Blood-Forged Ascension

The dawn bell rang hollow through the frozen valley.

Wei Lian woke with the cold pressing into his spine like a knife.

He rolled his shoulders, joints popping.

His robe was damp again from washing it in the black creek the night before.

He didn't mind.

It was cleaner than he deserved.

He stood in the dorm doorway for a moment, watching pale fog crawl between the old sect buildings.

Wind rattled shutters and made old timbers creak like dying animals.

He listened to the silence.

He liked it better than voices.

By the time he reached Copper Hall, others were filing in, muttering complaints about the cold, about Mu, about the endless work.

He ignored them.

He sat in the back corner as always.

Eyes half-lidded.

Breathing slow.

Feeling the ember in his dantian throb at 2nd layer, still steady, still growing.

The crack was there too.

A hairline split.

Pulsing once in a while like something testing its prison.

Jin Xiu arrived in fresh robes, hair tied with a jade clasp.

He smirked at the room like he owned it.

Wei Lian didn't look at him.

Didn't need to.

Elder Mu entered with his usual silent authority.

He dragged a battered old crate behind him, scraping it over the stone floor.

He sat on the front platform and let silence fall like a blade.

When no one dared speak, he finally growled:

"Breathe."

They obeyed.

Dozens of lungs filled at once, the sound dry and harsh in the cold hall.

Wei Lian closed his eyes.

Drew in the stinging air.

Felt the ember flicker, hungry.

He fed it pain from the bruises on his chest, the cuts on his palms, the chill gnawing at his ribs.

When he opened his eyes, Elder Mu was staring straight at him.

Wei Lian didn't blink.

Mu's gaze swept the room.

"Today you learn something useful."

A faint ripple of surprise went through the disciples.

Whispers.

"A technique?"

"Finally…"

"About time."

Mu didn't smile.

Didn't look pleased.

He kicked the crate open with one sandaled foot.

Inside was a stack of battered, rotting scroll-books.

The leather bindings were cracked.

The pages stained with old sweat, blood, and rain.

"This," Mu said, voice low, "is Bone-Breaking Fist."

He let the name hang in the air.

"A basic technique. Crude. Ugly. Designed for animals. Suits you all."

No one laughed.

He picked up one of the books between two fingers like it disgusted him.

"It is nothing fancy. A punch. But one meant to break bones when used right. It teaches you to sink your Qi into your fist. To make impact count."

He dropped it back into the crate with a wet thud.

"If you think it's beneath you, leave. Walk off the mountain now."

No one moved.

Mu's eyes narrowed.

"You have two months until the trial. If you cannot demonstrate this technique then, you will not pass. I will see to it personally."

A silence fell so deep the wind seemed afraid to enter.

Wei Lian listened to every word.

Let them sink into his ribs like needles.

Mu stood slowly, joints cracking.

"Form a line. Take one copy each. Don't ask for better. Don't ask for more."

They obeyed.

Even Jin Xiu.

When it was Wei Lian's turn, the crate was half-empty.

He picked a book at random.

The cover was half-torn away.

Pages curled and damp.

He turned and walked back to his mat without a word.

Mu barked at them to sit.

"Open it. Read."

They did.

The hall filled with the dry rustle of old paper.

Wei Lian spread the ruined pages carefully.

Symbols and crude diagrams of fists.

Arrows showing the Qi flow through forearm and knuckles.

Notes in spidery calligraphy about breath timing, foot placement, rotation.

Half the words were smudged or eaten by time.

But he read it all.

Mu's voice cut over them.

"This is not a pretty sect dance. It is not for show. It is for killing. For maiming. For surviving."

"You will learn it. Or you will leave."

Some disciples whispered:

"It's so basic."

"It's a peasant's technique."

"How are we supposed to win trials with this?"

Wei Lian heard them.

Didn't look up.

Didn't care.

He traced every diagram with a finger, memorizing each crude instruction.

He felt his Qi shift at the idea of channeling it through his fist.

The ember in his dantian pulsed once.

The crack inside him pulsed back.

Something felt ready.

But not yet.

Mu's voice dropped to a hiss.

"You think you're too good for this? This technique has killed more men than your fancy clan forms ever will. It doesn't need grace. It needs power. Resolve. Blood."

He let the words hang.

"Practice it. Every hour you are not eating or sleeping. Because when the trial comes, I will not be merciful."

He gestured sharply.

"Class dismissed."

Wei Lian stood slowly.

He tucked the battered manual into his robe.

The leather stuck to his ribs where old blood hadn't washed clean.

He didn't care.

As he walked out, he heard more mutters:

"He'll never get it."

"He doesn't even have a root."

"He's wasting a copy someone useful could use."

He ignored them.

Outside, he checked the work board.

LATRINE DUTY – WEI LIAN

Again.

Always.

He didn't hesitate.

Picked up the shovel.

He spent the day hauling waste in the cold.

One hand always holding the book close under his robe.

Every time he stopped to breathe, he imagined the diagrams.

The path of Qi down the arm.

The rotation of the hips.

The target in front of him breaking.

At dusk he washed in the creek, water black with runoff.

He held the battered book above his head to keep it dry.

When he sat on the bank afterward, shivering in his wet robe, he opened the ruined pages again.

Read them by dying light.

He felt the ember in his dantian flicker, hungry.

Felt the crack pulse, almost eager.

He closed his eyes.

Breathed slow.

"I will learn."

He whispered it to the night.

Then he stood.

Picked up his shovel and the book.

And walked back to the dorm.

Because tomorrow they'd try to break him again.

And he would let them try.