The afternoon sun did little to warm the bones of Xie Han, Mingzhi's grandfather.

  The old man sat on the porch of the family hut, wrapped in a quilt that had seen better decades. His skin, once bronzed by fifty years of harvest sun, was now the color of gray ash. It wasn’t just pale; it was as if the life within him was being slowly smothered by something cold and unseen.

  Mingzhi knelt beside him, adjusting the blanket. As his hand brushed his grandfather’s wrist, he felt a chill that shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t the cold of winter, but a deep, stagnant chill—like air trapped in a sealed tomb.

  "Grandfather," Mingzhi said softly. "The sun is going down soon. Shall I help you inside?"

  The old man opened his eyes. They were cloudy, but for a moment, they sharpened with lucidity. He gripped Mingzhi’s hand with surprising strength.

  "Not yet, Mingzhi. Look there." He pointed a trembling finger toward the northern edge of their land, where the rocky foothills began to rise sharply against the mountain. "That patch... between the two boulders. The weeds grow thick there."

  Mingzhi looked. "Yes. It’s rocky ground."

  “Weeds only grow thick where the earth is deep,” his grandfather wheezed, the sound rattling in his chest like dry stones. "If we clear those surface rocks... we could extend the planting rows. Maybe another ten feet. Enough for a patch of medicinal herbs next season."

  Mingzhi’s heart tightened. The old man was barely breathing, yet he was still planning for a future harvest he might not see.

  "I will do it," Mingzhi promised. "I’ll clear it today."

  "Good lad," the old man whispered. The shadow on his face seemed to darken for a second—a flicker of grey energy that Mingzhi couldn’t quite see, but could definitely feel. It made the hair on his arms stand up, a primal instinct warning him of something unnatural.

  Mingzhi helped his grandfather back inside, settling him near the hearth. Then, grabbing a heavy iron pry-bar and a wicker basket, he headed for the rocky patch.

  The work was brutal. The "surface rocks" Grandfather had mentioned were the tips of icebergs buried deep in the hard-packed clay.

  For two hours, Mingzhi wrestled with stone. He dug, he pried, and he hauled. His muscles burned, screaming for rest, but he shut out the pain. He treated his body like a machine: input effort, output result.

  Then, he hit the obstruction.

  It was a boulder the size of a millstone, buried halfway into the slope. Mingzhi tried to push it. It didn't budge. He tried to dig around it, but the roots of an old dead tree held it fast in a wooden cage.

  A normal boy might have given up. A cultivator would have smashed it with a fist of Qi.

  Mingzhi stepped back and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He studied the rock.

  The boulder’s weight sat low and stubborn. The clay gripped it like a clenched fist. With his size, brute force would do nothing.

  He walked to the riverbank and returned with two smooth, round stones and a long, sturdy plank of Ironwood he had salvaged from a broken cart.

  He spent ten minutes digging a small channel under the front lip of the boulder. He wedged the round stones underneath to act as rollers. Then, he jammed the Ironwood plank under the boulder, using a third rock as a fulcrum.

  “So,” he muttered, grabbing the far end of the plank. “Let’s make this fair.”

  He pulled down with all his weight.

  The wood groaned. The earth shifted.

  With a wet sucking sound, the massive boulder popped free from the clay, rolling heavily onto the round stones and tumbling harmlessly down the slope.

  Mingzhi exhaled, a triumphant smile touching his lips. He walked over to inspect the crater left behind.

  The soil underneath was dark and compressed. But amidst the black earth and torn roots, something caught the light.

  It wasn't a gemstone. It was a clump of rust.

  Mingzhi frowned and picked it up. It was a necklace, heavy and caked in decades of grime. The chain was rotted leather, but the pendant itself—a rectangular block of corroded metal—felt unnaturally dense.

  As his skin touched the rust, a strange sensation shot through him.

  Thrum.

  It wasn't a sound. It was a vibration, traveling from his fingertips directly into his blood, and then echoing in the base of his skull. It felt like a bell ringing underwater—muted, distorted, and far too close.

  Mingzhi flinched, almost dropping it.

  "What was that?"

  He waited. The sensation didn’t repeat—but the feeling of being noticed lingered for a heartbeat longer than it should have. He rubbed the dirt off with his thumb. It was ugly. Pitted, scarred, and worthless.

  He raised his arm to throw it into the pile of cleared rocks.

  But he stopped. His eyes drifted to the crude carving on the surface. It looked almost... intentional.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Mom likes old things, he thought. She puts odd stones on the windowsill. Maybe she can clean this up. Maybe a trader will give us a copper coin for the metal.

  It was a small thought, born of affection and frugality. He slipped the rusty object into his pocket, the strange vibration already forgotten in the face of more work.

  The sun was gone by the time Mingzhi returned to the hut. The air had turned sharp and cold, the wind howling down from the Twin Wardens.

  Inside, the mood was hushed. His mother, Li Mei, was setting the table. There were three bowls of broth, but only two chairs were pulled out.

  "Where is Father?" Mingzhi asked, washing his hands in the basin.

  Li Mei didn't look up immediately. She was slicing a piece of preserved radish with meticulous care, making the small portion look larger.

  "He had business in town," she said. Her voice was too light, too casual. "The Wang family needed... extra hands for the evening shipment."

  Mingzhi looked at the empty spot at the table. He knew the Wang family shipments usually left at noon. He knew his father rarely worked nights unless something was wrong.

  "Business," Mingzhi repeated. He didn't press. He knew his mother lied only to protect him from worry.

  He sat down next to his grandfather’s empty chair—the old man was sleeping, his breathing raspy and shallow in the next room.

  They ate in silence, the clink of spoons against ceramic the only sound. Mingzhi watched his mother eat. She took the smallest portion, quietly nudging the larger chunks of radish into his bowl when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  A surge of warmth, fierce and painful, welled up in his chest.

  They give me everything, he thought, gripping his spoon. My grandfather works until his lungs fail. My mother starves herself by inches. My father works until his hands bleed.

  He touched his chest, where his Dantian lay dormant and empty.

  I have to form the seed. I don't care if my body is trash. I will force it to work.

  The door creaked open.

  Wind swirled into the room, carrying the scent of dry leaves and exhaustion. Xie Dazhu stepped inside.

  He looked ten years older than he had that morning. His clothes were dusty, the knees of his trousers stained with white clay— the kind found in the courtyards of the wealthy, where men knelt until dignity wore thin.

  But his eyes were burning.

  He didn't speak. He walked to the table and reached into his robe. With a trembling hand, he placed a book on the wood.

  It was bound in blue thread, the cover worn and stained with water spots. It smelled of old paper and mildew.

  The Earth Root Scripture.

  Mingzhi stopped breathing. He looked at the book, then at his father. He noticed Dazhu’s waist. The heavy leather belt where his father usually kept his hunting knife and money pouch was gone. The pouch was missing.

  Mingzhi looked out the open door. The small stable where their two oxen usually slept was silent.

  "Father..." Mingzhi whispered. "The oxen?"

  "Sold," Dazhu said, his voice rough. "And the plow."

  "But how will we harvest next year?"

  "We won't need to," Dazhu said, placing a heavy hand on Mingzhi’s shoulder. "Because by next year, you will be a disciple of the Azure Cloud Sect. You will be a cultivator."

  The weight of those words crushed the air out of the room. They hadn't just spent money. They had burned their bridge. If Mingzhi failed, the family starved.

  "Sit," Dazhu commanded gently. "Read. Try."

  Mingzhi sat on the floor in the center of the room. His parents sat on the bench, watching him like statues praying to a god.

  Mingzhi opened the book. The characters were complex, diagrams of meridians and energy flows drawn in faded ink.

  Step One: Sense the Earth.

  Step Two: Draw the breath of the soil.

  Step Three: Condense the Seed.

  He closed his eyes.

  He breathed. He accessed the meticulous part of his mind, the part that solved roof angles and irrigation flows. He visualized the Qi in the room.

  Because of his Neutral Constitution, he felt everything. He felt the heat of the candle (Fire), the dampness of the evening air (Water), the iron in the shovel in the corner (Metal).

  But the manual demanded Earth.

  He focused. He filtered out the noise. He grabbed the heavy, brown motes of Earth Qi drifting from the floor.

  Come in.

  He pulled. The Qi entered his nose, his mouth, his pores.

  It flowed into his meridians. It felt thick and gritty, like swallowing sand. He guided it down toward his Dantian.

  Condense.

  He tried to push the Qi into a sphere. A seed.

  For a moment, it worked. A warmth bloomed in his belly. He felt a vibration of power, solid and real.

  "He's doing it," his mother whispered, a sob catching in her throat. "Dazhu, look, he's glowing."

  Mingzhi heard her. He felt the hope in the room. It gave him strength.

  But then, the flaw revealed itself.

  The Earth Root Scripture was a low-grade technique, reliant on slow, steady accumulation. It assumed a body strong enough to hold the structure together while it formed.

  Mingzhi didn’t have that body.

  His 20% Earth affinity meant the "walls" of his Dantian were weak. But worse, the other 80% of his body—the Water, the Wood, the Fire—began to react.

  The Water Qi in his blood washed against the Earth Qi.

  The Wood Qi in his bones tried to feed on it.

  The seed began to vibrate.

  Stabilize! Mingzhi screamed in his mind. Just hold together for one more second!

  He pulled more Earth Qi, trying to patch the cracks. But he couldn't pull it fast enough. The technique was too slow. It was like trying to build a sandcastle while the tide was coming in.

  The seed didn't leak. It unraveled.

  Poof.

  The warmth in his belly vanished. The gathered Qi lost its cohesion and exploded outward, dissipating into his flesh as useless heat.

  "No," Mingzhi gasped.

  He tried again. Immediately. He didn't care about the strain.

  Pull. Condense. Hold.

  Dissipate.

  Pull. Condense. Hold!

  Dissipate.

  Blood began to drip from his nose. His vision blurred. His meridians burned as if he had poured boiling water through them.

  "Mingzhi, stop!" his father cried out, standing up.

  "I can do it!" Mingzhi shouted, his voice cracking. He wasn't fighting the Qi anymore; he was fighting the reality of his own existence. He was fighting for the oxen, for the plow, for his grandfather’s medicine.

  He gathered every ounce of will he had and slammed it into his Dantian.

  The backlash was instant.

  A sharp crack echoed in his chest. He doubled over, coughing violently. Bright red blood splattered onto the floor, darkening the packed earth.

  He collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping for air, his body trembling uncontrollably.

  The room went silent.

  It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the silence of a grave. It was the sound of a future dying.

  "It's gone," Dazhu whispered. He wasn't talking to Mingzhi. He was staring at the empty air where the glow had been. "It didn't take root."

  Li Mei covered her mouth, tears streaming silently down her face. She didn't look at the money pouch. She looked at her son, her heart breaking not for the poverty, but for him.

  Mingzhi wiped his mouth. He looked at the blood on his hand. Then he looked at his father’s boots, stained with the white clay of the begging-knees.

  He couldn't breathe. The air in the hut was too thick, too heavy with their love and their disappointment.

  He scrambled to his feet.

  "Mingzhi, wait—" his mother called out.

  He didn't wait. He couldn't look them in the eye. He burst through the door, stumbling into the night.

  The wind outside was biting, carrying the chill of the mountains. The moon was hidden behind jagged clouds.

  Mingzhi ran until his legs gave out, collapsing near the edge of the rocky patch he had cleared that morning. He lay in the dirt, the cold seeping into his clothes.

  He reached into his pocket and his hand closed around the cold, rusty metal of the necklace. He gripped it until his knuckles turned white, wishing he could crush it, wishing he could crush the whole unfair world.

  He lay there in the dark, a boy with a trash body and a heart full of debts he could never repay, while the wind howled over the Green River like a mourning ghost with no grave to claim.