribs screamed. My shoulder throbbed. But I was upright.
“Good,” he said from somewhere behind me. “Survive a little longer.”
He reappeared with a sweeping kick—I dropped low, letting it skim over my head.
Air curved behind him. Flow Cycle hummed. Spirit Anchor steadied.
Another strike. Another vanish. Another shockwave of displacement.
Every illusion Master Jian had thrown at me was now happening in flesh and blood—faster, heavier, sharper.
But the patterns were the same.
The arrogance was the same.
He flashed forward with a palm strike that left a trail of compressed air behind it.
I barely rooted in time—
Impact!
My chest felt like it cracked open. I staggered, but did not fall.
More gasps. Someone shouted in disbelief.
The prodigy tilted his head. “Interesting.”
I spat blood.
“Well,” I croaked, “I try.”
He took one step—
Too confident.
Too casual.
Too sure of himself.
Jian’s voice echoed in my skull:
“He believes there is no pause in him.”
I exhaled.
And saw it.
The flaw.
A half-breath where his weight shifted too far onto his front foot as he prepared his next overwhelming Burst. A flourish—unnecessary, arrogant.
A moment.
My stance deepened.
My spine aligned.
My heel rooted.
Flow Cycle synchronized with my heartbeat—
Pulse… pulse… PULSE—
I moved.
Qitan Flesh surged up my legs, threaded through my hips, gathered in my palm with a rhythm sharper than breath.
Aligned Pulse.
My palm shot forward—
And hit air.
The force hit him.
A tight, precise shockwave struck the prodigy square in the ribs.
A dull thud echoed across the courtyard.
His eyes widened—
Only for a fraction of a heartbeat—
But it was real.
He stumbled.
He actually stumbled.
Silence crushed the arena.
A single gasp escaped somewhere near the judges. Elder Xun rose halfway from his seat, face twisting in disbelief.
The prodigy touched his ribs, as if confirming the impossible.
“You…” he whispered.
The clan held its breath.
“You struck me.”
The temperature dropped.
Something shifted in his gaze—something sharp, cold, and personal.
Oh no.
That was not the look of someone who wanted to win.
That was the look of someone who wanted to erase.
Before I could react—
Before Spirit Anchor could even brace—
He blurred.
A crushing wave of force slammed into my chest, lifting me off my feet and launching me across the arena like a rag doll.
Stone blurred. Sky spun.
Pain exploded.
The world went dark.
Sound came back first.
Muffled. Distant. Like I was underwater and someone was arguing with reality on the shore.
“—still breathing—”
“—that final Burst, was that necessary—”
“—of course it was, he touched the prodigy—”
Then came pain.
A slow, growing awareness of the fact that I possessed a body and it had, at some point, been used as a demonstration of advanced physics. Everything ached. My ribs, my spine, even my teeth felt bruised.
I tried to move.
My body strongly suggested I reconsider.
“Don’t,” a soft voice said by my side. “Please. Don’t move. Not yet.”
Mei.
The medic hall ceiling swam into focus—whitewashed beams, faint light from paper windows, the sharp smell of disinfecting herbs and bitter brews. I lay on a wooden cot, bandaged from chest to hip. Someone had removed my outer robe, leaving me in an under-layer that made me feel painfully flimsy.
Mei sat on a small stool, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. Her eyes were red. Not just from lack of sleep.
“Oh,” I croaked. “Still alive. That’s… surprising.”
She let out a laugh that sounded like it had fought its way past a sob.
“You idiot,” she whispered. “I thought you were dead.”
“Same,” I rasped. “For a moment I think I met death. It was very unimpressed.”
She reached out as if to smack my arm, but her fingers hovered over the bandages instead, curling back.
“How long…?” I managed.
“Since the match?” she said. “A few hours. You were unconscious when they carried you here.”
“Carried?” I asked. “So… dramatic exit then.”
Her lips quivered. “You flew out of the ring like a broken arrow.”
“Stylish,” I muttered.
Fragments of memory slid back into place. The prodigy’s ribs under my palm. The shockwave. The look in his eyes.
Then the Burst.
“Did I—” I swallowed. “Did I actually hit him?”
Mei stared at me. “You don’t remember?”
“Everything after ‘oh no’ is a blur.”
She swallowed. “You did. Everyone saw it. You struck his ribs and he stumbled.”
There it was.
The impossible thing.
The thing I’d been training for in mist and bruises and fear.
“Then,” she added, voice tightening, “he threw you like a sack of grain into a wall. In front of everyone.”
“Ah,” I said. “Yes. That tracks.”
I tried for a grin. It came out more like a grimace.
“What about… him?” I asked. “The prodigy.”
“Wu Jianxu?” Mei said his name like something sharp. “He barely has a bruise. The healers rushed to him first, of course. But there was a moment—” Her eyes unfocused, like she was replaying it. “He pressed his hand to his ribs. He looked… shocked. Like no one had ever touched him before.”
I exhaled slowly, ignoring the feeling of knives in my chest.
“Good,” I whispered.
Her gaze snapped back to me. “Good?”
“Yes,” I said. “Now he knows it’s possible.”
“That nearly got you killed,” she hissed.
I didn’t argue. The pain was making its own case.
Footsteps approached. Mei’s posture snapped straight; she wiped at her face, pushing everything she felt back behind the expression of a disciplined servant.
The door slid open.
Two elder healers swept in, robes neat, faces lined with the serene superiority of people who could poke your injuries and then charge you emotionally for the privilege.
One of them—an older woman with sharp eyes—checked the talisman affixed to my wrist.
“Pulse steady,” she murmured. “Breath shallow but improving. No organ rupture.”
“Meridian strain?” the other asked.
“Severe along the first channel. The second is still dormant.”
Good. No accidental breakthroughs. The System would have given me a thirty-minute lecture on suboptimal conditions if that had happened.
As if summoned by my annoyance, the familiar quiet voice nudged at the back of my mind.
Internal assessment: multiple fractures, muscle trauma, Qitan channel strain at forty-three percent.
“Forty-three?” I thought. “That sounds… fine.”
Forty-three percent to threshold of permanent damage.
“Ah. Less fine.”
Recommend: limited usage of Rooted Palm for minimum seventy-two hours. Prioritize recovery and low-intensity Flow Cycle.
“What about tomorrow?” I thought. “Next round. Training.”
Warning: further high-intensity combat may result in meridian scarring and decreased long-term progression efficiency.
I sighed internally. “So… I should not pick a fight with the prodigy again tomorrow?”
Strongly discouraged.
The healers finished inspecting me and turned toward the doorway.
“Leave him to rest,” the older one told Mei. “Change his wraps at dusk. Do not let him stand long.”
Mei bowed. “Yes, honored healer.”
They left in a rustle of robes and incense.
We stayed in silence for a moment.
Then Mei exhaled shakily. “Do you know what they’re saying out there?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
She twisted her fingers together. “Some say you insulted the clan by striking its prodigy. Some say you brought hope to everyone under the elders’ feet. Some say you got lucky.” Her voice lowered. “Elder Xun says you need to be… watched.”
My stomach dropped. “Watched as in ‘maybe a resource’ or ‘maybe an accident to arrange?’”
She didn’t answer.
That told me what I needed to know.
“Great,” I muttered. “I finally get noticed and it’s by exactly the wrong person.”
“Not only him,” Mei said quickly. “Some of the lesser elders looked… interested. Like they were calculating. And even the main branch disciples couldn’t pretend they didn’t see what happened.”
The weight of that settled over me like a boulder.
I had wanted recognition.
Now I had it.
From people who could snap me like dried bamboo.
Mei must have seen the way my expression tightened. She leaned closer, her voice soft.
“Whatever they say,” she murmured, “I saw it. You did what no one thought you could. You stood. You struck. He stumbled.”
Her eyes shone, and not only from tears. There was something like fierce pride there.
It scared me more than her fear had.
Because it meant I couldn’t back down now, even if I wanted to.
“Thanks,” I said, throat thick.
She hesitated, then added quietly, “My father said… after today, they can’t ignore you. That means danger. But it also means possibility.”
“Your father is braver than me,” I said.
“He’s more tired than you,” she replied. “Bravery is all he has left. Same as you.”
“Wow,” I said. “Rude but fair.”
When she finally left to assist the kitchens, the medic hall grew quieter. Only a few moans from other patients and the mutter of healers remained.
For the first time since waking, I was alone with my thoughts.
And the echoes.
I closed my eyes.
The arena came back in fragments. The roar of the crowd. The way the prodigy’s Qitan pressure had pushed down on me like an invisible hand. The slightly stunned look on his face when the Aligned Pulse had slammed into his ribs.
I replayed the movement in my mind. Not the Burst itself—the moment before: that arrogant shift of weight, the tiny flourish, the pointless pause.
Jian had been right.
The prodigy believed there was no pause in him.
So I had hit the pause.
And for an instant, I’d made a crack in something the whole clan thought was unbreakable.
A whisper brushed the edge of my consciousness.
…child…
Jade.
Mist.
My heart lurched.
I wasn’t asleep, but my awareness slid sideways anyway. For a second, the medic hall blurred—and the cool, familiar weightless feeling of the jade realm stirred at the edge of sense.
I didn’t fully cross over.
Just… brushed it.
The world around me dimmed. The sound of the medic hall faded. Instead, I heard a voice—soft, old, carrying both amusement and severity.
“You stood,” Master Jian said in that not-place. “Good.”
“I lost,” I thought back, or maybe whispered. It was hard to tell.
“You survived,” he corrected. “And you struck. That was the bargain.”
Memories stitched themselves together. The training, the illusions, his final words before sending me back.
Strike once.
Not to defeat him—
—but to be seen.
“They all saw it,” I said hoarsely. “Elders. Disciples. Servants. Elder Xun.”
“Good,” Jian said again. “Now they cannot pretend you are less than you are.”
“I also cannot breathe without hurting,” I muttered.
“Suffering is the ink with which cultivation writes itself,” he said.
“Very poetic. I hate it.”
A faint chuckle rippled through that half-realm. “Your Will did not break under his pressure. That matters more than the outcome of today’s match.”
“What now?” I asked. “Elder Xun is angry. The prodigy has a new vendetta. I’m in the healers’ hall. My second meridian still refuses to open. I’m kind of running out of ways this can get worse.”
“Oh, it will get worse,” Jian said calmly.
“Thank you, deeply comforting mentor spirit.”
“But so will you,” he continued. “The second meridian will not open under fear, or exhaustion, or desperation. It will open under alignment. Flesh, Flow, and Will together.”
“And that’s… later,” I said.
“Yes. For now, your task is simple.”
“Please say ‘retire peacefully and take up gardening,’” I murmured.
He ignored that. “Endure. Watch. Learn. Your enemies are revealing themselves. That is a gift.”
Some gift.
“You will return when your body allows,” Jian said, voice fading. “The Path has only begun.”
The jade-taste of the air faded.
The medic hall seeped back into focus.
My ribs hurt more now. Or maybe I was just noticing them again.
But beneath the pain, something else thrummed.
Not Qitan.
Not yet.
Just Will.
A little heavier than before.
A little more real.
Later—much later—Mei returned with a small bowl of broth and a scowl.
“You need to sit up,” she said.
“That sounds like a terrible idea,” I replied.
She glared until I obeyed. It was painful. It was awkward. It took too long. But I managed to lever myself halfway upright against the wall.
She held the bowl to my lips. “Small sips. Don’t drown.”
“I love your faith in me,” I muttered between swallows.
“It’s selective,” she said. “I trust you to be stubborn. I do not trust you to be smart.”
“Again, rude but fair.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
Outside, through the thin walls, I could hear distant murmurs—voices rising and falling, pieces of my name, fragments of the prodigy’s, Elder Xun’s tone like a knife.
“Do you regret it?” Mei asked suddenly.
“Regret what?” I said. “Not dying?”
“Striking him,” she said quietly. “Knowing what it cost you. Knowing what it might cost later.”
I stared into the half-empty bowl.
Did I?
A part of me whispered yes. The part that enjoyed breathing, not being on the bad side of powerful cultivators, and having fewer cracked bones.
But a deeper part—the one that had howled in the pit, that had dragged itself up the slope, that had accepted a System in exchange for a future—answered differently.
“No,” I said.
She searched my face, looking for hesitation.
“You hit him,” she said. “The prodigy.” Her voice was somewhere between reverent and incredulous. “That… changes things.”
“Maybe not for him,” I said. “Maybe not for the elders.”
“But for us,” she said. “For the ones they call ‘worthless branches.’ It changes everything.”
Her conviction startled me.
“Mei,” I said slowly, “I’m just one stubborn idiot who got lucky with timing.”
“And I’m just one nervous girl who steals herbs from the outer gardens,” she countered. “But if elders have to say your name now, if disciples start thinking ‘maybe’ instead of ‘never,’ then… that’s a crack in the wall.”
She lifted her chin, eyes gleaming.
“Cracks spread.”
Master Jian would have liked that line.
I smiled despite myself. “You sound like him.”
“Who?”
“Someone with more faith in me than is medically appropriate.”
She rolled her eyes… but didn’t deny it.
When night fell, the medic hall dimmed. Lantern light flickered. The worst of the injured groaned and muttered; the rest drifted into uneasy sleep.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
My first meridian pulsed gently, no longer straining at the edge of collapse. Flow Cycle ran like a slow, careful river. Spirit Anchor held steady—not in desperate resistance, but in quiet watchfulness.
The second meridian shimmered faintly at the edge of perception.
Not yet, it seemed to say.
Soon.
Outside, the clan moved on. Tomorrow would bring new matches, new gossip, new dangers. Elder Xun would scheme. The prodigy would train, probably fixating on never being touched again. Mei’s family would inch closer to the brink, tethered to my reckless choices.
The Path ahead of me wasn’t a staircase.
It was a cliff.
But for the first time, I was fairly sure I’d left a mark on the rock.
Somewhere out there, elders were arguing about me instead of dismissing me. Disciples were whispering my name as a question instead of an insult. The prodigy was nursing a bruise that shouldn’t exist.
And an ancient, half-bound spirit in a jade token had said:
“You stood. You struck. They saw.”
That would have to be enough.
For now.
I closed my eyes.
Sleep came slowly, dragging over pain and worry and the faint echo of a pulse that had aligned exactly once in front of the clan.
Tomorrow, the witnesses would still be there.
So would I.
And that was a start.