The crowd wasn't cheering.
They weren't even watching.
Most eyes had already turned to the next match, to the real talents—the prodigies whose names echoed across the outer court of the Red Orchid Immortal Sect like sacred chants. Kaelith was neither prodigy nor pariah. Just a name, half-forgotten, called out by the elder as a formality.
And now, he stood on the cracked arena stage, blood dripping from his shoulder, his breathing ragged, his left arm hanging limp and a large gash across his chest.
His opponent, a muscular youth from the outer court, groaned beside him, unconscious with broken bones.
Kaelith had won.
But only barely.
The outer ring disciples murmured among themselves.
"Wait, did he actually win?"
"Fluke."
"Didn't expect that."
Kaelith heard them. He always did. The whispers cut deeper than the blades he blocked.
He turned his back to the murmurs and limped off the stage. No applause. No acknowledgment. Only silence and the echo of his own staggering steps. His opponent would recover. Kaelith wasn't so sure he would.
The path to the outer court dormitories twisted through the misted gardens and stone walkways of the sect, lined with statues of cultivators who had long since ascended to higher realms. Kaelith walked past them with clenched fists and a clenched jaw.
What am I even doing here?
The pain in his side pulsed in rhythm with the doubt in his chest. His robes were torn, his spirit energy nearly exhausted. The fight had pushed him far beyond his limits—he had only won through reckless counters and sheer refusal to fall.
It wasn't enough.
It was never enough.
When he reached his dorm, he didn't bother lighting the lantern. He closed the door behind him and collapsed onto the mat with a grunt, every muscle in his body screaming.
Silence wrapped around him like a shroud.
And then—
Tears came.
At first, quietly. Then heavier, until his breath hitched and sobs echoed off the wooden walls. His hand clutched the front of his robe as if he could tear out the bitterness rooted inside.
He wasn't weak.
But he wasn't strong either…Just… stuck.
His cultivation was average, his techniques passable. Five years at the Red Orchid Immortal Sect, and he remained in the outer court. He advanced slower than others. His spiritual veins weren't broken—but they weren't blessed either.
He trained harder than most, slept less, pushed more—but the results always felt… mediocre.
And time was running out,His parents,His village,His friends.
Gone!!!
Slaughtered by the Red Rage Sect.
He saw it every time he closed his eyes: he was ten years at the time.
red flames hugging the rooftops, black-clad cultivators laughing as they cut down the screaming villagers. His mother shielding a group of children with her body. His father swinging a farming blade until the end. The stench of blood, smoke, and grief burned into his memory,he watched from a well he hid in.
He curled on his side, staring at the cracked ceiling.
"I swore I'd kill them. All of them."
But how? At his current rate, it would take centuries—if he survived that long. The Red Rage Sect wasn't just a rival. It was a Titan sect, built on blood rituals and dark cultivation techniques. Their lowest-ranking elders could kill him with a flick of a finger.
The sect wouldn't help him. The Red Orchid Immortal Sect was locked in a cold war with their heretic enemies—skirmishes, border raids, tension—but they would never risk open war for someone like him,unremarkable.
Kaelith was alone.
He always had been.
No friends. No alliances. Just quiet days filled with practice, injuries, meditation, and more practice.
Others saw him as background. He'd learned not to speak unless spoken to. He wasn't antisocial—just invisible.
He lay still for a long while, waiting for the pain to fade. It didn't. But eventually, the tears slowed. And slowly, the numbness gave way to something else: memory.
A gentle smile. Warm hands on his head.
"Kaelith," his mother had once whispered, brushing soot from his cheek. "You don't have to be strong today. You just have to be kind. Tomorrow will come, and you'll be ready for it."
He could still hear her laugh, soft and musical. Still feel his father's heavy hand on his shoulder as they watched the sunset from the hill behind the village.
"Men like us," his father once said, "aren't born heroes. We become them when there's no other choice."
Back then, he had no idea what those words meant. Now he lived them every day.
His fists clenched.
He sat up, hissing from the pain. A deep bruise spread along his ribs. His body felt like it had been trampled by a spirit beast. His spiritual energy reserves were nearly empty.
But he was still alive.
Still breathing.
Still burning.
He dragged himself to his knees and lit a single candle. Its flickering flame reminded him of home—of the hearth his mother kept lit, even in winter storms. The warmth didn't reach him, but he stared at it anyway.
He reached for a tattered scroll near his bedside, one of the few things he'd salvaged from the ashes of his village. The technique within was incomplete. Basic flame channeling. Weak by sect standards. But it was theirs. His family's. A legacy scorched but not destroyed.
Kaelith closed his eyes.
He remembered the way his father had taught him to steady his breath before channeling qi.
He remembered his mother's hand guiding his posture as he stood before the village shrine.
He remembered the laughter of his younger sister, six at the time,who always giggled when the flame flickered and danced.
His eyes watered at the thought of his sister,he did know what happened to her,but most likely she had been slaughtered like the rest…
Now there was only silence.
But the fire still danced.
Steeling himself,He meditated briefly, forcing his spiritual energy to flow. The pain made it sloppy. His concentration wavered. But he didn't stop.
Not this time.
Because if he stopped now, the dream died.
He opened his eyes to the candlelight. His tears had dried, but his face was pale and hollow. The room felt colder. Lonelier.
Still, he whispered to the darkness: "I'll get stronger. Even if it kills me."
His hands trembled as he unrolled his bedding, every motion stiff with exhaustion. He lay down on the thin mat, limbs sore, breath shallow.
The wind outside rustled the wooden shutters.
Somewhere in the distance, the bell tower chimed once, marking the midnight hour.
Kaelith closed his eyes, letting sleep overtake him like a wave.
The candle flickered once,Then twice.
And as he drifted into unconsciousness,his injuries mysteriously started closing up at a slow but visible rate,a small spark pulsed faintly within his chest.
Waiting.
Watching..
Burning…