The night wind swept through Wú Xī village, rustling brittle pine needles and swaying faded prayer flags. In the heart of the village, dim candlelight flickered inside a small hut — where pain had become ritual, and suffering sacred.
Chen Yun sat shirtless, bathed in sweat and faint Qi-light. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with fierce focus — and fury.
Tonight, he would push further.
The Celestial Void Swift Technique surged through him like a wild current. His body trembled as silver-blue Qi tore against broken channels, shredding soft flesh and nerve. His fingers dug into the wooden floor to anchor himself.
Again… just a little more…
A sharp, searing pain sliced through his chest. His Qi surged — but hit a wall. One of his shattered meridians resisted, twisted and tangled. Normally, this was where he would stop.
Tonight, he didn't.
He pushed harder.
A cry tore from his throat — half roar, half choke — as his Qi smashed into the blocked passage. Something gave way with a crackling snap, like breaking ice.
Suddenly — flow.
Erratic. Violent. But real.
Qi poured into the channel like floodwaters bursting through a dam. His body convulsed, then stilled.
Chen Yun collapsed forward, gasping, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.
But he smiled.
"So that's it… Force opens the gate."
Each time he overused Qi, he hurt himself — but in doing so, his body rebuilt, piece by piece. The broken system adapted, forced to reconnect through sheer desperation.
A brutal method. But it worked.
Outside the hut, a shadow crouched in the trees.
A young woman, cloaked in gray travel leathers, watched with eyes sharp as a falcon's.
She said nothing. Her breathing was shallow, her presence faint — enough to fool most. But not him.
Chen Yun noticed the moment she arrived.
Instinct — the same cold instinct that let him perceive the tremor of a breeze before it blew. Void Perception gave him awareness beyond sight or sound. The shift in air, the silent crunch of feet in grass… her presence shimmered like a candle flame in the void.
He didn't know who she was.
He didn't know why she was here.
But he let her stay.
Let her watch.
Chen Yun rose with effort. His limbs ached, bones hollow, but something burned in his blood — a fire screaming: Prove it.
He stepped into the clearing, moonlight casting pale shadows across the grass.
A broken branch lay nearby — smooth and worn from his hands. He picked it up and lowered into a stance. The girl shifted slightly, surprised by his readiness. He gave no hint he knew she was there.
Let her report what she sees.
He breathed in… then moved.
One step forward — and space bent.
A blur, then another. The stick lashed out in flickering arcs. Each swing distorted the air like heat rising from stone. The final strike was a silver flash.
The sound came after the strike.
Crack!
A tree split halfway up its trunk. It didn't fall — not yet — but a clean diagonal cut marked its surface, carved by a blade sharper than sound itself.
The girl's eyes widened in the dark.
That's not body movement… What kind of technique is that?
She tensed — not to flee, but from raw instinct.
The man she watched was no longer a cripple. He was something else.
Yet Chen Yun didn't glance her way.
He stood beneath the moonlight, lowered the stick, and whispered:
"If the world wants to see me fail… let it come closer."
Then, without turning, he stepped back into the hut — leaving only silence, and a shadow who no longer felt sure of her place.