The faces waiting for him in the alley weren't accusatory, but expectant. As Karim dropped silently from the crumbling wall, the old woman, her face a roadmap of worries, wrung her hands. Lark, the gaunt man, stepped forward, his limp more pronounced in the dim light. Anya, clutching a piece of the fish Karim had given her, stared up at him with wide, unwavering eyes.
"Karim," Lark began, his voice rough but earnest, "what was that? The way you moved, the sound from the shaft... are you like those stories they tell? The cultivators?"
Karim hesitated, the warmth in his belly still a quiet hum. How could he explain what he barely understood himself? "I... I don't know what I am," he admitted, his gaze flickering from face to face. "But... I felt something. Something that helped me get away."
The old woman coughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Helped us too, lad. Those brutes were getting bolder. They took young Mara's blanket just this morning."
Karim's jaw tightened. Mara was another child, too small, too weak. The Iron Rats again. He hadn't just escaped a personal threat; he'd inadvertently become a shield. The warmth inside him flared, fueled by a surge of righteous anger and a fierce desire to protect. It was stronger now, less fleeting.
Lark looked around, his eyes sweeping the shadowy alley. "We can't stay here, Karim. It's not safe. They'll be back, and they'll be angrier. We've talked, the others and I. We need a place. A safer place." He gestured vaguely towards the edge of the district, where the ruins of an old, mostly abandoned temple district lay. "There are some old crypts, unused. Hidden. We could make a stand there, if... if we had someone to watch over us." His gaze settled on Karim, heavy with hope. "Someone like you."
Karim felt the sudden weight of their gazes, a tangible pressure that was both terrifying and strangely exhilarating. He was just an orphan. He'd only ever fought for himself. But now, these faces, etched with hunger and fear, looked to him. And with every ounce of their desperate hope, the strange warmth within him intensified. It wasn't just a flicker now; it was a steady, internal flame. This was their faith, pure and simple, even if they didn't call it that. It nourished the spark he'd accidentally awakened.
He took a deep breath, the foul air of the slums suddenly feeling lighter. "It'll be dangerous," he warned, his voice low. "If you come with me, you follow my rules. No complaining. No giving up. We build our own strength. We don't just hide."
Anya, who had been listening silently, simply nodded, her eyes wide. The old woman clutched his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. Lark offered a tight, determined smile. "We understand, Karim. Better to fight with hope than starve with none."
Under the cloak of darkness, Karim led the small, ragtag group of a dozen or so displaced orphans, elderly, and infirm through the forgotten pathways of the Lower District. The journey to the ruined temple district was fraught with danger. They moved like ghosts, avoiding patrols and rival gangs. Karim, now consciously drawing on his nascent Qi, felt his senses sharpen. He could hear distant conversations, smell stale bread from a mile away, and move with a newfound stealth that surprised even himself. His every step was lighter, surer.
Midway, as they navigated a particularly treacherous, rubble-strewn street, they were ambushed. Not the Iron Rats, but a small, hardened patrol from a minor local gang, drawn by the whispers of movement. Three burly men, armed with rusty blades, emerged from the shadows, their eyes glinting with predatory intent.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" sneered their leader, a man with a scarred face. "A fresh flock of lambs. Hand over your valuables, and maybe we'll let a few of you live."
Fear rippled through Karim's group. Anya whimpered, clinging to Lark's leg. Karim pushed her gently behind him. He knew he was still weak, not a true cultivator. But the anger surged again, fierce and hot, fueling the warmth within him. He wouldn't let them touch these people.
He focused the Qi in his legs, a skill he'd practiced obsessively on the rooftop. When the scarred leader lunged, Karim sidestepped with impossible speed, a blur of motion. The leader overshot, stumbling. Karim didn't hesitate. He threw a clumsy, Qi-infused punch, targeting the man's gut. It wasn't elegant, but it carried a jarring force. The leader grunted, his eyes widening in surprise as he staggered back.
"What the...!" he gasped, clutching his stomach.
Karim moved again, using his speed to create diversions, drawing attention, allowing his group to scramble further into the shadows. He parried a rusty blade with a piece of scavenged rebar, the impact jarring his arm but holding firm. The other gang members, initially confident, grew confused. This isn't how pathetic orphans fought.
He fought dirty, using his small size, the environment, and bursts of Qi-enhanced speed and strength. He managed to disarm one, trip another, and keep the leader off balance. He was battered, his clothes torn, a cut bleeding on his cheek, but he was still standing. The gang, seeing no easy prey and facing an unexpectedly tenacious opponent, exchanged uneasy glances. This wasn't worth the trouble. With a final curse, they retreated, melting back into the shadows.
They reached the temple district, a skeletal landscape of crumbling stone and forgotten altars. Lark led them to a hidden entrance, partially obscured by overgrown vines, into a series of ancient crypts. The air inside was cool, dry, and surprisingly clean, though thick with the scent of old stone. It was dark, but it was safe. For now.
As the last person slipped inside, Karim sealed the entrance with a heavy, moss-covered slab of stone he never would have moved before. He leaned against it, trembling, the adrenaline draining away, leaving behind aching muscles and exhaustion. But the inner warmth, fueled by the sheer relief and gratitude radiating from his small flock, pulsed brighter than ever. It was a tangible presence now, soothing his aches, giving him a sense of profound calm.
He looked at their faces, illuminated by the meager light of a stolen lantern. Anya was asleep, nestled against Lark. The old woman was already tending to a scraped knee on another child. They were safe. Because of him.
Lark walked over, his eyes reflecting a deep respect. "You saved us, Karim. You truly did. We owe you."
"No debt," Karim rasped, waving a hand. He didn't want their gratitude to be a burden.
"No, not a debt," Lark corrected, a strange light in his eyes. "A devotion. We follow you, Karim. You are... our shepherd. Our protector." He knelt, an old habit from a forgotten lifetime of piety, and bowed his head. The others, seeing him, followed suit, a wave of humble respect rippling through the small group.
As they knelt, a new phenomenon occurred. The warmth within Karim exploded, not painfully, but with a vibrant, invigorating surge. He felt the raw, pure faith condense within him, no longer just a faint hum, but a swirling vortex of golden light in his lower belly, solidifying into a nascent, shimmering Qi Sea. It wasn't just energy; it was power, woven from the threads of their belief. And within that nascent Qi Sea, a single, faint, ethereal symbol began to form—a simple, protective hand, reaching outwards.
He felt an instinctive understanding of it. This was the Qi Foundation Realm, the first true step in cultivation. And it had been forged not just by his will, but by their belief.
Karim stood over his kneeling followers, the nascent Qi Sea glowing faintly within him, the protective hand symbol etched into its core. The cryptic, forgotten crypt felt strangely alive with this new, potent energy. Outside, the city remained oblivious, unaware that in its deepest shadows, an orphan had just become the unexpected anchor for a new kind of power, fueled by the desperate faith of the dispossessed. And the gods, both active and distant, still slumbered, unaware of the tiny spark of a new, dual-path divinity that had just taken root.
The nascent Qi Sea pulsed within Karim, a miniature sun forged from desperation and devotion. The protective hand symbol, etched faintly at its core, resonated with the lingering warmth from his followers' collective faith. He could feel it now, distinct from the raw, wild Qi he'd first stumbled upon. This was purified, potent, infused with something…sacred. It was a power he hadn't sought, a responsibility he hadn't asked for, yet it now anchored him.
He dismissed the kneeling group with a wave of his hand. "Enough. Rest. We'll be safe here for a while."
They dispersed, murmuring thanks, finding corners within the vast crypts to huddle. Lark, however, remained. He was a tall, gaunt man, perhaps in his late thirties, with a severe limp and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of countless unseen burdens. Before his leg had been crushed by a collapsing wall during a district raid, he'd been a low-level scribe, someone who knew letters and history, unlike most in the slums.
"Karim," Lark began, his voice hushed, "what you did out there... that was more than just luck. I've heard the old tales. The cultivators. The spirit masters." He lowered his voice further, glancing around. "But the way they looked at you, the way you moved... it was as if their belief became... a part of you. As if their hope gave you strength."
Karim looked at him, surprised. "You felt it too?"
Lark nodded slowly. "Not as you did, no. But the air around us, it felt different. Charged. And they... they felt it too. The fear left them when you stood against those thugs. It was replaced by something else. Faith." He paused, a strange, almost fearful reverence in his eyes. "You're not just a cultivator, are you? You're something more."
The directness of the question startled Karim. "I don't know what I am," he repeated, his voice quiet. "But the more they… believed, the stronger this feels." He gestured vaguely to his lower belly. "It's like it's growing inside me."
Lark's eyes widened. "A Qi Sea? So quickly? Incredible. Most spend years just establishing a stable core." He looked at Karim with renewed intensity. "This 'faith' you speak of, it's not just a feeling. It's a resource. A bond. If you can harness it, you could rise faster than any cultivator of old. But it also means… their burdens are yours."
Karim felt the truth of Lark's words resonate deep within him. He was no longer just an orphan surviving. He was a protector, and with that came a crushing weight of responsibility. His power, intertwined with their belief, now linked his destiny to theirs.
The next morning, Karim began to organize. He found dry spaces, assigned duties, and, under Lark's surprised tutelage, began to teach his new flock the basics of self-defense he'd mastered: how to throw a punch, how to make use of cover, how to move silently.
"Alright," Karim announced to a small group of wide-eyed youths, demonstrating a clumsy block. "You brace your arm here, deflect the blow, then strike."
Anya, watching intently, puffed out her cheeks and tried to mimic him, nearly toppling over. Another boy, thin and prone to sniffing, attempted a stance and ended up tangling his legs, falling with a comical yelp. Karim found himself stifling a chuckle. Even amidst the grim reality, there was a strange, almost endearing clumsiness to them. He sighed, a faint smile touching his lips.
"No, no, like this," he corrected, patiently adjusting the boy's stance. "Imagine you're trying to hide a stolen bun from a hungry guard. You wouldn't stand there like a statue, would you?"
The boy's eyes lit up with understanding. "Oh! Like when you got that fish head!"
Karim froze, then gave a dry, wry grin. "Exactly. Now, try it again." His words, unintended humor, elicited giggles from the children, a rare sound in the desolate crypt. It was a fleeting moment of levity, a stark contrast to the ever-present danger outside, and it warmed him in a different way than the Qi.
Later, he practiced his own cultivation in a quiet, secluded chamber. He focused on his Qi Sea, willing the energy to circulate. He felt his Qi Foundation Realm solidifying, the protective hand symbol becoming clearer. He could now consistently lift pebbles, and even cause small cracks in the ancient stone with a focused punch. He was still leagues below true cultivators, but the progress was astonishingly fast.
Over the next two days, Karim continued his training, pushing himself mercilessly. He discovered that after exhausting his internal Qi, he could draw on the nascent faith from his followers to quickly replenish it. It was like a wellspring, always subtly refilling, growing stronger each time one of them looked at him with renewed hope, shared a story of his bravery, or simply believed in his ability to protect them. The connection was undeniable.
He also found that certain acts amplified the faith. When he provided them with better-scavenged food, or when he personally tended to someone's fever, or even just spoke words of reassurance, the golden current flowing into him became a vibrant torrent. The Qi Sea in his belly would surge, the protective hand symbol glowing brighter for a moment. He realized he wasn't just a protector; he was becoming a source of hope, and that hope was becoming his power.
Word began to spread, not just within the crypts, but subtly among other scattered groups of outcasts. Tales of "the Orphan Protector" who could move like a phantom and shatter stones. Lark, ever the pragmatist, saw the opportunity.
"Karim," Lark said one evening, his voice serious. "More people are gathering outside the temple district. They've heard stories. They're seeking refuge."
Karim looked at the small group now sleeping peacefully around him. They were still dirty, still hungry, but their fear was less profound. He felt the constant hum of their faith. More people meant more faith. More power. But also more mouths, more risk, more burdens.
"How many?" Karim asked, his gaze fixed on the crypt's entrance, already sensing the unseen presence beyond.
"Perhaps a dozen more," Lark replied. "Maybe more by morning. They're desperate."
Karim closed his eyes, weighing the options. Turn them away? Let them starve or be preyed upon? Or open the doors, take on more responsibility, and risk everything? The Qi Sea within him thrummed. The protective hand symbol pulsed with a silent demand.
Karim opened his eyes, a new resolve hardening his young face. "Open the doors, Lark," he commanded, his voice steady despite the immense weight settling on his shoulders. "Let them in. But tell them: this isn't just a shelter. This is a beginning. And for that, they must believe."
Outside, the first faint whispers of the "Orphan's Creed" began to drift through the Lower District, seeds of faith carried on the night wind, unknowingly drawing the gaze of both desperate mortals and distant, ancient gods. The sanctuary in the crypts was about to grow, and with it, the power of its reluctant shepherd.