The morning sun crept slowly over the horizon, painting the ocean gold. Waves glittered as they rolled against the cliffs, their rhythm steady and eternal.
Lin Feng sat outside his hut, staring at his hands. Faint traces of last night's dream still lingered in his mind—the endless storm, the colossal beast, and that question: Are you worthy?
He flexed his fingers. Crackling sparks danced briefly across his palm before vanishing.
For years, he had felt nothing but emptiness when he cultivated. Yet now, his body thrummed with quiet energy, as though every breath carried stormlight into his veins. Still, power without control was nothing.
Lin Feng rose and walked to the small clearing near his hut where outer disciples often practiced. The ground was uneven and scarred with shallow cuts from training swords.
He closed his eyes, recalling the elder's words: A bloodline is but a seed. Without tempering, it will rot before it ever sprouts.
He inhaled. The salty sea breeze filled his lungs. He guided the qi within, weaving threads of wind, water, and lightning through his meridians. His veins stirred in response, faint arcs flickering across his skin.
"Steady…" he whispered to himself.
He thrust out his palm.
A weak burst of wind and water shot forward, like a sudden spray from a crashing wave. It struck a loose rock a few paces away, shattering it into fragments.
Lin Feng's eyes widened. His body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from exhilaration. For years, he had swung his fists and swords with nothing to show but bruises. Now, a single strike of qi had shattered stone.
But before joy could fully take root, a searing pain lanced through his meridians. His breath caught, and he staggered, nearly falling to his knees. The veins within him flickered violently, arcs of lightning whipping uncontrolled.
"Ah—!"
His body convulsed. For a moment, he thought his veins might tear apart. Only by biting down hard did he force the wild qi to disperse. Sweat poured down his face. His hands shook as he steadied himself against a tree.
"Too… reckless," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I can't force it. The storm… won't be tamed so easily."
The clearing fell silent again, broken only by the sound of waves below.
Lin Feng sat cross-legged once more, slowing his breath, trying to feel the rhythm of his bloodline. The qi inside was not an enemy—it was a tide. If he resisted, it tore him apart. If he flowed with it, it carried him forward.
Hours passed in patient silence. By the time the sun dipped westward, he managed to summon only faint flickers of qi into his hands—tiny arcs of lightning and wisps of mist that faded quickly. They were small, weak even, yet his lips curved into the faintest smile.
Step by step. Like rowing against the current, one stroke at a time.
...
That evening, as he returned to his hut, distant voices carried through the sect corridors.
"…The outer disciple Lin Feng—Elder Zhao took him under his wing."
"Some say the inner sect doesn't want him. They'll test him until he breaks."
"Hmph. A fisherman's brat with a heavenly body? The heavens must be laughing."
Lin Feng paused briefly, listening. His chest tightened, but instead of anger, determination filled his heart.
He turned away from the whispers, returning to the solitude of his hut. For now, the storm within demanded all his focus.