Ruin could not lift his right arm the next morning.
He woke before dawn out of habit, not discipline. Discipline implied progress. Habit was just something the body did while the mind was still too tired to argue.
He lay on the thin mat in the corner of the storage shed his mother rented behind a grain shop, staring at the wooden beams overhead. His shoulder throbbed with a deep, nauseating pulse. When he tried to move, fire spread from his collarbone to his fingertips.
He bit the inside of his cheek until the pain sharpened him awake.
Get up.
The word had no emotion attached to it. It was simply a command that existed, the same way hunger or cold existed.
He rolled onto his side. The motion made his vision flash white. A strained sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.
From the other side of the thin wall, he heard coughing — wet, persistent, and familiar.
His mother.
Ruin forced himself upright.
The room spun. He waited. When it steadied, he stood and used his left hand to push aside the cloth hanging over the doorway.
His mother sat near the small charcoal stove, back slightly hunched, one hand pressed to her lips as another cough shook her thin frame. The pot in front of her steamed weakly.
"You're up early," she said, lowering her hand and smiling like nothing was wrong.
Her smile had become lighter over the years, as if too much weight would crack it.
Ruin nodded. "I'll get water."
"You trained late again."
Another nod.
Her eyes flicked to his right arm, hanging stiff at his side.
"…Does it hurt?"
"No," he said.
She did not argue. They both knew lies had their uses.
He stepped outside into the gray edge of dawn. The alley smelled of damp earth and refuse. Merchants would arrive soon. Carts would rattle. People with places to go and futures to chase would fill the streets.
Ruin walked to the well at the end of the lane. Each step jarred his shoulder. He carried the bucket with his left hand, teeth clenched.
At the well, two boys from the outer district were already there, both wearing the short blue training robes of the martial academy.
They noticed him immediately.
"Hey," one of them said, not unkindly. "You're the one from yesterday, right?"
Ruin lowered the bucket into the well.
"Yes."
"The instructor really told you to leave?"
"Yes."
A pause.
The other boy scratched his cheek. "So… are you going back?"
Ruin pulled the bucket up. Water sloshed over the edge, soaking his sleeve.
"Yes."
The boys exchanged a look — not mocking, just puzzled.
"…Why?"
Ruin did not answer.
Because there was no answer they would understand.
Because going back hurt.
Because not going back hurt more.
Because if he stopped now, then the instructor's words would become truth instead of opinion.
He lifted the bucket and walked away.
Behind him, one of the boys said quietly, "That's… kind of scary."
The academy gates were already open when Ruin arrived.
Students stretched in the courtyard. Some meditated, drawing in spiritual energy with slow, controlled breaths. Even from a distance, Ruin could feel it — the faint pressure in the air, like standing near deep water.
He felt nothing inside himself in response.
He stepped through the gate anyway.
Several heads turned. Whispers followed him like drifting ash.
"Didn't he get dismissed?"
"Maybe he didn't understand."
"Or maybe he's stupid."
Ruin walked to the edge of the training yard and picked up a wooden sword from the rack.
The instructor from yesterday noticed him but said nothing at first. He was correcting a girl's footwork, adjusting the angle of her knee with two fingers.
Only when he finished did he turn.
"I told you to go home," he said.
Ruin bowed as low as his aching back allowed.
"Yes, sir."
"Then why are you here?"
Ruin searched for the right words. None of them seemed big enough.
"I still want to try."
A long silence followed.
The other students had stopped pretending not to listen.
The instructor studied him again, eyes traveling from Ruin's stiff arm to his trembling legs.
"Raise the sword," the man said.
Ruin obeyed.
His shoulder screamed instantly. His arm shook so hard the wooden blade hummed.
"Circulate your energy," the instructor said.
Ruin stood there.
"I… can't feel it," he admitted.
A few students looked away, embarrassed on his behalf.
The instructor stepped closer and placed two fingers lightly against Ruin's wrist. He closed his eyes, sensing.
Seconds passed.
When he withdrew his hand, his expression had not changed — but something behind his eyes had settled.
"You truly have nothing," he said.
Not insult.
Diagnosis.
Some of the students relaxed, as if a question had been answered.
The instructor turned to the weapon rack. He selected the heaviest wooden practice sword — the kind used to build strength in advanced trainees — and tossed it at Ruin's feet.
"Then we won't train you like a cultivator," he said.
Ruin blinked.
"We will train you like an animal that has to survive winter."
A few students frowned. One whispered, "That's not academy curriculum…"
The instructor ignored them.
"Pick it up."
Ruin bent with difficulty and grasped the heavier sword with both hands. His injured shoulder nearly gave out.
"From today," the instructor continued, "you will run the outer wall at dawn and dusk. Carry that. You will hold stances until your legs fail. You will strike sandbags until your skin splits."
He looked Ruin in the eye.
"You will not learn forms. You will not learn techniques. You will build a body that does not collapse when asked to exist."
Ruin's breath shook.
"…Yes, sir."
"Do not thank me," the instructor said. "This is not kindness. This is an experiment."
He turned away.
"If you break, you leave. If you don't… we will see what remains."
The other students resumed training, though their glances toward Ruin had changed. Less ridicule. More distance.
Ruin adjusted his grip on the heavy wooden blade.
It felt impossible.
Good, he thought.
Impossible meant it was the right weight.
"Start running," the instructor said without looking back.
Ruin took his first step.
His shoulder burned. His legs trembled. His lungs already felt too small.
But for the first time—
he had not been told to go home.
So he ran.