The bamboo cane struck the back of Lee Jin's knees with a sharp, familiar crack. He stumbled, the heavy water buckets he carried sloshing their precious contents onto the dusty training ground path.
"Clumsy waste!" snapped Senior Disciple Han, his lip curled in perpetual disdain. "Do you know how far I had to walk from the mountain spring for that water? It's for the real disciples, not for watering the dirt you crawl on."
Pain, hot and sharp, radiated from Lee Jin's legs. But it was a distant thing, overshadowed by a colder, more persistent ache—the ache of three years of humiliation. He kept his head bowed, long, unkempt hair falling over his eyes, hiding the simmering resentment within. "My apologies, Senior Brother," he mumbled, the words ash in his mouth.
"Apologies? Your very existence is an apology to the Silent Moon Sect," Han sneered. "Three years, and you haven't even mastered the basic 'One Moon Circulation' technique. You're a spiritual cripple, a dead channel. The only reason the Sect Leader hasn't thrown you out is out of pity for your deceased father. Now, clean this up and fetch another load. And be quick, or you'll miss your evening gruel… again."
As Senior Disciple Han strode away, his blue-grey robes fluttering with a grace Lee Jin could only dream of, the other junior disciples training nearby snickered. Their whispers, never meant to be truly hidden, wormed their way into his ears.
"The eternal first layer of the Body Tempering stage… even my baby sister could beat him."
"They say he tries to meditate,but the qi avoids him like rot."
"A talentless leech,clinging to the sect's reputation."
Lee Jin clenched his jaw until it ached. He wasn't lazy. He tried. He spent every night, long after his chores were done, sitting on the cold rock behind the dilapidated disciples' quarters, trying to feel the spiritual energy of the world, to guide it through his meridians as the manual described. But it was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. Nothing. A void where there should have been a river.
As he knelt to wipe the spilled water with ragged sleeves, he watched the real disciples. Across the courtyard, Senior Disciple Han was now demonstrating a sword form—the 'Falling Petal Stroke.' His movements were fluid, precise, the practice sword whistling through the air in a complex, beautiful arc that seemed to gather the fading afternoon light. Lee Jin felt a familiar, bitter hunger. Not for food, but for that. For the certainty in the movement, the connection between intent and action, the whispered promise of power.
Suddenly, a transparent, blue screen materialized before his eyes, overlaying the scene of the training courtyard.
[Target Analyzed: Senior Disciple Han]
- Talent: Moderate Spiritual Affinity (Wind-Aligned)
- Skills Detected: One Moon Circulation (Proficient), Silent Moon Swordsmanship Form II (Proficient), Falling Petal Stroke (Competent)
- Special Abilities: None
[Copy Function: Available]
[Command: Copy 'Falling Petal Stroke'? Y/N]
Lee Jin froze. The characters, crisp and glowing, hovered in the air. He blinked rapidly, but the screen remained. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat. Had the humiliation finally broken his mind? Was this some cruel illusion born of desperation?
Tentatively, he focused his mind on the 'Y'.
The screen flashed.
[Copying… 1%… 50%… 100%]
[Skill 'Falling Petal Stroke' (Competent) successfully copied.]
[Integration in progress.]
A bolt of sensation, foreign yet instantly familiar, lanced through Lee Jin's skull. It wasn't pain, but a flood of information—muscle memory that wasn't his, insights into weight distribution, wrist flicks, angle of attack, the subtle channeling of a trickle of qi to guide the sword's path. It settled into his mind and body like a long-forgotten memory suddenly recalled.
He staggered to his feet, forgetting the spilled water. His hands, calloused from years of menial labor, itched for a sword hilt. He looked at a broken bamboo shaft lying near the woodpile. It was no sword, but it was straight.
Almost in a trance, he picked it up. His body moved before his mind could question it. His feet shifted into the precise stance. His grip adjusted unconsciously. Then, he executed the Falling Petal Stroke.
It was clumsy. His body was weak, undernourished, and untrained in any real martial art. But the form was perfect. The arc of the bamboo stick mirrored Senior Disciple Han's exactly. It didn't whistle; it just whooshed pathetically. But to Lee Jin, it was the sound of thunder.
"You! Trash!"
Lee Jin whirled, the bamboo stick held defensively. Senior Disciple Han had returned, his face a mask of incredulous fury. "You dare? You dare to steal a glance at our sect's techniques and mimic them? That is a transgression punishable by crippling!"
"I didn't steal a glance," Lee Jin said, his voice quieter than he intended. A strange calm was settling over him, the chaos in his heart being replaced by the cold, clear data on the screen still faintly lingering in his vision.
"Liar!" Han drew his practice sword. "I'll teach you the price of your insolence personally!"
He lunged, not with the Falling Petal Stroke, but with a basic, powerful thrust from Form I, meant to overwhelm and punish. To Lee Jin's eyes, however, the movement seemed… slow. Predictable. The copied skill provided not just the ability to perform a technique, but also a nascent understanding of its purpose, its strengths, and by extension, its weaknesses against other approaches.
Lee Jin didn't have the strength to parry. But he had just enough to move. He sidestepped, his own body moving with an efficiency that shocked him, and the bamboo stick in his hand, almost of its own volition, lashed out in a short, sharp tap against Han's wrist.
Thwack.
It didn't hurt. But it was a hit. A clean, technical hit on a senior disciple from the sect's infamous trash.
The entire courtyard fell silent. The snickering disciples stared, open-mouthed. Senior Disciple Han looked at his wrist, then at Lee Jin, his expression cycling from fury to utter bewilderment.
"You… how…?"
Lee Jin dropped the bamboo stick as if it were poisoned. His heart was pounding against his ribs. He had done it. He had copied it. This system… it was real.
[New Objective Suggested]
[Target: Multiple Disciples in Training Ground]
[Skills Available for Copying: One Moon Circulation (Various), Basic Footwork (Various), Silent Moon Fist (Novice)]
[Recommendation: Copy 'One Moon Circulation (Proficient)' from Disciple Hong for foundational stability.]
The screen updated, highlighting a thin, focused disciple meditating under a plum tree, his breathing forming a faint, silvery mist in the cool air.
Fear, excitement, and a voracious, hungry hope warred within Lee Jin. This changed everything. The rules of his world had just been rewritten. He wasn't a spiritual cripple. He was a blank page, and now he had the means to write upon it using the finest ink of others.
Senior Disciple Han's confusion was hardening back into rage. "A fluke! A dirty, cheating fluke!" he bellowed, raising his sword again.
But Lee Jin was no longer looking at him. His eyes were on Disciple Hong under the plum tree, and the glowing prompt hovering beside him.
He had spilled the water, incurred the wrath of a senior, and revealed a sliver of impossible skill. The gruel was certainly forfeit tonight.
But for the first time in three long, desperate years, Lee Jin didn't care about the gruel. He had just tasted a drop of power, and he was starving for an ocean.
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he took a step back, then another, his mind already reaching out toward the new target, toward the foundational skill that had eluded him for a lifetime.
The game was on. And the so-called trash of the Silent Moon Sect held the only rulebook.