Blood-Forged Ascension

The morning bell tolled like a hammer on old iron.

Wei Lian's eyes opened in the dark.

He hadn't slept.

He'd sat cross-legged in the corner of the dorm all night, breathing.

Blood from split knuckles dried on his sleeves.

The ember of Qi in his core pulsed weakly.

But it was stronger than yesterday.

That was enough.

He was first to Copper Hall.

Sat on the same cracked mat in the back corner.

He watched the others file in.

Faces he was learning to memorize.

Jin Xiu with the smug smile, Earth Root, whispering to friends about the next Inner Disciple screening.

The two boys from Mountain Branch who always laughed when they saw Wei Lian's name on the work board.

A girl from the Eastern Clan, refusing to look at him at all.

Elder Mu arrived, robes trailing.

He didn't bother with greetings.

He sat.

"Breathe."

The hall fell silent but for the rasp of air.

Wei Lian forced breath through bruised ribs.

Closed his eyes.

Pain licked at him.

He pulled it in.

Fed the Qi inside.

Faint. Fragile.

But alive.

"Listen," Elder Mu rasped.

No one spoke.

"This sect does not care about your feelings. Or your dreams. It cares about power. About results."

His eyes raked the room.

"Outer Disciples exist to serve. Inner Disciples exist to climb. Core Disciples exist to rule."

He tapped the floor with a knuckle, slow and deliberate.

"And those who can't do any of it? They leave. Or die."

Wei Lian didn't flinch.

He felt the cold of the stone under him.

The stares of the others.

The weight of being less than nothing.

He welcomed it.

When class ended, Elder Mu called out names.

"Jin Xiu. Hu Fei. Report to Master Shen for advanced breathing technique instruction."

Jin Xiu smirked at Wei Lian on the way out.

Didn't say a word.

Didn't have to.

Wei Lian stood slowly.

He walked outside.

Checked the work board.

LATRINE DUTY – WEI LIAN

Again.

He picked up the shovel without complaint.

The latrines clung to the edge of the southern cliff, slick with rain and filth.

He hauled the cart alone.

Sludge sloshed over his bare feet.

His hands split on the iron handles.

He didn't stop.

At one point he slipped, falling hard.

Mud and waste smeared his chest, his face.

He lay there a moment, cold rain soaking him.

Breathing.

Listening to the wind scream past the cliffs.

Then he got up.

Shouldered the handle.

Kept pushing.

By dusk he sat in the creek, blood and filth washing off in black currents.

He pressed both hands to his dantian.

Breathed.

Felt the ember of Qi.

A little brighter.

A little stronger.

He didn't smile.

He didn't curse.

He simply whispered into the night:

"Good."

Then he closed his eyes and kept breathing.

Because tomorrow, they'd try to break him again.

And he'd be ready.