Ten days.
That was all Zhen Zenin had before the academic examination—a gateway into the prestigious Sky Sect, and the first step toward his true goal.
He had no cultivation base, no resources, and no allies.
But he had something far stronger—purpose.
Each morning began with brutal training. He ran through the cold forests, enduring wind and stone like old friends. At night, he meditated until his bones screamed, reaching inward to awaken the sleeping power within his veins.
His fists bled. His muscles tore. His soul trembled.
But he endured.
By the third day, a subtle current stirred inside his dantian—a flicker of qi, faint but real.
The foundation of cultivation had begun.
---
The clan whispered.
Zhen Zenin was no longer the silent waste in the corner of the courtyard. There was steel in his eyes now, something ancient that didn't belong to a boy of sixteen.
Even his mother and sister looked at him differently—though their eyes still held coldness, now there was unease buried beneath.
"He's changed," someone muttered.
"Something's wrong with him," said another.
---
Zenin ignored them all. The world had cast him aside once. He would not beg it for warmth.
On the seventh day, he stood atop a cliff beyond the city. His black hair whipped in the wind, his eyes fixed on the distant Sky Sect.
"I don't need anyone's approval," he said to the wind.
"I will carve my own fate."
A white flame flickered to life in his palm—soft, silent, but unyielding.
---