No one cheered when Kaelith won.
He didn't expect them to.
His opponent—a stronger, flashier outer court disciple that was a whole realm higher than him—was still breathing but unconscious, slumped in a heap on the edge of the stage,his bones broken all over.
Kaelith stood over him, blood dripping down his side, his left arm nearly useless. His robes were torn, his chest heaving, legs barely holding him up.
He didn't feel proud. He felt… tired.
Someone in the crowd murmured, "Did he actually win?"
Another chuckled, "Must've been luck."
He didn't respond. Just turned away and limped off the stage, holding his side where pain pulsed deep and steady. His vision blurred at the edges. No one clapped. No one approached. And why would they? He wasn't anyone worth noticing. Just another outer court disciple. A mediocre one at that.
The path back to the dorms felt longer than usual.
Stone steps, quiet gardens, the same statues of ancient cultivators lining the way. Kaelith had passed them a hundred times before. Today, they felt like silent judges. Unimpressed.
Each step sent pain lancing through his ribs. He ignored it.
When he finally reached the small, bare room that served as his quarters, he shut the door and leaned against it for a long moment. His hand trembled as he reached for the small water basin beside his bed. He poured it over his face. The cold helped a bit.
He then sat down,immediate his eyes stared to water.
The tears came without warning. First a few. Then more. Soon he was hunched over, breathing unevenly, trying not to sob too loudly in case someone walked by.
He hadn't cried in years,but today… it felt like everything had caught up to him.
He wasn't trash. He'd made it this far on his own. But no matter how hard he trained, he just… wasn't fast enough. Not strong enough. His cultivation progress was slow. His spiritual energy shallow. He practiced until his hands bled, meditated until he passed out, ate not more than his daily ration from the outer court food court in order to buy better pills—but it barely moved the needle.
And time was running out.
He wasn't here just to survive.
He had come to this sect with one reason.
Revenge!!!
For his parents. For his village. For everyone he lost.
He could still see it clearly.
The night sky turning red with fire. Screams ringing out as blades cut through the air. The Red Rage Sect had come without warning. They called it a "cleansing." He called it slaughter.
His mother had been looking frantically around for him and his sister,but then she was swiftly cut in half by one of the men,her body making a sickening thud as the two half's landed on the ground.
His father had stood in the road with a hoe, trying to block five men.
But he didn't make it past ten seconds,—he was slained.
Kaelith had hidden himself away in a well,shielding himself from the carnage outside,
And he hated himself for it.
From that safe spot,he witnessed all his family members get killed,placing within him unerasable regret…
He'd promised them that night—while hiding , holding back his sobs, watching flames consume his home—that he would come back one day and burn their sect to the ground.
But how?
At the rate he was going, it would take decades. And the Red Rage Sect wasn't some street gang. Their weakest members could crush him. And that gap… it wasn't shrinking at all.
He wiped his face and leaned back against the wall, swallowing hard.
It wasn't that he wasn't trying,he trained more than anyone he knew. Woke up before dawn. Stayed in the practice halls past curfew. He hadn't made a single friend because he didn't have the time or energy to spare. And still, he was just… average.
Other disciples with rich families and powerful teachers were already learning advanced techniques. Some were being groomed for elder positions.
Kaelith had a shared training blade and a cracked scroll from his village.
He stood up slowly, wincing as his side ached painfully. The room spun a little, but he made it to the candle and lit it with shaking fingers. The flickering light was soft and comforting.
He reached under his bed and pulled out an old, rolled-up parchment. One of the only things he managed to save before everything went up in flames. It was a basic fire cultivation method. Simple. Outdated. But his mother had copied it by hand, and his father had taught him the breathing patterns since he was six.
Sitting cross-legged, Kaelith closed his eyes and tried to guide his spiritual energy. It was harder now with the pain, and he felt scattered. The energy undulated, refusing to settle.
He gave up after a few minutes,his body was just too beaten.
He lay down slowly on the bedding, still in his torn robes. The ceiling above him was cracked. He stared at it, eyes dry now, but his chest still heavy.
He thought about his parents,
His mother humming while grinding herbs.His father laughing as they hauled buckets of water from the well.
Warm food,Quiet nights,Little things,but now… there was nothing.
No family. No friends. Just this room, this fight, this impossible dream he was clinging to out of desperation.
"Am I really going to be able to achieve this?" he whispered to the air, but no one answered.
He rolled onto his side and stared at the candle as it flickered. He was so tired. Everything hurt,even breathing hurt.
He thought, for a moment, about giving up,
About just… stopping.
But then he saw his sister's face—smiling at him, tugging his hand as she ran through the garden. She was only seven—and she was gone.Just like everyone else!!!.
No,He couldn't give up.
Even if he didn't know how,even if the path ahead was dark and uncertain and filled with monsters stronger than he could imagine—he'd keep walking,even if it killed him.
Sleep came slowly.
The pain in his ribs throbbed with every breath. His mind refused to calm down.
But eventually, the exhaustion won.
His breathing slowed. The candle burned low.
And as he drifted into sleep, something deep inside him flickered—small, warm, and unseen and waiting…