"Well, well, well. If it isn't the failed prodigy."
The sneer cut through the stale air like a dull blade.
A tall cultivator in crisp outer-sect robes stood looming over the broken figure sprawled across the cold stone floor.
Chen Mo lay there, little more than a heap of filthy rags and bruised flesh.
His once-proud body was gaunt, ribs pressing sharply against sallow skin.
Days, perhaps weeks of starvation had hollowed his cheeks and dulled his once-bright eyes.
They stared upward, unfocused, glassy with exhaustion and the slow creep of death.
Dust clung to the dried blood on his lips. Every shallow breath rattled in his chest.
"There was a time I envied you," the cultivator continued, voice thick with venom.
"You—the perfect prodigy. Talent dripping from your fingertips, love falling at your feet, recognition wherever you walked. A bastard from some filthy lower world like you never deserved any of it."
