A wandering cultivator attacked the village.
Xuán Líng stood before him.
His body was weak.
His Qi nearly nonexistent.
Yet when the attack came—
The law governing the sword's trajectory failed.
The blade missed, as if reality itself hesitated to acknowledge his existence.
Xuán Líng struck.
A single, simple punch.
The cultivator was sent flying, blood spraying.
Xuán Líng stared at his own hand.
"I am not stronger…
the world is simply uncertain about me."