Pain became a language Kael understood now—each throb of his broken knuckles, each cough that rattled his bruised ribs, spoke of a truth no teacher had ever taught him:
To exist in this world, he would have to burn for it.
Kael sat alone behind the barracks, his hand wrapped in rough linen, soaked through with blood and spit. His breaths came short. Every inhale scratched like gravel. But his eyes didn't waver.
He watched the others train in neat lines—sword drills, synchronized strikes, elegant forms that flowed like water. They belonged to a world he wasn't born into.
His world was different.
"Still breathing?" a voice asked behind him.
It was Instructor Talan.
Kael nodded. "Barely."
Talan tossed something into his lap. A small scroll. Cheap parchment, faded ink.
Kael opened it slowly. It wasn't a technique scroll. There were no sword forms, no steps. Just a list. Simple. Brutal.
"The Iron Bone Routine."
— Strike tree trunk, 500 times— Hold horse stance under falling water, 2 hours— Run five laps around the mountain—barefoot— Lift stone slab until collapse— Repeat
Kael stared at it. "This isn't cultivation."
"No," Talan said. "It's survival."
Kael looked up.
"Others strengthen their qi channels," Talan said. "You'll strengthen your body. Until every tendon, bone, and nerve knows how to fight—even when your soul doesn't."
Kael swallowed. "Why give this to me?"
"Because you didn't ask for help. You took it," Talan replied. "Those who can bleed and still move... sometimes deserve more than those who are gifted."
That night, Kael stood before the tree behind the outer grounds.
He clenched his fist. Unwrapped the linen. The wounds hadn't closed.
He struck.
Once.
Twice.
By the fiftieth strike, he was screaming into the dark.
By the hundredth, he was silent again.
The bark peeled. Blood stained it like ink.
He kept going.
Days blurred.
He ran barefoot over gravel and stone, until his soles split and calloused. He held horse stance beneath the icy waterfall, until his legs trembled and buckled. He lifted the stone slab—until his vision dimmed, and his arms locked in place.
Every step hurt.Every moment burned.
And still, he moved.
Not fast. Not strong.
But forward.
One night, as Kael crawled back toward his shed—he heard voices from the cliff above.
"…still just a waste of resources," one said. A boy's voice—sharp, arrogant. "No spirit root, no future. Even if he trains, he's a cripple."
Another voice answered, older. Calm. Curious.
"Then why does he keep going?"
A silence.
Then:
"…because he's too stupid to stop."
Laughter echoed and faded.
Kael didn't rise.
He just lay there in the dirt, back blistered, hands shaking.
Then, slowly—
He smiled.
Because they were wrong.
He didn't keep going because he was stupid.
He kept going...
Because every day, he buried his weakness.And every night, he clawed closer to the man who would never kneel again.