The morning after my latest session with Master Jian felt like waking up inside someone else’s body. Someone who had been hit by a wagon. Twice. Then politely stacked into a broom closet.

  My legs protested from the moment I tried to stand. My first meridian pulsed with a deep, slow ache—less sharp than before, but heavier, like a rope pulled taut through my torso. And beneath it all, faint as a whisper behind a wall, the flicker of the second meridian drifted in and out of reach.

  Two nights before the tournament.

  No pressure.

  I limped out of the dormitory into the cool dawn. Breath fogged in the air. Servants shuffled around like ghosts preparing for the day. I joined them, gripping the shoulder pole with the water buckets and sinking—carefully—into a mini Iron Root Stance.

  Legs bent. Weight dropped. Flow Cycle set to “please don’t burst anything.”

  A familiar voice drifted over.

  “You’re doing it again.”

  Mei. Carrying a basket of folded linens, hair tied up loosely this morning, wisps falling around her cheeks. She smiled softly when I straightened.

  “You’re always moving as if your legs might give out,” she said. “But they don’t.”

  “That’s the goal,” I said, trying not to grimace as a muscle twitched violently. “Or at least… not before the tournament.”

  Her expression dimmed, just a little. “You’re still planning to enter.”

  “I have to,” I said. “Otherwise the elders will keep seeing me as the same useless branch they threw into a pit.” I forced a wry smile. “And besides… I’ve survived worse.”

  She hesitated, then lowered her voice.

  “You should be careful. Elder Xun’s prodigy… he doesn’t just win. He hurts people. Some say on purpose.”

  Ah yes. The five-meridian wonder.

  “Good to know,” I said, swallowing. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  Her lips twitched. “I didn’t say you shouldn’t enter. Just… don’t underestimate him.” She fished something from her sleeve and pressed it into my palm. “My grandmother taught me how to make these. Poultices. For soreness.”

  I blinked down at the small cloth-wrapped packet.

  “You don’t have to—”

  She shook her head. “You helped me with the vegetables. And…” Her voice softened. “My family doesn’t have many allies left. Maybe I wanted one.”

  Before I could respond, she turned quickly and hurried off.

  I stared after her, stunned.

  The packet in my hand felt heavier than herbs.

  It felt like trust.

  Chores blurred into one long ache. I incorporated Iron Root Stance whenever possible—bending my knees while carrying baskets, lowering my hips while sweeping, keeping my center of gravity just a little too low for comfort.

  And now, mixed into the routine, hidden beneath mundane movements: the first crude motions of Rooted Palm.

  Sink the weight. Guide Flow. Anchor the mind. Channel Qitan Flesh upward.

  My first attempt happened near the laundry lines. I swept the broom forward, imagining the motion transferring energy from my heels into my palm—

  The broom jumped out of my hand and clattered across the yard like a possessed stick.

  A servant screamed.

  I pretended I’d tripped.

  Spirit Anchor kept my panic from spilling into my face, but my heart was doing gymnastics.

  Okay. So Rooted Palm… worked. Kind of. Accidentally. In a broom-based way.

  Progress.

  Later, while hauling firewood, I tested it again—slow, controlled, no outward burst. Just the internal coordination: legs rooting, torso aligned, Flow Cycle humming.

  My meridian stretched, just faintly. The ache warmed.

  The second meridian flickered. Still distant. Like a star behind fog.

  Not yet.

  Don’t force it.

  Master Jian had drilled that into me.

  Around midday, while returning empty buckets to the well, I overheard voices—sharp, pointed, unmistakable.

  “—first-round matchups finalized.”

  Elder Xun.

  I froze behind the well’s stone lip.

  A younger disciple spoke, excited. “Is it true? We’re pitting lower-branch participants against the prodigy right away?”

  “Yes,” Elder Xun said. “The trash should be culled quickly. The prodigy will advance without obstacles.”

  My stomach dropped so fast it left behind an echo.

  Culled.

  Trash.

  Me.

  “Who’s the unfortunate one assigned to him?” the disciple asked.

  Elder Xun snorted. “Some servant-born rat scraping the bottom of the bracket. Irrelevant.”

  The prodigy’s first opponent.

  Me.

  Perfect. Wonderful. My favorite day ever.

  I set the bucket down very gently so it wouldn’t rattle.

  Flow Cycle triggered on instinct as my pulse surged. Spirit Anchor stabilized the flood of nerves—but only barely.

  Okay. Fine. Good. So I’d be facing the walking embodiment of “you will lose.” Nothing new there.

  I breathed out slowly.

  I needed more training.

  Tonight.

  Harder.

  Deeper.

  Rooted.

  The jade mist greeted me like a cold plunge when I touched the token after curfew. Every bone in my legs protested, but my mind was sharper than it had been in days.

  Master Jian emerged at once.

  “Root stance,” he said without preamble.

  I obeyed.

  Wind exploded from the mist, slamming into me with hurricane force. Stronger than yesterday. Strong enough that the ground beneath my feet felt like it might rip away.

  I locked into the stance, sinking weight into invisible roots.

  Spirit Anchor held my mind steady.

  Flow Cycle forced Qitan along the meridian even as pressure built.

  “Better,” Jian said over the roar. “Your roots deepen.”

  The wind shifted direction—front, back, sides, all angles. My legs shook violently. Pain tore through my muscles like fire fused with ice.

  But I didn’t fall.

  Roots. Roots. Roots.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  And then—

  The flicker again.

  Brighter this time.

  A shimmer beneath my ribs, almost forming a thread. The second meridian calling, inviting—

  Not yet.

  Not ready.

  Focus.

  When the wind finally died, I collapsed to my knees, gasping.

  “You endured,” Jian said. “Now you will learn to strike.”

  My head snapped up.

  Strike?

  “You have strengthened your root. Now you must learn to rise.”

  He lifted a hand. Jade mist swirled around his feet, spiraling upward.

  “Rooted Palm,” he said.

  My breath stalled.

  “You will channel Qitan Flesh from the ground through your stance, up your meridian, and release it through your palm. A Burst skill. Short range. Devastating if executed correctly.”

  I swallowed. “Devastating sounds nice.”

  “Then watch.”

  He stepped into Iron Root Stance—effortless, unshakeable—then drew the mist into a condensed point of pressure around his center.

  Flow Cycle in his form was like watching a river pulled into a vortex.

  Spirit Anchor radiated outward, grounding the mist around him.

  Then—

  He struck.

  His palm didn’t touch anything, but the jade mist exploded outward in a thunderclap of compressed force. A shockwave rippled across the entire plane, nearly knocking me over.

  I stared like an idiot.

  “You will not achieve this tonight,” he said. “Or this week. Or this month.”

  “…Right.”

  “But you will begin.”

  I inhaled deeply.

  Iron Root Stance.

  Flow Cycle.

  Spirit Anchor.

  I drew Qitan Flesh from my legs, up my torso—

  Something slipped.

  The energy leaked sideways.

  My arm flopped like a dying eel.

  The resulting “burst” was a sad puff that barely displaced the mist, like I’d blown on a foggy window.

  Jian’s expression didn’t change, but somehow I felt judged.

  “Again,” he said.

  I tried.

  Failed.

  Energy leaked.

  Balance wobbled.

  Again.

  Failed differently.

  Again.

  Failed impressively.

  Again.

  Failed so hard I fell backwards.

  Jian watched, unreadable.

  “Your Flow lacks unity,” he said. “Your stance breaks under movement. Your Will wavers under pressure.”

  I panted for breath. “So I’m terrible.”

  “You are learning.”

  He stepped closer.

  “Again.”

  By the time he allowed me to stop, my arms were numb, my legs were shaking uncontrollably, and my meridian felt like molten rope.

  But—

  The last attempt had produced something.

  A pulse.

  Small. Weak. But real. A ripple that nudged the mist, bending it inches outward.

  Jian nodded once. “Your roots strengthen. Your rise begins.”

  I collapsed forward, hands on my knees.

  The second meridian flickered again in my chest, not brighter—but steadier. Waiting.

  Tomorrow night… maybe I’d feel it more clearly. But not open it. Not yet.

  I needed control, not recklessness.

  I needed survival.

  I needed—

  Recognition.

  The word burned quietly in my chest.

  Tomorrow would be my last night of training.

  And then the tournament would come.

  Where I faced the prodigy.

  Where everyone would watch.

  Where my roots would be tested.

  Hard.

  By the time Master Jian finally dismissed me, my hands shook so violently I had to hold them against my chest to stop them from floating away. The jade mist dissolved around me in a soft rush, and suddenly the cold air beneath the ancient pine wrapped around my skin like a damp towel.

  I staggered.

  “Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Good news: you learned to hit fog. Bad news: fog almost won.”

  The pine did not offer sympathy.

  The walk back to the dorm was mostly me discovering new ways to limp. Every few steps my palm buzzed with a weird tingling, like the Rooted Palm had left behind a tiny echo inside my bones.

  Painful, awkward, humiliating… but real.

  I’d made a burst.

  Barely a burp of force, but still a burst.

  I fell into sleep before my head fully hit the pallet.

  Morning came far too soon.

  My eyes opened to the soft gray light leaking through the window slats. My legs throbbed with a stubborn ache, but something felt different. Not easier. Just… lined up better. As if the stance training had threaded new connections through my body while I slept.

  The real problem was my arms.

  My palms pulsed like I’d slapped a beehive.

  Groaning, I dragged myself upright. Flow Cycle flowed sluggishly at first, but after a few breaths it smoothed and spread warmth through the sore edges of my meridian.

  Two nights left.

  The thought didn’t make me panic this time.

  At least not immediately.

  Chores blurred into a rhythm—painful but steady. Haul water. Root your stance. Sweep floors. Let Qitan Flow hum beneath the skin. Carry laundry. Keep your weight low, legs aligned.

  And now, layered between the mundane motions, the slow, hidden practice of Rooted Palm.

  Not a full strike—heavens no. I’d send someone flying into a wall or, worse, attract attention.

  Just the internal sequence.

  Root. Flow. Anchor. Rise.

  While scrubbing a courtyard tile, I practiced the micro-timing of shifting energy from legs into torso. While wiping tables, I imagined the palm extension. While carrying sacks of rice, I tried to feel the internal “line” connecting heel to fingertip.

  The strangest thing happened around mid-morning.

  I stopped thinking about it.

  The line appeared on its own.

  A quiet click in the back of my awareness, like the pieces of a puzzle aligning themselves. Not mastery—not even close—but the very beginning of the body going:

  Oh. This stupid thing again? Fine. I’ll help.

  While sweeping the covered walkway, I tried tightening the line for just a moment. A soft pressure gathered in my palm, like a tiny ball of air flexing outward.

  I immediately stopped. Looked around.

  No one noticed.

  Good.

  Mei appeared a minute later, arms full of folded robes. Her eyes lingered on my stance—my knees bent too deeply for a normal sweeping job.

  “You’re going to injure yourself before the tournament even begins,” she said lightly.

  “I’m already injured,” I said. “This is just advanced maintenance.”

  Her gaze softened. “I tried the poultice recipe last night. There’s a stronger version. More herbs. I can make some tonight if you want?”

  “You don’t have to,” I said.

  “I know,” she said simply. “But I want to.”

  Something warm flickered in my chest. Not Qitan, for once.

  I nodded. “Then… thank you.”

  She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but two senior servants stomped past us, gossiping loudly.

  “—Elder Xun said the prodigy will crush the early rounds—”

  “—facing some servant-branch rat first, can you believe—”

  “—no suspense in the opening bracket—just culling the weak ones—”

  My blood chilled.

  Mei flinched, eyes darting toward me.

  “You knew?” she whispered.

  “Yesterday,” I said quietly. “I overheard it.”

  She swallowed. “The prodigy… he’s not like other disciples. There are rumors he once broke another boy’s ribs just because he laughed at the wrong moment.”

  “Perfect,” I muttered. “I love participating in events with friendly people.”

  She hesitated. Then, with an uncharacteristically firm tone:

  “Don’t let them break you before you even enter the arena.”

  I blinked.

  Her stare didn’t waver.

  “Promise me.”

  A promise was a heavy thing to give away lightly.

  “I won’t break,” I said softly. “Not before the fight.”

  She nodded once, then headed off, leaving me with a broom, a racing heartbeat, and a promise I suddenly wasn’t sure how to keep.

  The soreness in my palms grew throughout the day, a dull buzzing that matched the ache in my meridian. Every time Flow Cycle passed through, the meridian vibrated—too tight in one spot, stretched in another. Not dangerous, just heavily used.

  Like I’d spent a night trying to punch fog.

  Which I had.

  By sunset, I walked like a man twice my age and probably looked worse.

  Only one night left before the tournament.

  One last training session.

  One last chance to fail miserably before failing publicly.

  Morale: amazing.

  The ancient pine waited in its usual place, tall and twisted, branches whispering against the night air. The moonlight poured pale silver across the courtyard stones.

  My whole body thrummed with nerves.

  I touched the jade token.

  The world pulled inside-out.

  Jade mist welcomed me like the breath of some ancient beast. Cold, quiet, endless.

  Master Jian appeared almost immediately. His gaze swept over me with its usual judgmental intensity.

  “You look like you have been trampled,” he said.

  “That’s because I have been,” I said. “Repeatedly. By you. Spiritually.”

  “Correct,” he said, as if that were praise. “Root stance.”

  My legs groaned in betrayal.

  But they obeyed.

  The windstorm hit harder than yesterday.

  It slammed into me like a wave of invisible stone, sending my robe flapping violently. My feet skidded half an inch—dangerously far. I dug in, heels pressing downward, Qitan Flesh sinking into my legs until they felt carved from iron.

  Spirit Anchor steadied the rising panic.

  Flow Cycle guided a ribbon of warmth up the meridian.

  Roots. Roots. Roots.

  “You withstand more,” Jian observed over the roar.

  I couldn’t respond. My teeth were too busy trying not to rattle out of my skull.

  After what felt like an eternity, the wind died.

  I swayed but didn’t fall.

  Jian nodded once, the closest he would ever come to applause.

  “Now,” he said. “The strike.”

  My pulse jumped.

  Rooted Palm.

  The Burst skill I’d barely touched yesterday.

  I sank deeper into the stance, trying to ignore the screaming in my thighs. Flow Cycle pulled energy up; Qitan Flesh sank down; Spirit Anchor locked me in place.

  Jian watched with razor-sharp eyes.

  “The line,” he said. “Find it.”

  Heels. Knees. Hips. Spine. Shoulder. Elbow. Palm.

  I visualized it. Felt it. Not clearly—more like seeing a shape through frosted glass.

  “Strike.”

  I moved.

  This time the burst wasn’t nothing. A puff of mist jumped away from my palm—a little stronger than yesterday.

  Not impressive.

  But real.

  “Again,” Jian said.

  I obeyed.

  Dozens of times.

  Each attempt bruised my arm in a new location. Each failure exposed a flaw. But every now and then, the line clicked for half a heartbeat.

  Heels → palm.

  Ground → strike.

  My palms tingled, vibrating softly.

  The jade mist rippled outward in tiny waves.

  And on one attempt—perhaps the fifteenth, or the thirtieth—I felt something new:

  A pulse.

  Small, but firm.

  It traveled the line cleanly, no leaks, no stumbling, no wobbling.

  My palm thrust forward.

  A visible shock of rippling mist burst out—a span no longer than my arm length, but enough to show a compressed wave of force.

  I staggered back in surprise.

  Jian did not.

  His eyes glinted.

  “That,” he said. “Is a strike.”

  I looked at my palm, stunned. The skin tingled as if remembering the burst.

  “I… did it,” I whispered.

  “You began,” he corrected. “Do not mistake beginning for mastery.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  He stepped closer, robes drifting like smoke.

  “In the tournament, use the stance to survive. Use the palm to create opportunity. Use neither without the other. Without roots, your strike is empty. Without a strike, your roots will simply prolong your suffering.”

  “That’s… uplifting.”

  “It is realistic.” Then, softer: “And remember your ally. She grounds you in a way Qitan does not.”

  Mei.

  I swallowed.

  “But above all,” he continued, “remember this: even a shallow root can crack stone if it grows in the right place.”

  I let those words sink into me.

  Roots.

  Resolve.

  A strike that was barely more than a push.

  A meridian that pulsed with exhaustion.

  But also a second meridian’s faint outline forming at the edges of my awareness—waiting.

  Not tonight.

  But soon.

  “Tomorrow,” Jian said. “You will walk into the arena. You will face a boy with five meridians. You will feel fear.”

  “No encouragement to avoid fear?” I asked.

  “No. Fear tells you the truth.” He paused. “But resolve tells you what to do with it.”

  The mist began dissolving.

  “Go,” he said. “Sleep. Prepare.”

  His voice echoed as the jade world dissolved—

  “Grow.”

  I gasped awake under the pine.

  The night air felt sharper, almost charged. My palm buzzed with the memory of that final strike. My legs trembled, but beneath the exhaustion, a strange steadiness sat like a stone at the base of my spine.

  Roots.

  Rising.

  Resolve.

  Tomorrow, I would step into the arena.

  Tomorrow, I would face the prodigy everyone expected to crush me.

  Tomorrow, the clan would look at me.

  Even if only to watch me fall.

  But for the first time since waking up in this world, I felt ready for them to look.

  Even if I couldn’t win…

  I could strike.

  I could stand.

  I could be seen.

  And sometimes, that was enough to begin breaking a destiny.