The wind rustled through the aged plum trees of the Qin Clan estate, carrying with it the faint scent of spring blossoms and the distant clang of steel against steel. Somewhere beyond the training grounds, young disciples sparred under the guidance of elders, their shouts filled with youthful ambition. Amidst all this life and fire, a boy sat quietly in the shadow of a worn stone pillar, his gaze fixed toward nothing, for his eyes were shrouded in darkness.
Qin Feng was fifteen years old, yet he had never once seen the sky.
To the world, he was a blind orphan. To the Qin Clan, he was a burden, tolerated, pitied, and scorned in equal measure. They called him "trash," not out of cruelty alone, but out of disappointment. In a world where martial prowess was everything, Qin Feng had no talent. No vision. No hope.
But that wasn't how it began.
His father, Qin Jie, had been a man of little repute, a drifting member of the clan who cared more for wine than war, more for pleasure than prestige. One night, lost in the haze of drink and lust, he lay with a woman he barely remembered. That single act gave birth to Qin Feng.
His mother died shortly after childbirth. No one remembered her name. Some whispered she had been a barmaid, others swore she came from a wandering tribe. To the clan, she was no more than a footnote.
Surprisingly, something changed in Qin Jie when Qin Feng was born. The man who had once wasted his days in gambling dens suddenly became... present. He took the child in, blind as he was, and raised him. He taught him how to eat, to listen, to move with care. He even tried to teach him how to cultivate, though he barely understood it himself. For seven short years, Qin Feng had a father. Not a great man, but a man who tried.
And then, as if the heavens mocked him, that too was taken away.
Qin Jie's past caught up with him. Years of excess and internal injuries from unhealed street fights consumed his body. When Qin Feng was eight, his father collapsed one morning and never rose again. The clan said it was a "terminal illness." But Qin Feng had heard the whispers that it was the price of an unclean life.
Since then, he had been alone.
The Qin Clan, shamed by the incident but unwilling to be entirely heartless, allowed the boy to remain. They gave him a servant's quarters — a small wooden hut near the eastern wall of the estate. It had no windows, which didn't matter. No rugs, which made the floor cold in winter. But it was shelter, and it was his.
That had been seven years ago.
Since then, he had lived quietly. Eating leftovers, fetching water, listening from the shadows as others sparred and trained. He never asked for more. He had long since stopped expecting kindness.
The clan's children — most of them now stronger than even the guards — called him names. "Blind worm." "Worthless son of a drunk." "The trash that sees nothing."
They thought he didn't hear. But he heard everything.
He heard them laugh behind his back. Heard them boast of their breakthroughs and their bloodlines. Heard them wonder why the clan even kept him around.
And still, every morning, before the sun crested the horizon, Qin Feng would make his way to the outer training field. He would sit quietly and listen. He didn't speak, didn't move. He just listened.
The sound of breath control during cultivation. The way feet moved across packed earth. The subtle shift of wind when a blade was drawn. He memorized it all — not because he believed he could ever be like them, but because... he wanted to.
It wasn't ambition. It wasn't glory. Qin Feng didn't dream of standing atop mountains or commanding storms. He didn't even know what a mountain looked like.
He simply wanted to stand on his own.
He wanted to cultivate because he was tired — tired of being pitied, tired of being disregarded, tired of being seen as less than human.
Most people wanted power to change the world. Qin Feng wanted just enough power so the world would stop trying to change him.
He curled his fingers into the grass beneath him, focusing on the sensation of each blade. "Even if I am blind… even if I have no talent… I will find a way."
He didn't know how.
There was no mysterious voice guiding him. No artifact hidden in his blood. No heavenly sign.
Just silence.
But sometimes, silence was enough.