Morning broke over the Dustwood Forest. Mist clung to the trees like ghosts of forgotten ambitions, curling around roots and bark. Lin Chen stood barefoot atop a low stone near the edge of the mountain path, shirtless, his frail but tightening frame glowing faintly with sweat.
The boy of a few weeks ago—skinny, hunched, and stumbling under a bundle of sticks—was slowly hardening.
Each breath he took pulled in more than air. It pulled in essence—the faint, ambient qi drifting like dust through the world. His Heavenly Dust Vein devoured it greedily, digesting it in his dantian like a hungry furnace. Three specks of ash-light now flickered within him.
He was at the Third Layer of the Dust Vein Realm.
Slow, yes. But stable.
Every layer matters, he reminded himself. The world doesn't give people like me shortcuts.
Trouble on the Trail
His father's voice echoed down the trail.
"Chen'er! Get back here with that axe!"
Lin Chen grabbed the tool and ran downhill toward the clearing where his father and a few other workers from Dustwood Village had begun felling trees for the nearby town of Qinghe.
But the moment he entered the clearing, he stopped.
A group of five young men in green and white robes stood there, arms crossed, eyes cold. Their swords gleamed. One of them leaned on a black-handled blade taller than Lin Chen himself.
Outer disciples.
From Qinghe Sword Pavilion.
Lin Dazhong looked uncomfortable. "We already said," he muttered. "These trees are our contract. We're paid to—"
The tallest of the disciples, a narrow-eyed youth with oily hair tied back in a dragon-tail knot, sneered. "We are the law around here, uncle. You cut from our mountain. You pay tribute."
He kicked over a bundle of logs, scattering them.
Lin Chen stepped forward before he even realized it. "That wood took hours—"
The narrow-eyed cultivator turned. His gaze fell on Lin Chen and lingered. Not with concern. With amusement.
"And what do we have here? A rat with a spine?"
Strength and Silence
In his past life, Lin Chen would have bowed his head. He would have watched his father take the blow. He would have swallowed his pride to survive.
But not now.
Not after death.
Not after rebirth.
"You're not from this village," Lin Chen said coldly. "You have no right to this forest."
The narrow-eyed disciple walked up to him, eyes narrowing. He grabbed Lin Chen by the collar and lifted him off the ground.
"Who do you think you're talking to, peasant?"
Lin Chen's heart thundered.
But his breath remained steady.
Because in his dantian, the third ash-light was glowing.
He gathered qi to his palm—not to strike, but to hold. Let the disciple sense it.
The disciple blinked.
"You…" he muttered. "You're cultivating?"
He dropped Lin Chen, wiping his hand as if he'd touched something filthy. "You'll regret that. Filth like you don't deserve cultivation."
They left, laughing. But not without giving Lin Chen a parting gift—a shattered pile of his father's logs.
The Realization
That night, Lin Dazhong sat by the fire, sharpening his axe slowly.
"You shouldn't have spoken, Chen'er."
"I know," Lin Chen said, staring into the flame. "But someone had to."
His father sighed. "You remind me of your mother when she was young. Too stubborn for her own good."
His mother smiled from the corner of the room.
"They'll come again," Lin Chen said quietly.
"They will," his father agreed.
"Then I need to get stronger."
A Visitor from the Pavilion
The next week, while in the market town, Lin Chen encountered someone different.
Not a bully.
A stranger.
A man in crimson robes with a crescent emblem stitched into the sleeves. He watched Lin Chen from a distance as he bought supplies, then followed him quietly.
Just before Lin Chen turned to leave town, the man called out.
"You. The boy with the Dust Vein."
Lin Chen turned slowly. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. His eyes were warm, but his aura was like a coiled beast—dormant, but dangerous.
"My name is Elder Xu, from Red Crest Peak. I sensed your cultivation signature during your conflict with those outer disciples."
Lin Chen tensed.
"You don't need to worry," the elder said. "They're fools. The Dust Vein is rare—even among spirit veins. You have potential."
He stepped closer.
"I will watch your progress, Lin Chen. From afar. And if you survive… I may open a door for you."
Then, without another word, he vanished into the mist.
The Dream is Named
That night, Lin Chen knelt before his family's ancestral incense bowl. The candle flickered.
He had tasted danger.
He had seen injustice.
He had caught the eye of a power beyond his village.
And now—he had a name for his path.
"I will build a sect," he whispered.
"From dust. From pain. From nothing."
He clenched his fist.
"And I will Rise "
CH 4 ENDS.