Demon Blood, Maiden Vail

The room was quiet.

Moonlight slipped through the spirit curtains, casting pale lines across Lin Yuan's body—bruised, stiff, and motionless.

Beside his bed lay a **small box of pills**—retrieved from the attackers who'd died trying to kill him days ago.

He hesitated.

Then took one.

It slid down bitter.

His muscles relaxed, but something in his chest stayed twisted.

> *I lost. Not to a cultivator. But to a mortal. A man with no qi… but ten thousand more hours of training.*

He clenched his fists under the quilt.

> *All my talent… my body… my bloodline. Useless if I can't land a punch.*

That night, he **didn't dream of beasts or spirits.**

He dreamed of being **small again**. Helpless again. Weak again.

He woke with the sun on his face—and a dull ache in his bones.

A firm knock shook the door.

> "Get up," said a familiar voice. "Training starts today."

Lin Yuan sat up, bleary-eyed. Lady Mingyan stood by the threshold, her hair tied back, dressed in **practical black robes**, sleeves rolled.

> "Combat training?" he asked, voice hoarse.

> "Combat discipline," she corrected. "I'm not training a prince. I'm forging a fighter."

They went to a secluded **bamboo grove** outside Yuhua City.

No qi. No formations. No shortcuts.

Lady Mingyan tossed him a **weighted wooden staff**.

> "Basic strikes. One thousand times. Each side."

He groaned but obeyed.

He swung.

And again.

And again.

The first hundred hurt.

The second hundred bled his hands.

By the fifth hundred, his arms were trembling.

> "Lower your shoulders," she snapped. "You're not swinging a tree."

He nodded, sweat falling into his eyes.

He kept swinging.

Lady Mingyan trained him like a mortal.

* **Punches into tree trunks.**

* **Staff drills until his shoulders locked.**

* **Balance work on moving platforms.**

* **Sprints with weightstones on his back.**

* **Breathing techniques to build internal rhythm.**

No cultivation. Just **will** and **muscle**.

At night, he collapsed into bed—aching, blistered, hungry.

And smiling.

> *I earned this pain. And I'm not running from it anymore.*

On the seventh day, Lady Mingyan made him fight a **stone dummy** imbued with formation patterns.

It hit hard. Very hard.

Lin Yuan didn't dodge perfectly. But his stance held.

He deflected two strikes. Landed one clean punch on the "chin."

Lady Mingyan called it off.

> "You're slow. And clumsy. But…"

She nodded slightly.

> "You're learning."

That night,Lady an give him Tearlume.Everyone talking care of her,except you.Tearlume lay curled on his chest, softly glowing.

She placed one tiny hand on his bruised rib.

And smiled.

Lin Yuan whispered, "I'm not strong yet."

> "But I'll earn it. Step by step."

Certainly! Here's a powerful internal monologue scene for Lin Yuan, filled with shame, frustration, and a desperate self-reflection as he questions his worth and whether he deserves his cultivation resources after losing to a mortal:

Chapter: The Meat of Heaven, the Strength of None

Night.

The lantern flickered on the bamboo wall. Lin Yuan sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, his body covered in bruises—mortal bruises.

His shoulders ached. His knuckles were swollen. His pride was worse.

Tearlume slept beside him, curled in her glowing cradle. She stirred, sensing his storming qi. He gently pulled a thin spirit blanket over her.

Then clenched his fist and stared down at his own trembling arm.

"Why?"

"Why did I lose?"

He looked at the tray of food beside him.

—Spiritual beast meat, grilled in thousand-year fire salt.

—Spirit rice, grown in moonlit terraces.

—A bottle of jade spring dew, known to purify meridians with every sip.

He drank it daily. Ate like a young immortal.

He had resources that ten thousand outer disciples would kill to taste.

And yet…

"I was beaten. Not by a golden core cultivator. Not by a sect elder."

"By a mortal who punches tree to train and earn food by fighting."

His fist slammed into the table. The tray clattered.

"I am eating the meat of spiritual beasts, but I can't land a blow on a man who eats dry bread and muddy water."

He stood up, shaking.

"What am I?"

His voice cracked.

"Am I one of them? Those rich cultivators born with treasures, fed on pills, and protected by sects... but who never earn any of it?"

He remembered the rumors in the Taiyin Sect:

"Waste."

"A noble freeloader."

"He has all the qi, but no spirit."

"Too kind to kill, too proud to crawl."

He had heard them whispered in the halls. He didn't believe them—until today.

He bit his lip, hard.

"I've seen mothers die trying to protect a single spirit root. I've seen slaves burn their blood to feed their children one drop of spiritual dew."

"And I… I'm eating like a king… training with heavenly herbs… and I couldn't even protect my own dignity."

His voice fell to a whisper.

"Am I wasting everything?"

"If I die tomorrow… what legacy do I leave?"

Just then, the door opened slightly.

Lady Mingyan peeked in, her eyes half-shadowed.

She said nothing—only tossed a small jade scroll onto the bed.

"New training pattern. Start tomorrow. No cultivation allowed."

Then she paused.

"...Also," she added quietly, "you're not a waste."

"You just haven't started earning what's already yours."

She left before he could answer.

Lin Yuan sat in silence, looking at his bruised knuckles.

He picked up the jade scroll. Opened it.

"Lesson One: Every body is forged in pain. The weak call it suffering. The strong call it shaping."

He nodded slowly.

Then lay down beside Tearlume.

"I'll earn it. Even if I have to start from zero"

I eat from golden bowls of light,

Drink water drawn from stars at night,

I sleep on clouds, yet dream of dust—

My soul still fears, my fists still rust.

They call me blessed, with blood divine,

A demon's fire, a fairy's spine.

Yet in the ring, I fall like straw,

No sword, no spell, no heavenly law.

I am the brother meant to lead,

But cannot match a mortal's speed.

They cheer my name, but deep inside,

I wear my shame, I cannot hide.

A child I cradle, not yet grown,

Whose strength already shakes the stone.

What legacy will I bestow,

If I, the root, refuse to grow?

My bones are weak, my heart is loud,

I weep beneath a hero's shroud.

I've wealth and power, tools to climb,

Yet lag behind the march of time.

Oh heavens, if you hear my plea,

Don't gift me strength—just let me be

A man whose hands don't drop the sword,

Whose steps can stand beside his word.

---

Would you like this poem sung by a bard in the city, or perhaps Lin Yuan writes it secretly in a scroll someone later finds?