The next morning arrived with the chill bite of early spring. Mist clung to the mountain paths, veiling the Azure Cloud Sect in a ghostly haze.
Li Fan stood alone at the edge of the outer sect's training ground, gripping his wooden practice sword in one hand. His robe was patched. His hair was tied back simply. Nothing about him had changed.
Except everything had.
He could feel it.
The pain from last night still pulsed in his bones like a second heartbeat, slow and steady. But instead of weakness, it brought clarity. Strength. There was Qi in him now—just a whisper, but it flowed. Faint and cold, like a winter breeze sliding through shattered stone.
And deeper still...
A seed.
A black point in his dantian. Not spinning, not shining—silent. But real.
The Void Root Manual had begun its work.
Li Fan tightened his grip on the sword. Today was the Outer Sect Trial, where disciples competed for resources and rankings. Normally, he'd be ignored. At best, laughed off the stage in the first round.
But today…
"Li Fan?"
A voice broke through the fog.
A girl approached—Xue Ling, one of the few outer sect disciples who didn't mock him. She wore a plain blue robe and carried a real sword, iron-forged and etched with the Azure Sect's cloud insignia.
"I thought you weren't participating this year," she said, glancing at him warily.
"I changed my mind," he replied.
She looked him over. "...You seem different."
"I feel different."
She hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Just be careful. I heard Hu Cheng is entering the trial again. And he's in a bad mood."
So he hadn't forgotten yesterday's embarrassment.
"I'll keep that in mind," Li Fan said.
---
The training ground was alive with energy. Dozens of outer sect disciples gathered in the main square, arranged in rings around a raised dueling platform. Elders in white and blue robes sat in a pavilion nearby, watching with lazy interest.
Above them, carved into the cliffside, the inner sect disciples observed from a higher balcony. Some leaned forward with genuine curiosity. Most didn't bother hiding their disdain.
"Look at the trash show," one inner disciple yawned.
Below, a bell rang once.
Elder Mo, a stern man with graying hair and sharp eyes, raised his voice. "Outer Sect Disciples! Today you compete for ranking and reward. Three dueling rings. Three rounds. Victory by surrender, incapacitation, or ring-out. Begin!"
A sea of names flickered across a jade tablet held by an attendant. Matchups began. The crowd shifted, cheers rising and falling as wooden swords clashed and low-level Qi techniques lit up the stage.
Li Fan waited in silence.
His name appeared in the third round of the first ring.
His opponent: Wu Jian. Outer sect, early Qi Gathering stage.
Li Fan stepped up when called.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Fan's fighting? He's got guts, I'll give him that."
"More like brain damage."
"Let's see how long he lasts this time."
Wu Jian, a bulky disciple with cropped hair and a chipped tooth, sneered as they faced each other. "Didn't know they let beggars into the trial now."
Li Fan didn't answer.
The bell chimed.
Wu Jian attacked immediately—a wide, overhead slash, strong but clumsy. Li Fan sidestepped it easily. He didn't strike back. Just watched. Measured.
Another swing. Then a third.
This time, Li Fan stepped in close and thrust his wooden sword into Jian's ribs with a sharp jab.
The strike shouldn't have done much.
But Li Fan felt it—the sting in his arm, the recoil in his wrist—and with it, a flicker of Qi igniting in his meridians. A thread of energy curled from the ache, drawn inward by the Void Root.
His opponent stumbled, surprised.
"You little—!"
Jian roared and charged. A basic Qi technique lit his hands, strengthening his grip. He slammed into Li Fan with a body blow, knocking him backward across the ring.
The crowd whooped. Even the elders looked mildly entertained.
But Li Fan stood.
Blood trickled from his mouth.
And the pain—sweet, burning pain—was fuel.
Qi flowed again, a shade stronger.
Step by step. Pain by pain.
Jian rushed in for the finish.
This time, Li Fan ducked under the blow, planted his foot, and struck upward with both hands on the hilt.
His sword hit Jian under the chin—hard.
The bigger boy toppled like a felled ox.
Silence fell.
Even Elder Mo raised an eyebrow.
Li Fan stood over his stunned opponent, bloodied but still upright.
"I yield!" Jian groaned.
The bell chimed.
"Winner: Li Fan."
The silence held for one stunned moment—then shattered.
"Impossible!"
"He's never beaten anyone before!"
"Did he... actually improve?"
---
Up on the inner sect balcony, another figure stirred.
A youth in black silk robes, silver trim glinting along the cuffs, leaned forward.
Shen Mu.
Senior inner sect disciple. Nephew of the Grand Elder. Lightning affinity. Genius at seventeen.
He watched Li Fan's retreating figure with narrowed eyes.
"That's the orphan with broken meridians, isn't it?"
One of his hangers-on nodded quickly. "Yes, Young Master Shen. He's never shown talent before. He was mocked constantly."
"Not anymore, it seems."
Shen Mu's gaze darkened.
"There's something strange about him," he murmured. "Find out who he trains with. I want to know everything."
---
Back on the ground, Li Fan stood at the edge of the platform, chest heaving.
Every part of him hurt.
But inside—beneath the bruises and blood—he felt the faint, growing pulse of Qi.
He closed his eyes.
The Void welcomed pain.
And pain would be his weapon.
---
The moment Li Fan stepped off the dueling platform, he could feel it.
Eyes.
Not just the gawking stares of outer disciples who had mocked him yesterday. No, this was different. Colder. Focused.
From above, the inner sect's balcony loomed like a cliff edge. He didn't look up—but he felt it. One gaze among many, heavy as a blade drawn halfway.
Shen Mu.
He didn't know how he knew the name. He'd only seen the senior disciple from afar, clad in black and silver like a storm dressed in robes. But something about that gaze pricked his spine.
He kept walking. Calm. Measured. But his hand gripped the hilt of his wooden sword tight enough that the grain bit into his palm.
---
Li Fan found the edge of the courtyard and sat in the shade of a spirit pine. The bark bled a faint scent of bitter resin. His ribs ached. His wrists throbbed. A bruise was already blooming across his collarbone.
He took a slow breath and focused inward.
The Qi was there. Barely. But not still.
It moved now—coiling, pulsing, stretching through broken meridians like frost melting across old stone. And at the center, nestled deep in the dark of his dantian, the Void Seed waited.
Silent.
Unseen.
Unshakable.
He placed a hand over his chest and whispered, "I didn't imagine it."
No one answered. But the pain answered for him. A pain he could use.
> The Void accepts all.
---
"Li Fan."
The voice was crisp. Controlled.
He opened his eyes.
Elder Mo stood a few paces away, robes uncreased, hands folded behind his back. His gaze was not mocking. Not even skeptical.
It was… curious.
"You defeated Wu Jian with no recorded cultivation. Explain."
Li Fan didn't lie.
"I've been training," he said. "My body is tough. My instincts sharper than most. He underestimated me."
Mo arched a brow. "A clean deflection. You've learned to speak like a cultivator."
Li Fan bowed his head slightly, not denying it.
The elder studied him for a long moment. "Come to the inner library tomorrow morning. There is a… private technique assessment you've now qualified for."
Li Fan looked up sharply. "But I'm still outer sect."
"For now," Mo said. Then turned and walked away without further explanation.
---
That night, Li Fan sat on the roof of his hut. It was small, crooked, and half-rotten at the corners. But it was his.
He looked up at the stars—cold and endless. Not the heavens the elders worshiped. Not the righteous order the sect preached.
Just emptiness.
And it felt like home.
He drew a small knife from his belt. The blade was dull, more tool than weapon. He pressed it against the meat of his forearm, steady and calm.
Then—cut.
A shallow line. Just enough to draw blood.
Pain bloomed. And with it, Qi.
He gasped, not from the wound—but from the rush that followed. The Void drank deep. The meridians swelled, healing themselves slowly, pulsing with new energy.
He'd tested it earlier with a bruise. A burn. But this was different. Controlled. Deliberate.
Not recklessness. Cultivation.
Pain as fuel.
Suffering as progress.
He wrapped the wound, not because it needed it—he could already feel the healing begin—but because that's what a normal disciple would do.
Normal.
What a joke.
---
Down the mountain, near the outer sect gate, a different scene unfolded.
Hu Cheng knelt before a table where Shen Mu sat sipping wine under moonlight.
"You disgraced yourself," Shen Mu said coolly. "You let the weakest disciple in the sect humiliate you."
Cheng swallowed hard. "I—I was careless. He's tricky, that's all. He—"
"He's nothing." Shen Mu set down the cup. "Or he was. Now he's something… new. And I don't like surprises."
Cheng bowed low, forehead touching stone.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing yet. Watch him. Report everything. If he trains, if he vanishes, if he breathes differently—I want to know."
"Yes, Young Master."
"And Cheng," Shen Mu added, eyes narrowing. "If you see him alone again… remind him what trash truly is."
Cheng's lips twisted into a grin.
"With pleasure."
---
Back in his hut, Li Fan sat in meditation, blood seeping through his bandages.
In his dantian, the Void stirred.
And somewhere beyond the mountain, in places older than memory, something woke.
A tremor in the deep.
A breath in the dark.
The first ripple on a black and endless sea.
---