Chapter 1: The Weakest Disciple
Rain fell in relentless sheets over the Azure Cloud Sect, drumming on stone rooftops and running in silver rivulets down the terraces that clung to the mountain's face. Lanterns swayed gently in the wind, illuminating the winding paths where disciples hurried to and fro. The hierarchy of the sect was evident even from this vantage point: outer disciples scurried along the lower paths, anxious and clumsy; inner disciples walked with calm authority; elders and instructors observed from high terraces, silent and watchful, their expressions unreadable.
Li Chen trudged along the wet stone path, his robes soaked and clinging to his thin frame. Every step was heavy, muscles weak, lungs burning in the cold drizzle. He moved with care, trying not to slip on the slick stones, but it was an effort, and the other outer disciples noticed immediately.
"He's moving slower than a turtle in mud," whispered one, smirking.
"Does he even train, or does he just exist here?" another muttered.
Li Chen didn't reply. Words did nothing to protect him. Silence, as always, was safer. Yet their ridicule burned quietly, a constant reminder that in this world, weakness was contemptible. In a sect where strength defined worth, he was invisible—or worse, an object of amusement.
He reached the training courtyard, the center of daily discipline and practice. The air was thick with the clash of steel on steel, the shouts of instructors, and the rhythmic pounding of feet against the ground. Outer disciples sparred with one another, their movements precise, their strikes sharp and confident. Inner disciples circled the yard, correcting stances, redirecting attention, and keeping the weaker students in line. Li Chen lingered at the edge, watching, learning in silence.
He wanted to step forward, to lift a blade and train alongside them, but his body refused. His arms trembled at the weight of the practice weapon, and his legs wobbled when he attempted a stance. Each motion left him breathless, his frail body betraying him at every turn.
"Look at him," Fang Ji, one of the more arrogant outer disciples, said loudly, brandishing his practice sword. "Even holding it looks painful. How pathetic."
Li Chen ignored him. He had learned long ago that reaction drew attention, and attention invited punishment.
Fang Ji smirked and lunged, using the pretense of training to strike at Li Chen's balance. Li Chen barely sidestepped, tripping over the uneven stones. He fell hard, scraping his hands and knees, and the courtyard erupted with laughter.
"Careful, Li Chen! Don't break your legs before we even start!" another jeered.
The instructors watched quietly, allowing this to continue. This was part of the sect's philosophy: the weak must learn through hardship. But for Li Chen, the lesson was painful in more ways than one.
He rose to his feet, chest heaving, limbs trembling, and tried to steady himself. His body ached in protest, and yet he forced his hands to grip the blade again. He would not let them see him falter. Not completely. Not yet.
"Step aside, weakling," Fang Ji sneered, shoving him roughly with his shoulder.
Li Chen staggered but did not fall. He shifted, trying to regain balance. The courtyard around him blurred; rain, motion, and the rhythmic shouts of his peers collided in his vision. His arms felt like lead, legs like stone, but he refused to let his head drop.
Another disciple, Wei Rong, approached with a cruel grin, swinging a light staff at him. Li Chen barely raised his arms to deflect it, pain shooting through his shoulders. Fang Ji joined in again, this time striking him in the side. The coordinated harassment was precise, almost practiced—he realized quickly that this was not a mere joke. They wanted to break him.
Each blow left him weaker, every strike leaving a deeper impression on his already frail body. Li Chen tried to dodge, tried to counter, but his training—or lack thereof—offered little advantage. His muscles burned, his breath came in shallow gasps, and the world began to tilt around him.
WhyamIsoweak? he thought.
Why can't I do even the simplest thing right?
Pain and humiliation mingled, but a stubborn flame refused to die inside him. He clenched his teeth and pushed himself to rise again, forcing his body to obey, forcing himself to endure.
But the assaults kept coming. Fang Ji and Wei Rong, sensing his struggle, intensified their attacks, striking his legs, his shoulders, and occasionally shoving him into the slick stones. He staggered, slipping and sliding, barely holding onto consciousness.
A loud shout from one of the inner disciples drew a brief pause, but it lasted only a moment. Discipline, not mercy, was the rule here. Fang Ji smirked at the interruption and resumed, striking with precision at Li Chen's side and shoulders.
The rain mixed with sweat, running into his eyes, blinding him. Each breath came in shallow, desperate gasps. Li Chen's vision began to swim. The courtyard, the weapons, the faces of the other disciples—all blurred into a spinning haze.
He tried to push back, to find balance, to strike even a single weak blow, but his body no longer responded. Pain and exhaustion had claimed every last ounce of strength. He sank to his knees, hands pressed to the wet stone, trying vainly to steady himself.
"Pitiful," Fang Ji muttered, stepping back as though admiring the result of his efforts.
Li Chen's knees buckled. He fell forward, face pressed to the cold stone, rain soaking his hair and robes. Darkness edged his vision. The courtyard sounds—the clashing steel, the shouts, even the pounding of the rain—faded into a distant hum.
As he slipped into unconsciousness, his last thought was a quiet, stubborn refusal to accept defeat.
I will… I must…
Then the world went black.