Dawn came too early, too bright, and entirely too judgmental for someone who’d spent the last several nights getting spiritually assaulted by mist hurricanes.

  The sky over the servants’ courtyard was still a pale, watery blue when I forced myself upright. My legs trembled. My ribs ached. My palms tingled from last night’s Rooted Palm drills. And somewhere deeper inside, faint and ghostlike, the second meridian flickered like a lantern seen through fog.

  Not open.

  Not ready.

  But watching.

  Same, buddy. Same.

  Flow Cycle slid into place with practiced ease, smoothing the rough edges of exhaustion. My first meridian responded immediately—stiff, but less reluctant than yesterday. Spirit Anchor followed, pinning my drifting thoughts to a single steady point.

  Breathe.

  Balance.

  Today is the day.

  Tournament day.

  The thought sent a cold ripple down my spine, and not the refreshing kind.

  I stood, slowly and carefully, because my legs were absolutely in their “complain to HR” mood. Outside, servants hurried about preparing food and hauling supplies for the gathering crowds. Whispered chatter drifted like smoke:

  “—heard Elder Xun changed the bracket—”

  “—senior disciples fighting early this year—brutal—”

  “—that prodigy boy could win blindfolded—”

  “—and some nobody is still registered? Why bother—”

  I pulled my robe tighter and stepped into the morning chill.

  Time to find out whether I was “why bother.”

  The clan’s main courtyard was unrecognizable.

  Colorful banners hung from every railing. Rows of lanterns stretched across walkways. Low-tier disciples, servants, and outer-branch clansmen crowded the edges, creating a low roar of anticipation. Senior disciples strutted like peacocks in spotless robes. Elders took their places on raised platforms, each one radiating the quiet pressure of people used to being obeyed.

  And at the far center of it all—the arena.

  A polished stone circle, twenty paces wide, glowing faintly with protective formations. I had never been allowed to step on it. Even now, my stomach twisted as I approached, like the ground itself was judging me.

  Then someone grabbed my sleeve.

  Mei.

  She carried a tiny cloth pouch in her hands—still warm.

  “You made it,” she whispered.

  “I’m not sure my legs did,” I whispered back.

  She smiled, just barely. “Here.”

  She pushed the pouch into my palm. The heat seeped into my skin immediately—fresh poultice, probably crushed herbs and something her grandmother had sworn by. I gripped it like a lifeline.

  “You’ll do well,” she said. “Just… don’t let them shake you. Not him. Not anyone.”

  “Me?” I asked, lightheaded. “I don’t shake. I vibrate with purpose.”

  She actually laughed. Quiet, but real.

  Then her face softened. “Whatever happens… I’ll be cheering.”

  My chest tightened in a way that was definitely not related to Qitan circulation.

  “Thank you,” I said. And meant it.

  Before she could say more, a loud gong reverberated across the courtyard.

  “Participants of the first bracket, step forward!”

  My throat dried.

  This was it.

  I joined the line of trembling servants, stoic outer disciples, and at least two people already regretting every life choice they’d made up to this point.

  A senior disciple with a scroll began reading names.

  “First match—Liang Bo versus—”

  I braced for my own name.

  “—Shu Ren!”

  A ripple went through the watching crowd. People muttered. Some laughed.

  Oh good. Not the prodigy. Instead, the senior bully who once dumped a bucket over my head and called me pit-rat.

  Progress?

  No, this was definitely still terrible.

  Liang Bo stood across the arena, already smirking, arms folded. Three meridians. Broad shoulders. The confidence of someone who had never struggled with anything except deciding which expensive hairstyle to choose.

  He looked at me, eyes narrowing like he was trying to remember where he’d seen me.

  Then his face lit with recognition.

  “Oh,” he said loudly. “The worm from the laundry yard.”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd.

  Spirit Anchor dropped automatically, steadying the tremor in my chest. Flow Cycle followed, drawing Qitan warmth up from my core. Iron Root Stance tried to form in my legs, but I held it back. Not yet. Not in front of everyone.

  The overseer lifted a hand.

  “Begin!”

  Liang Bo moved first.

  Not fast—he didn’t need fast. He had the confidence of someone who believed he could simply walk over his opponent.

  He strode across the arena, swinging his arm in a wide arc like he meant to slap me into next week.

  I braced.

  The impact wasn’t elegant, but it was powerful. Pain cracked through my jaw, and I stumbled sideways.

  Gasps and laughter erupted from the spectators.

  “Is that all?” he said.

  I wiped my mouth. “You have very emotional hands.”

  His face reddened. “I’ll break your stance before you even make one!”

  Another blow. Harder. My ribs rattled. The world tilted.

  Roots, I thought desperately. Jian’s voice whispered in memory: Use the stance to survive.

  I dropped my center of gravity.

  Iron Root Stance flared.

  Weight sank into my legs. Qitan Flesh pooled downward, thick and grounding. The stone beneath my soles suddenly felt firmer—as if my body had finally decided to stop running from the world and start standing against it.

  Liang Bo’s next punch landed like a hammer.

  But this time, I didn’t move.

  The crowd gasped.

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  His fist had hit my shoulder full-force, but the stance absorbed the blow, bleeding the impact through my legs and into the ground. The shock still hurt—oh, it hurt—but I stayed upright.

  Liang Bo blinked.

  “What—”

  Another strike.

  My stance wavered, but Spirit Anchor slammed down, locking my thoughts in place. Flow Cycle surged, reinforcing the meridian.

  I held.

  His blows kept coming—sharp jabs, heavy punches, a knee to my side that lit my nerves on fire. Every impact sent pain screaming through my torso, but my feet—my roots—stayed locked.

  Whispers rippled across the courtyard.

  “He’s still standing?”

  “How? Liang Bo hits like an ox—”

  “Is that pit-boy using a Form technique?”

  Liang Bo stepped back, chest heaving.

  “You little—” He spat to the side. “Fine. I’ll crush your legs instead.”

  He lunged.

  And overextended.

  It was small—just a tiny shift of weight too far forward. But Jian’s training made the flaw flare in my vision like a lantern. A single unstable root.

  Opportunity.

  I inhaled sharply.

  Flow Cycle snapped into place.

  Spirit Anchor tightened.

  Iron Root Stance solidified beneath me.

  And then—

  The line appeared.

  Heels → knees → hips → spine → shoulder → palm.

  I moved.

  Qitan Flesh surged upward, threaded through my torso, and gathered in my hand.

  Rooted Palm ignited.

  “RAH!” Liang Bo roared, throwing his full weight into the attack—

  I released the strike.

  My palm hit the air, not him.

  The shockwave hit him.

  A burst of compressed force erupted from my hand, slamming straight into his chest. His eyes widened in pure disbelief as his own momentum betrayed him.

  He staggered backward—

  One step.

  Two.

  Three—

  “Oh no,” he whispered.

  Then he tripped over the boundary line and fell flat onto his back.

  Silence.

  Absolute, perfect silence.

  Then—

  Chaos.

  Shouts. Gasps. Explosive laughter. Someone dropped a tray. A disciple yelled “WHAT?!” so loudly he nearly lost his voice.

  And amid all of it—

  The prodigy stood near the elder’s platform, arms folded, expression unreadable. His eyes fixed on me like he was finally seeing something worth noticing.

  My chest felt too tight.

  My legs trembled violently—not from fear this time, but from everything catching up at once.

  I had won.

  I had actually, somehow, against every law of probability and anatomy—

  Won.

  “Winner,” the overseer declared, still sounding confused, “Shu Ren.”

  The crowd roared.

  But the sound felt far away, muffled by the thunder in my veins.

  I stepped off the arena, heart pounding, palms still tingling from the strike.

  As I slipped behind the servant quarters, out of sight, the cheers slowly faded behind the stone wall.

  My ribs screamed. My legs shook. My arm felt hot from overstressing the meridian. But I was still upright.

  Barely.

  Roots, I thought, sinking onto a bench.

  Roots can crack stone.

  In front of me, Mei slipped around the corner, breathless, eyes glowing with disbelief.

  “You did it,” she whispered.

  For the first time since arriving in this world, I felt something warm and fierce settle inside my chest.

  Recognition.

  But it was edged with something else—something sharp.

  Attention.

  Not all of it good.

  And somewhere in the courtyard, the prodigy was still watching me.

  Waiting.

  The next round would be worse.

  Much worse.

  But for now—

  I had cracked the stone.

  And it felt incredible.

  Mei knelt beside me so quickly I thought she might faint before I did. Her hands hovered uncertainly over my ribs, then settled on my forearm instead, warm and steady.

  “You won,” she whispered again, as if saying it twice might make the universe revoke the miracle.

  “I noticed,” I said, then immediately regretted speaking because my ribs protested the effort. “Ow. Everything hurts. Even my hair hurts. Is that normal?”

  Her eyes widened with concern. “You took several direct hits from someone in the third meridian. You shouldn’t even be standing.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “Technically I’m leaning on the concept of standing.”

  She exhaled shakily—a sound halfway between relief and exasperation—and pressed the warm poultice she’d given me earlier against my ribs. The herbs released a faint, soothing aroma, numbing and cool. Bliss spread slowly under my skin.

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  “You shouldn’t have had to thank me,” she said softly. “They shouldn’t have… done that to you. Any of it.”

  I shook my head. “If they hadn’t, I wouldn’t have learned how to break someone with air.”

  Her lips twitched. “That was not breaking someone with air. That was… something else. I don’t even know what to call it.”

  “Rooted Palm,” I said quietly.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “You can name it?”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “Please.”

  She nodded instantly. “I won’t. But… that technique… it’s dangerous. People saw the shockwave. Some disciples are already whispering that you hid your cultivation.”

  “Oh good,” I said. “I love lies I can’t disprove.”

  She swallowed, gaze turning anxious. “You drew attention.”

  I knew that. I felt it the moment the bully flew backward out of the ring. The crowd’s reaction wasn’t just surprise—it was a kind of hunger. The kind that follows a spectacle.

  “Let’s just survive the next round,” I said. “One miracle at a time.”

  But deep inside, something hummed.

  The Rooted Palm hadn’t been perfect—not even close—but it had landed. My legs still buzzed with the faint memory of channeling Qitan Flesh through the stance. Even now the remaining energy pulsed softly through the first meridian, as if stretching the channel from within.

  And behind that first meridian…

  The second one flickered again.

  Not stronger—but closer.

  As if the fight had shaken dust from a doorframe.

  Not yet, I reminded myself. Opening it without guidance would be spectacularly stupid.

  Master Jian’s voice echoed somewhere in my memory:

  Roots first. Always.

  Voices drifted from the courtyard—murmurs layered with excitement and disbelief.

  “Did you see that kid? He knocked Liang Bo out with one hit—”

  “Impossible. Must’ve used a talisman.”

  “No talisman. I was close enough—I didn’t see anything.”

  “What branch is he from?”

  “None. He’s a servant.”

  Laughter.

  Fear.

  Curiosity.

  I rubbed my palms together to chase away the lingering tingles. “I should… probably walk around and pretend my bones aren’t powdered.”

  “No,” Mei said firmly. “You’re sitting until you can breathe normally.”

  “I am breathing normally.”

  She gave me a flat look.

  “Fine, I’m breathing like someone stepped on a bellows.”

  “Better.”

  She helped me sit straighter. Even that small movement sent a spark of pain through my ribs. The poultice numbed it, but only barely.

  “We need to re-bind your ribs,” Mei said. “And your shoulder. And probably your legs.”

  “Iron Root is mostly self-inflicted torture,” I said. “My legs are used to betrayal.”

  “Still,” she said. “If you go into the next match like this—”

  “Shu Ren.”

  A voice cut through the quiet.

  I froze.

  Mei stiffened beside me.

  Two low-tier disciples stood in the archway of the servant path, wearing clan-official robes. Not elders—thank all the heavens—but important enough that their presence made my stomach sink.

  “Uh,” I said. “Hi?”

  One of them unrolled a small scroll. “Elder Xun wishes to confirm the nature of your technique.”

  Oh no.

  Absolutely not.

  I didn’t need that kind of attention anywhere near me, my sore ribs, or my still-developing skill set.

  “I’m not sure what technique you mean,” I said carefully.

  “The palm strike,” the disciple said. “The one that produced a visible wave.”

  “I hit hard,” I said unconvincingly.

  The second disciple snorted. “Hard enough to knock a third-meridian cultivator out of the ring? Hard enough to distort the air? Do not play dumb.”

  My heartbeat sped up. Mei subtly shifted, placing herself slightly between me and them.

  “I’m not playing dumb,” I said. “Dumb is playing me.”

  The first disciple’s mouth twitched—annoyed, not amused.

  “Elder Xun will revisit this later,” he said with a stiff bow. “Your next match will be announced soon. Do not disappear.”

  As they left, Mei let out a slow breath.

  “That was… very close,” she whispered. “You should be careful around Elder Xun.”

  “I’m careful around everyone,” I said. “Except maybe you.”

  She flushed faintly. “That’s reckless.”

  “Probably.”

  We sat quietly for a moment, listening to the distant booming gongs marking the next fight.

  “Do you think the prodigy saw?” she asked suddenly.

  “I know he did.”

  I remembered the way he’d watched me—silent, unreadable, like he was taking notes in a language only geniuses and sociopaths understood.

  “How do you feel about that?” she asked.

  “Terrified,” I admitted. “…but also kind of alive?”

  She smiled helplessly. “You’re strange.”

  “Tragic news,” I said, “but I think I was built that way.”

  After a little more rest—and two additional poultices—Mei helped me back into the open courtyard. My ribs hurt, but not kill-me-now hurt. My legs shook, but not collapse-on-sight shook. Progress.

  Crowds swirled around the fighting arena. Servants whispered and stared; disciples eyed me with suspicion, curiosity, or irritation. A few even offered nods of respect—small ones, like crumbs tossed at a duck they weren’t sure deserved feeding.

  I tried not to soak any of it in too deeply. Approval was addictive. Dangerous.

  Only Master Jian’s words stayed clear in my mind:

  Use the stance to survive. Use the palm to create opportunity.

  Roots first.

  Rise second.

  Always.

  I lingered at the edge of the courtyard, watching the next match. Two mid-tier disciples clashed, their strikes sending sparks and waves of pressure into the air. Their Qitan Flows were strong—smooth lines of energy visible even from afar. Their mobility, their balance, their precision… They were everything I wasn’t.

  Yet.

  Something prickled at my awareness.

  I turned.

  The prodigy stood several paces away, arms crossed, gaze fixed directly on me.

  He looked younger up close than I expected. Younger, and sharper—like a blade honed too early. Five meridians pulsed under his skin, faint but unmistakable, each one humming with quiet power.

  His eyes were dark. Focused. Unblinking.

  Sizing me up.

  I tried very hard to pretend I hadn’t just fought and nearly died from a single slap.

  He approached with silent steps.

  My palms tingled.

  “Your strike,” he said without introduction. “It wasn’t luck.”

  I didn’t trust my voice, so I didn’t speak.

  He studied me like I was a puzzle. “You’ll lose to me.”

  “…Probably,” I said.

  He blinked, thrown off for a fraction of a second.

  “But,” I added, “I’ll make you work for it.”

  That earned me a slow, thin smile. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… interested.

  “Good,” he said. “It’s annoying when things break too easily.”

  And then he walked away.

  I swallowed hard.

  “He liked you,” Mei whispered beside me, horrified.

  “That,” I said, “is the worst thing you’ve ever told me.”

  By the time the sun dipped low, my body had reached its limit. Mei insisted I take shelter behind the storage shed, away from watching eyes.

  “You need to breathe,” she said.

  “I am breathing.”

  “Breathe less like you’re dying.”

  “Those are my only two options.”

  She rolled her eyes and pressed another poultice to my shoulder.

  Pain eased. Not vanished—but softened, like a blade dulled by cloth.

  The stone wall at my back felt cool. Soothing. My heart slowed.

  Tomorrow I would learn my next opponent.

  Tomorrow I might face someone even stronger.

  Tomorrow, roots would be tested again.

  But today…

  Today I had stood.

  Struck.

  Been seen.

  I looked at my trembling hands—still tingling faintly from the Rooted Palm’s echo.

  Not much.

  Barely enough.

  But enough for one victory.

  Enough for one miracle.

  Mei sat beside me quietly, close but not touching, eyes watching the lantern-lit courtyard with something like hope.

  “You proved something today,” she said softly.

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “That I’m very good at accidentally surviving.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You proved that the people who looked past you were wrong.”

  Her voice was gentle, but each word struck deeper than a fist.

  I closed my eyes, letting the pain, fear, pride, and exhaustion swirl together.

  One step. One stance. One strike.

  That was enough for today.

  Tomorrow?

  Tomorrow I would rise again.