Li Wuji stood before his modest tent, the morning breeze lifting the flaps like a silent herald. The scent of this morning's bone broth still lingered in the air, faint but grounding. His wounds, though sealed by medicinal salves and sheer will, were not fully mended. But need drove him forward. Not for food, not for warmth, but for power.
He glanced at the palm of his hand, fingers curling slightly. There was strength, but not enough. Not nearly.
"Qi alone is not victory." He recalled the ancient axiom, one whispered by wandering cultivators and bone-pickers alike. "A refined spirit in a weak body is a sword forged of salt." His Qi cultivation had made great strides—swirling rivers of spiritual energy now moved with purpose in his meridians. But the body? Still flesh, still fallible.
