The green streak across the sky had vanished, but its impression burned brightly in my mind.
My father, still wiping sweat from his brow, was muttering about powerful artifacts and grand cultivators, his eyes wide with a mix of wonder and dread. He saw a warning; I saw an invitation.
"Papa," I said, my voice barely a whisper, but firm enough to cut through his daze. "I think… I need to find out what that was."
He blinked, turning to me, his brow furrowed. "Find out? Wu Zhen, are you mad? That was a Spirit Orb, boy! Those things are handled by the strongest cultivators, the ones who can level a mountain with a flick of their wrist! Going near something like that is suicide!"
His voice rose, a rare note of panic creeping in. "You'll get yourself killed! And your mother… what would she do?"
I knew he was right, logically. My six-year-old body, even with the mind of a sixty-two-year-old accountant, wasn't exactly equipped for adventuring in a world where dragons were real and people flew through the sky.
But the image of that orb, the strange symbol, it felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place. It felt important. Like it held a secret, a different path.
And my family… if I could find a way to get strong, truly strong, maybe they wouldn't have to beg anymore. Maybe my father wouldn't have to break his back for meager scraps of spiritual energy.
"But Papa," I insisted, my gaze fixed on the distant mountains where the orb had disappeared. "What if it's… an opportunity? What if it's something that could help us?"
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. He saw the stubbornness, the unusual glint of determination that probably didn't belong in a six-year-old's eyes.
He sighed, a deep, weary sound. "Wu Zhen, my son, this world… it doesn't give opportunities easily. It takes. And it takes from those who are too curious, too reckless." He put a hand on my shoulder, his grip surprisingly firm. "Promise me. Promise you won't go chasing after such dangerous things."
I looked into his tired, worried eyes. I couldn't promise. Not truly. But I could nod, offer a small, reassuring smile. "I promise to be careful, Papa." It wasn't a lie, not entirely. I would be careful. But careful didn't mean staying still.
That night, the green orb haunted my dreams. The stylized boot or kicking foot symbol flashed behind my eyelids. I knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that it was my way forward.
But how? How could a six-year-old, whose biggest accomplishment was not tripping over his own feet, even begin to approach such a powerful mystery?
A year passed. I was now seven. My father, perhaps seeing the unyielding spark in my eyes, or perhaps just wanting to keep me close where he could watch me, began teaching me the basics of cultivation. It wasn't the grand, sweeping movements of the flying cultivators, nor the intricate hand seals I sometimes glimpsed from passing disciples.
It was simple. Breathing. Focusing. Trying to sense the faint, almost imperceptible spiritual energy that permeated the air.
Every morning, for five hours, we would sit in our small yard, facing the rising sun. He would demonstrate the basic breathing techniques, his own breath slow and steady, almost like a whisper. "Feel it, Zhen'er," he'd say, his voice soft. "Feel the world around you. Let it flow in. Let it fill you."
I tried. Oh, how I tried. I sat there, cross-legged, my small body aching, my mind wandering to the taste of Mama's stew or the feel of the cool river water on my toes.
I focused until my eyes blurred and my head throbbed. I imagined the spiritual energy as a warm, golden mist, trying to draw it into my dantian, the energy center below my navel, as Papa described.
But nothing. Absolutely nothing.
After a year of this, five hours a day, seven days a week, I was still just Wu Zhen, a skinny kid with a stubborn streak.
I hadn't sensed a single wisp of spiritual energy. My dantian felt as empty as a dried-up well. I wasn't a cultivator. I wasn't even close to Skin Tempering. I was just… me. Still basic.
One evening, after another fruitless cultivation session, I slumped against Papa, my shoulders drooping. "I don't think I have it, Papa," I mumbled, my voice thick with disappointment.
"I've tried so hard. Maybe I'm just… not meant for this."
He ruffled my hair, his hand surprisingly gentle. "Nonsense, Zhen'er. You're only seven! Most children don't even begin to cultivate until they're ten, twelve, even older! You have plenty of time. Talent isn't everything. Persistence, that's what truly matters."
He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. "Besides, you're learning. You're learning patience. You're learning discipline. Those are just as important as spiritual energy, my boy."
His words were comforting, but they didn't erase the frustration. I wanted to be strong now. I wanted to protect them now.
Two more years flew by. I was now eight. And life in our little hut had gotten a lot livelier.
My mother, her belly round and glowing, had given birth to twins! First, a tiny, squalling girl with her mother's dark, bright eyes, whom they named Mei. Then, a surprisingly robust boy, who looked just like a miniature version of Papa, named Kai.
Our hut, once quiet and sparse, was now filled with the joyous chaos of giggles, cries, and the constant patter of little feet.
Mama, though more tired than ever, radiated a profound happiness.
She'd hum lullabies as she rocked Mei, her eyes soft with love. Papa, despite the added mouths to feed, seemed to walk with a lighter step, a proud grin often plastered on his face.
He'd even managed to break through to the middle of Skin Tempering, a small but significant step that filled him with renewed hope. He attributed it to the "good fortune" the twins brought.
I suspected it was just the sheer motivation of having more tiny humans to protect.
And me? I was still not a cultivator. Not even a hint of spiritual energy. I still practiced with Papa for five hours a day, my movements more fluid, my breathing more controlled, but the breakthrough remained elusive. It was like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.
"Are you sure you're doing it right, big brother?" Mei, now a mischievous two-year-old, would sometimes ask, peering at me with wide, curious eyes as I sat cross-legged. Kai, usually clinging to Mama's leg, would just gurgle in agreement.
"Of course, I am, little munchkins," I'd reply, trying to sound confident. It was hard to feel like a powerful, unaging cultivator when your biggest fans were barely out of diapers and you couldn't even manage a glowing fist.
But while cultivation remained a mystery, I had found another way to contribute. Over the past few years, fueled by my inability to cultivate and a restless energy, I had started exploring the forest around our village. Not the deep, dangerous parts where monstrous beasts roamed, but the fringes, the familiar paths, and even some new, hidden trails.
I learned to read the signs of the forest: the faint tracks of a rabbit, the rustle of leaves that meant a squirrel, the scent of a hidden berry bush.
I became surprisingly good at it. I learned to set simple snares, to track small game, and to move silently through the undergrowth.
My senses, perhaps sharpened by years of trying to "feel" spiritual energy, became incredibly keen. I could spot a rabbit's twitching nose from twenty paces, hear the faint rustle of a pheasant in the bushes.
"Wu Zhen, you've brought another one!" Mama would exclaim, her eyes widening as I proudly presented a plump rabbit, caught fair and square. Rabbit stew became a more frequent meal, a welcome change from the usual thin gruel.
"He's a natural hunter," Papa would say, beaming. "Better than me, that's for sure."
It wasn't cultivation, but it was something. It was practical. It put food on the table. And it gave me a sense of purpose beyond just sitting and breathing.
One crisp autumn afternoon, I was out hunting, deeper than usual into the familiar woods. I had tracked a particularly plump rabbit for what felt like miles, my heart thumping with the thrill of the chase. It led me through a dense thicket, past ancient, gnarled trees, until I emerged into a small clearing I'd never seen before.
The air here felt different. Thicker. Cooler. And there was a faint, almost imperceptible hum, like a distant beehive. In the center of the clearing stood a single, enormous boulder, covered in moss and ancient carvings. It looked like it had been there for a thousand years.
As I approached it, my eyes scanned the carvings. They were faded, almost worn away by time, but one symbol stood out. It was faint, barely visible, but unmistakable.
The stylized boot. The kicking foot. The same symbol I had seen on the green Spirit Orb that had streaked across the sky three years ago.
My breath hitched. This wasn't just a random rock. This was connected. This was it.
My heart pounded, not with fear, but with a surge of pure, unadulterated excitement.
I reached out, my fingers tracing the ancient lines. As my fingertips brushed the stone, a faint, almost imperceptible pulse ran through the boulder.