The morning sun climbed steadily, spilling light across the tiled roofs of the Lin Clan estate. Mist still clung to the courtyards, winding between ancient pines and weathered stone walls, as though reluctant to leave. The atmosphere was heavy with whispers from the day before.
The name Lin Xun had already spread through the clan like fire through dry grass. Five-element roots. A phenomenon so rare it was spoken of only in old records. Children giggled in awe when they heard it. Mothers hushed their little ones with a mix of fear and envy. Elders gathered in tight circles, voices lowered, weighing the burden such a gift could bring.
Lin Xun sat alone in a quiet chamber, cross-legged upon a thin cushion. His eyes were calm, but a flicker of heat burned within them. Before him lay a single bamboo scroll—The Lin Clan's Foundational Breathing Sutra. Every child of the clan received this text at the start of cultivation. Most would struggle for weeks to sense the faintest wisp of qi, yet he knew his path would not be the same.
He placed his palms upon his knees, closed his eyes, and began.
The sutra guided him: breathe deep, sink the mind, open the meridians. The words were simple, yet the moment he obeyed, the world shifted.
It came to him at once.
The flow of heaven and earth pressed against his skin, surged into his nostrils, seeped into his bones. Fire burned hot and restless, metal rang sharp as blades, water spread cool and endless, wood rose supple and alive, earth grounded steady and unshaken.
Five rivers of power poured toward him, each distinct, each demanding dominion. His chest tightened, his body quivered. Sweat trickled down his brow as the flood struck his fragile meridians. Pain jolted through his limbs, as though his body were a furnace too small for the flames forced into it.
Yet amidst the chaos, he felt clarity. The five elements did not collide in disorder. They circled one another, like rivals forced into the same hall. They strained, they pressed, they threatened to burst apart, but if guided correctly, they formed an uneasy balance.
Lin Xun clenched his jaw. "So this is what it means… not one root, but all. If I falter, I will shatter. But if I endure, I will stand where no one has stood before."
The first cycle nearly broke him. His breath caught, his veins burned, his vision blurred. But he endured. Again and again, he drew the five streams through his body, forcing them to flow. His muscles ached, his bones screamed, but his spirit sharpened like steel under the hammer.
Hours passed unnoticed. At last, as the sun reached its peak, a faint shimmer appeared around his body. The five streams had completed a cycle. A single wisp of refined qi settled within his dantian. Fragile, small, yet undeniable.
Lin Xun opened his eyes. Light flashed in their depths. He exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Success."
It was but the first step, yet his first step already towered above the norm.
---
Elsewhere, in the council hall, voices clashed.
"This child's roots are too vast. No one in our records has ever borne five at once. How can he cultivate properly?" one elder asked, brows furrowed.
"To scatter effort across them all will be slow and wasteful," another added, his tone laced with worry. "He must not attempt it."
At the head of the gathering, Elder Lin Wanshi raised his hand. His hawk-like eyes swept across the room. "Our bloodline has always burned with fire. The clan's strongest arts, the very foundation of our strength, are fire-based. Whether the boy bears five roots or ten, he must anchor himself in fire. The other elements… can follow as support."
Murmurs rose again.
"Are we to bind such a prodigy?"
"Better to bind than to lose. Fire is our inheritance. Fire is what will keep him steady."
Some nodded, some grumbled, but none could deny the truth: the Lin Clan had only shallow inheritances in water, earth, metal, or wood. Their profound legacies all blazed with fire. To guide Lin Xun elsewhere would be like handing him a blade without an edge.
From the side, Lin Jianhong and Lin Yueqin sat silently, their gazes unreadable. Yet in their eyes flickered thoughts that went unsaid.
---
In his chamber, Lin Xun rose and stretched his stiff limbs. His gaze drifted to a rack of practice weapons along the wall. Spears, halberds, staves—all well-crafted, though simple.
His hand hovered before them, then closed around the hilt of a plain iron sword. The weight was unremarkable, the blade unadorned. Yet the moment he lifted it, a quiet resonance stirred in his chest.
He swung it lightly. The edge cut the air with a faint whistle, clean and direct. No flourish, no burden, only sharp intent.
Lin Xun's lips curved faintly. "The sword."
It was not chosen by logic. It was chosen by instinct. The sword was simple, yet absolute. A weapon that demanded clarity of will. Much like himself.
He sheathed the blade and set it across his knees, his breathing steady, his eyes sharp.
"The elders may speak of fire, of guiding me into their mold," he thought. "But I am not fire alone. The heavens gave me five roots. I will not bow to one."
Still, he was not reckless. He understood his limits. He had only just drawn his first wisp of qi. For now, he would follow the clan's guidance, cultivate fire, and use what they gave. But deep in his heart, he planted another seed.
The five roots were his. One day, he would wield them all.
---
As the sun dipped low, lanterns flickered across the courtyards. Servants whispered as they passed, their voices carrying threads of awe and envy.
"Five roots… truly heaven's gift."
"He may raise the clan higher than ever before."
"Or he may draw disasters none of us can withstand."
In every corner of the estate, Lin Xun's name lingered like a flame, bright and dangerous.
In the training square, children sparred halfheartedly, distracted by gossip. Mothers pulled them aside, warning them not to draw comparisons. Fathers exchanged glances, some proud, some bitter.
In a shaded corridor, Lin Ming stood with clenched fists, his gaze fixed upon the courtyard where Lin Xun had just passed. His teeth ground silently.
From the distance, Jianhong's calm voice reached him. "Do not waste your time glaring. Cultivate harder. His brilliance is his own burden. Yours is to surpass him when the time comes."
Ming lowered his head, the embers of resentment burning hotter.
---
That night, Lin Xun sat once more upon his cushion, the iron sword across his knees. The room was silent but for the steady rhythm of his breathing.
He guided the streams again—metal, wood, water, fire, earth. Each cycle pressed harder, cut deeper, but each time he endured.
Pain wrapped his body, but his spirit refused to bend.
"The clan binds me to fire," he thought. "Let them. I will use it. But the day will come when they realize… my path is not theirs to decide."
His hand rested on the cold steel of the blade. A spark flashed in his eyes, sharp as lightning.
"The heavens gave me another life. I won't crawl. I will carve my path, strike by strike."
The lantern's flame flickered. Outside, the estate lay quiet. Within, the first step of a sword-bearing prodigy resounded.