Song stepped into the sixth barracks as twilight cloaked the city in a soft amber veil.
The wooden walls groaned under the weight of a chill mountain breeze.
A single oil lamp flickered, casting wavering shadows across the sparse room.
A rickety bed sagged in one corner, its blanket thin and frayed.
A scarred table bore the marks of countless nights spent in study.
Song's boots scuffed the rough floorboards, each creak a memory of his struggles.
This was no mere departure—it was a vow to reshape his destiny.
He gathered his few possessions with deliberate care.
A frayed shirt, its shoulders worn from hauling heavy loads.
Boots caked with red dust from endless trails through the wilds.
A tattered notebook, its pages filled with techniques from long-gone mentors.
Each item carried the weight of his past, yet whispered of new beginnings.
His heart pulsed with nostalgia, but resolve burned brighter.
Song stood still, the lamp's glow painting his face in hues of gold and shadow.
The old caretaker sat at a weathered table, sorting herbs with steady hands.
The air was thick with their bitter, earthy scent, evoking distant forests.
His silver hair caught the lamplight, gleaming like frost under moonlight.
Deep lines etched his face, a testament to years spent watching over wanderers.
Song watched him work, each herb a piece of the wilds beyond the city.
The caretaker's hands moved with a rhythm born of decades, almost meditative.
The scene felt like a fleeting moment of peace before the storm.
The old man glanced up, his cloudy eyes widening with quiet surprise.
"Leaving us, lad?"
His voice rumbled, low and rough like stones on a hillside.
Song nodded, his gaze steady despite the weight in his chest.
"Yes, elder. It's what I must do."
The caretaker's lips curved into a gentle smile, softening his rugged features.
"Fair enough, but know this place will always welcome you back."
Song bowed, warmth spreading through him like a faint ember.
"Thank you, elder."
The words echoed in his mind: Know that you're always welcome here.
A simple promise, yet it anchored him against the uncertainty ahead.
The caretaker returned to his herbs, fingers moving with quiet precision.
Song lingered, the flickering lamp casting shadows that seemed to whisper farewell.
He felt the weight of their bond, unspoken but profound.
His decision to leave was no whim, born of careful thought.
Among gatherers, rumors spread like wildfire through dry grass.
Song had heard tales of young talents undone by envy's sharp sting.
Careless whispers in the barracks could unravel his plans.
He refused to let his ambitions become fodder for gossip.
The thought tightened his jaw, steeling his resolve.
He would guard his secrets, no matter the cost.
Then there was his nightly meditation, a ritual demanding solitude.
The cramped barracks offered no space for such focus.
Each night, Song slipped into the forest under cover of darkness.
Moonlight barely pierced the dense canopy, casting faint silver streaks.
He sat on cold stones, seeking the faint pulse of energy within.
The rustle of leaves and distant cries of night birds broke his concentration.
Each session was a battle, leaving him drained yet unfulfilled.
The forest was no sanctuary, only a temporary escape.
The fear of discovery haunted him, a shadow over his practice.
A twig snapping nearby could jolt him from his trance.
The wind's howl carried whispers of unseen watchers.
Song longed for a place to cultivate in peace, free from distraction.
With merit points earned through toil, that dream was within reach.
A small dwelling could be his haven, a step toward breaking the curse.
The first master's curse clung to him like a specter.
Its weight pressed on his spirit, a constant reminder of his limits.
Song envisioned shattering it, rising to heights others only dreamed of.
His ambition burned, a fire no shadow could extinguish.
Yet doubt crept in, a faint whisper questioning his strength.
Could he truly overcome the chains of his birth?
The question lingered as he stepped into the evening air.
The city sprawled before him, bathed in the glow of dusk.
Rooftops shimmered, their edges softened by the fading sun.
Merchants packed their stalls, their voices a low hum in the streets.
Children darted through alleys, their laughter a fleeting melody.
Song's steps toward the combat library were steady, purposeful.
Each one a defiance of the curse, a spark of hope igniting within.
He pictured himself free, his name etched among legends.
The combat library loomed, a twelve-story pagoda piercing the sky.
Its wooden railings gleamed, carved with dragons, phoenixes, and vines.
The tower seemed ethereal, a monument to knowledge and power.
Song paused, his breath catching at its grandeur.
This was the city's tallest structure, a beacon of possibility.
From its peak, he imagined, the world would unfold before him.
Hills, rivers, and horizons, all within his grasp.
A wooden board at the entrance bore stark rules.
Entry: 5,000 merit points.
Each higher floor: 1,000 additional points.
One cultivation method, one skill scroll per visit.
Song's fists clenched at the cost.
Robbery.
Yet the promise of rarer scrolls fueled his resolve.
The risk was great—higher floors held fewer scrolls.
A wrong choice could leave him empty-handed.
But Song was no stranger to gambles.
He would climb as high as his points allowed.
The thought sent a shiver through him, a mix of awe and determination.
He approached the statue at the entrance, its presence commanding.
A hunched old man, carved from weathered stone.
One hand gripped a thick staff, steady as the mountains.
The other held a glass orb, swirling with red and purple hues.
The colors danced like liquid flame, hypnotic and alive.
Song's gaze faltered, drawn to their chaotic beauty.
He forced himself to meet the statue's carved eyes.
They seemed to weigh his worth, silent and unyielding.
A chill ran through him, as if the statue saw his soul.
"Entry, 5,000 merit points."
"Are you willing to spend your points?"
The cold voice echoed in his mind, devoid of warmth.
Song's heart raced, but his voice was firm.
"I agree."
The double doors groaned open, revealing darkness.
Song peered into the void, his pulse thundering.
The abyss swallowed light, hiding its secrets.
This was the threshold of his destiny.
Power awaited—or perhaps failure.
What lay beyond the shadows?
Song took a breath, steadying himself.
He stepped forward, the darkness closing around him.
Would the library yield the key to his freedom?