In the dimly lit courtyard before a wealthy house, in a moonlit night, a frail-looking young boy sat in quiet meditation. His breathing was shallow yet steady, his every motion trembling with effort. Though his body was weak, an indomitable will flickered within his eyes—a will rarely seen even among seasoned cultivators, much less a child of seven.
He steadied his breathing and tried once more.
The faint threads of qi gathered around him, drawn by his sheer willpower. They swirled gently, flowing through his meridians like streams of light.
For a moment, it seemed to work—his navel pulsed faintly, the beginnings of a core flickering into form.
But then—crack!
A sharp pain shot through his abdomen, and the fragile formation shattered like glass. Yi Zhen gasped, coughing up a mouthful of blood as his body swayed unsteadily.
Sixth time – and still the same result.
"Damn it, why? Why won't it form?" he muttered weakly, clutching his stomach.
Even though his technique was flawless and his control over qi unusually refined for his age, the core would always collapse at the final moment—as if something deep within him rejected the very process of cultivation itself. Unaware that, far above, in the endless night sky, an unseen force was watching him—a force that had been waiting for this very failure.
"Yi Zhen!"
A sudden, booming voice from behind shattered Yi Zhen's chain of thoughts. Turning toward the sound, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered man approaching from the distant entrance of the house. The man's every step carried a faint pressure, the mark of a profound cultivation base. Despite his imposing aura, a warm smile lit up his face.
It was none other than his father—Yao Zhen, the head of the Zhen Group, one of the most prosperous merchant families in the region.
"Still practicing so late?" Yao Zhen's deep voice carried a hint of pride and concern.
Yi Zhen quickly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and stood up straight. "Yes, Father. I was... close this time."
Yao Zhen's sharp eyes softened. He could sense the faint disorder in Yi Zhen's qi flow—signs of internal backlash. "You've been trying to form your core again, haven't you?"
Yi Zhen lowered his gaze, silent.
"You're only seven," Yao Zhen said gently. "Even the most gifted children wait until their meridians mature. There's no need to rush."
"But Father," Yi Zhen said, his small fists tightening, "no matter how much I try, my dantian always collapses. I can feel the qi forming, but it breaks apart on its own... as if something inside me rejects it."
Yao Zhen's smile faded slightly. For a brief moment, a flicker of worry crossed his face—but he quickly masked it with a reassuring grin.
"Perhaps you're just not ready yet," he said softly. "Rest for today. Tomorrow, we'll visit the clan's Spirit Hall. The elders might know what's troubling your cultivation."
Yi Zhen nodded, though uncertainty still clouded his heart. As his father turned away, the boy caught a glimpse of the man's shadow stretching long across the courtyard—heavy, silent, and filled with unspoken thoughts.
As Yao Zhen entered his room, a soft voice came from the far side.
"You look tense."
Turning his gaze, he saw a noble woman walking gracefully toward him. Her skin was fair as the full moon, and her beauty was beyond compare. With a gentle smile, she reached out and caressed his cheek.
She was his cultivation partner—and his beloved wife, Lan Ruo Zhen.
"You saw him again, didn't you?" Lan Ruo's voice was tender, yet carried a faint trace of sorrow.
Yao Zhen sighed, his eyes lowering. "He's trying too hard. Every attempt shatters his dantian. I've never seen anything like it... It's as if the heavens themselves are denying him."
Lan Ruo's hand lingered on his face. "Or perhaps," she whispered, "the heavens are waiting for something greater."
Yao Zhen looked up, meeting her calm, moonlit gaze. For a moment, the tension in his chest eased—but only slightly.
With a complicated expressions, he asked, "Should we tell him the truth?"
Lan Ruo turned toward the window, where the night sky shimmered faintly with distant stars. "Some truths are not meant to be spoken," she murmured. "At least... not yet."
"You always speak in riddles," he said softly, forcing a faint smile.
Outside, the wind carried the faint echo of a child's quiet breathing—the sound of Yi Zhen, still awake, cultivating under the moonlight.