The storm had dispersed. Only faint clouds drifted lazily above Azure Tide Island, the thunder's echo fading into memory. The training grounds, once noisy with mockery, now felt strangely heavy with silence.
Lin Feng's body still trembled as he left the courtyard. Elder Zhao's command echoed in his ears: "You will be tested. Fail, and you return to trash."
Each step down the stone path was slow. His battered sandals slapped against the ground, but he scarcely felt the pain. What lingered in his mind was not the bruises or cuts, but the faint, electric hum running beneath his skin.
He stopped by the edge of the cliff. Below him, the endless sea stretched beyond sight. Waves rolled against the jagged rocks, foaming white, and the salty wind brushed his face.
For years, he had stood at this very cliff countless times—frustrated, ashamed, staring at the ocean with clenched teeth. But now… it felt different.
He sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.
The world… shifted.
Where before the sea breeze was only air against his skin, now he felt threads of energy hidden within it—fine strands of wind qi drifting like invisible currents. The sound of waves was no longer only noise. He could sense water qi, flowing gently, patient yet inexorable. And deep inside the faint rumble of his veins, sparks flickered—lightning qi, sharp and restless, as if urging him to act.
His heart thumped. This… is cultivation?
For three years, meditation had been torment. Qi would scatter at his touch, slipping away before entering his meridians. He had thought himself cursed.
Now, it came to him on its own.
Lin Feng focused. Slowly, carefully, he guided the threads into his body. Wind qi flowed first, cool and free, washing through his channels. Then water qi followed, soothing and steady, filling his dantian drop by drop. Finally, a spark of lightning qi crackled, wild and violent, but instead of tearing him apart, his veins absorbed it like dry soil drinking rain.
A low hum resonated in his chest. His breathing deepened, steady and unhurried. The faint aches in his body eased, replaced by warmth and strength.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. The sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sea in hues of gold and crimson.
When he finally opened his eyes, the world looked sharper. The waves below seemed clearer, the sound of gulls above brighter. His limbs no longer felt heavy. Instead, they thrummed with quiet power.
He looked down at his calloused hands. Faint arcs of lightning danced between his fingers before fading into silence.
"…So this is what it feels like," he whispered. His voice trembled, not from weakness, but from awe.
For the first time since joining the sect, cultivation was not suffering.
It was harmony.
Lin Feng sat there until nightfall, watching the stars emerge above the vast ocean, his heart calm yet burning with determination.
Unseen by him, several disciples passing by had stopped at a distance, whispering among themselves. Word of the storm had already begun to spread, and with it, rumors of the "trash disciple" who drew lightning from the heavens.
But Lin Feng paid them no mind. His focus was only on the quiet rhythm inside him—
The rhythm of the storm.