The name was a mockery.
Wei. Greatness. Might.
Every time Li Wei heard it sneered from the lips of his cousins, it was a knife to his spirit. They called him "Mighty Li" with a tone that meant "Worthless Li." He was the walking contradiction of the Verdant Sword Li Clan.
The training ground was a symphony of power that he could not join. The hum of spiritual energy, the sharp 'shing' of practice blades, the confident shouts of disciples—it was a world from which he was exiled. At sixteen, an age where his peers solidified their Qi Gathering foundations, Li Wei moved among them like a ghost, a simple broom his only tool.
"Make way for the Great Li Wei!" a voice rang out, dripping with false reverence. It was Li Jun, a cousin basking in the glow of the 4th level of Qi Gathering. He and his friends formed a wall, blocking Li Wei's path. "Surely our clan's mightiest disciple doesn't need to sweep? A flick of your mighty wrist should clear this dust."
The laughter that followed was a familiar, hollow sound. Li Wei's knuckles were white on the broom handle, but he kept his eyes down. He focused on the two pillars that kept him standing: his father, Li Kang, whose love was a fragile shield against the clan's contempt, and his mother, Meiling, whose gentle eyes held a belief in him so fierce it sometimes frightened him. For them, he endured.
Later, as dusk bled into night, he retreated to his spot behind the ancestral hall—a place where the spiritual energy was thin, matching his own perceived potential. He closed his eyes and began the nightly ritual of failure.
And it was here, in the solitude, that his hidden curse and gift revealed itself. He could perceive the flow of spiritual energy with a clarity that would have marked him as a supreme genius. He saw the shimmering, rainbow strands of qi, more vibrant and numerous than anyone knew. It was the silent whisper of his sealed Divine Dao Bone.
But when he drew the energy in, the miracle became a tragedy. For every ten strands of brilliant qi he gathered, nine were violently ripped away, consumed by a bottomless, invisible vortex within his core—the Heavenly Seals on his Ancient God Bloodline. He was a man trying to fill a cup from a torrential river, but his cup had a hole that led to an ocean. He was cultivating for two, and the other one was a god.
He emerged from his meditation hours later, drenched in the cold sweat of futile effort, his spirit bruised. The sound of raised voices from the main courtyard pulled him from his despair. What he saw there froze the blood in his veins.
His father, Li Kang, was on his knees before the stern Clan Elder. His mother, Meiling, was being held back by two guards, her face a mask of tear-streaked fury and despair.
"...pleading for more spirit stones? For Li Wei?" Elder Guo's voice was like cracking ice. "The name you gave him is a joke that has worn thin, Li Kang. 'Might'? He has none. He is a spiritual void, and your sentiment blinds you. The resources you waste on him could forge a real disciple."
"He has it in him! I know it!" Li Kang's voice was raw, stripped of pride. "His will is stronger than any disciple here!"
"The might of will cannot conjure a Spirit Root," the Elder said, his finality as sharp as a blade. "You are both a drain on this clan's future. You are assigned to the Barren Hills outpost, effective immediately. Perhaps there, you will learn to accept reality."
Exile. Because of him. Because of the "might" that was a lie.
The world shattered. The mocking faces, the whispers of "Greatness," the weight of his parents' shattered hopes—it all collapsed onto him, crushing the last of his defiance. He saw the light extinguish in his father's eyes, the finality break his mother's heart.
It is my fault. All of it.
A soundless scream built in his chest. He turned and ran, blind to everything, past the clan gates, into the spirit-beast haunted woods known as the Whispering Fangs. Thorns tore at his robes, the sky cracked open with rain, but he felt nothing. He ran until his legs gave way, tumbling into a cold, muddy ravine.
Lying in the muck, with the rain lashing his face, the dam within him broke.
"WHY?!" he roared at the thunderous, uncaring heavens. "Why name me 'Wei'?! Why give me this lie?!"
The despair was absolute. It was over. There was no point. He was a fraud to his very name.
In that absolute void, a final, stubborn ember glowed. It was not hope, but pure, unadulterated will. The very might of spirit his father had spoken of. A final act of defiance.
He pushed himself up in the mud, closed his eyes, and began to cultivate. He drew in the wild, rain-swept energy not to advance, but as a final, screaming protest to the heavens that had made him a lie.
And then, something shattered.
Not his will. Something inside him.
A searing, golden agony erupted from his bones, as if his skeleton were being reforged in a divine furnace. A vision, vast and terrifying, exploded behind his eyes:
A battlefield where constellations died. A figure, regal and immense, clad in armor of churning chaos, turned. Its eyes, holding the sorrow of extinct eras, met his. The figure raised a hand in a benediction—or a warning—and then shattered into a galaxy of light, one brilliant shard piercing his heart.
A single, molten drop of Primordial God Blood ignited in his veins.
A scripture of supreme authority branded itself onto his soul: "Primordial Sovereign Scripture".
A wave of ancestral knowledge—a legacy from the Ancient God—flooded his mind. He saw the truth. His Chaos Spirit Root. His Primordial Chaos Body. The Ancient God Bloodline and the Divine Dao Bone. The seals. The theft. He understood that his "failure" was the footprint of a power so mighty, the world itself had tried to bury it.
The pain was excruciating, a baptism of fire and lightning.
Li Wei opened his eyes. The rain still fell. The mud was still cold.
But everything had changed.