Dust motes danced in the slanted shafts of afternoon light, the only lively things in the Pavilion of Forgotten Scrolls. For fourteen years, this had been Wei Yuan's world. Not a home, but a cage built of aging paper and silent disappointment.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, his thin robes dusted with the fine powder of decaying bamboo scrolls. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. He drew a breath, attempting, for the thousandth time, to coax the ambient spiritual Qi of the world into his body.
And for the thousandth time, his body rejected it.
A sharp, stabbing pain erupted from his Dantian, radiating outwards through his limbs like a web of fire. His meridians, the pathways meant to be rivers of power, were instead a hopelessly tangled knot. The Qi, unable to flow, recoiled violently.
Wei Yuan's face paled, and he coughed, a hand flying to his chest. The taste of copper filled his mouth.
Failure. Again.
"Knotted Meridians," the clan elders had declared on his fifth birthday, their voices a mixture of pity and contempt. A cripple. Useless. The final nail in the coffin of the disgraced third branch of the mighty Wei Clan.
His father, once a promising talent, had been crippled in a clan dispute years ago, relegated to managing this dusty repository of forgotten histories and third-rate techniques. And his son, Wei Yuan, was born with a flaw that made even a third-rate technique an impossible dream.
He was trash. The clan made sure he knew it.
"Coughing again, little Yuan?" a frail voice rasped from the corner.
Wei Yuan opened his eyes, the pain receding into a familiar, dull ache. Old Man Ji, the pavilion's keeper and Wei Yuan's only companion, shuffled over. His back was bent like a dried shrimp, and his eyes held the milky glaze of one who saw more of the past than the present.
"Don't force it," the old man wheezed, placing a gnarled hand on Wei Yuan's shoulder. "The river flows where it will. If it doesn't want to enter, let it be. There are other streams."
Wei Yuan managed a weak smile. "I know, Uncle Ji."
Old Man Ji seemed to forget what he was saying mid-sentence. His gaze drifted to a nearby table laden with calligraphy supplies—an inkstone, brushes of weasel hair, and a stack of cheap, coarse paper. His eyes lit up with a flicker of lucidity.
"Ah! I brought you something. The path of the warrior is closed, but the path of the scholar is wide. A calm mind is a treasure in itself." He shuffled over and brought back a brush and a small pot of ink. "Practice. It will soothe the spirit."
Wei Yuan accepted the tools with a quiet nod. He knew Old Man Ji meant well. To the old man, this was just a way for a crippled boy to pass the lonely hours. To Wei Yuan, it was a reminder of all the paths he couldn't walk.
Suddenly, the heavy doors of the pavilion creaked open, casting a long, imposing shadow into the room.
Three youths, all dressed in the fine, embroidered silks of the main branch, strode in. The leader, a boy of about sixteen with a sneer permanently etched on his face, glanced around the dusty room with open disgust.
"Still hiding in this pile of garbage, Wei Yuan?" he taunted. His name was Wei Feng, a sycophant who orbited the clan's true star, Wei Tian.
Wei Yuan's expression remained placid. He simply rose to his feet and gave a slight, formal bow. "Cousin Feng."
"Don't call me cousin," Wei Feng snapped. "It's an insult to the main branch. I'm here to deliver a message. In three months, the clan will hold the youth tournament for the Branch Purge."
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold. The Branch Purge. A tradition as cruel as it was ancient. Every ten years, the underperforming branches were "tested." Those who failed were cast out of the clan, stripped of their name and resources, and thrown to the wolves of the outside world.
For Wei Yuan and his crippled father, it was a death sentence.
"Our clan's pride, Young Master Wei Tian, has already broken through to the Spirit Channeling realm," Wei Feng boasted, his chest puffed out as if the achievement were his own. "He will preside over the tournament. He wishes to remind the... lesser branches... to not disgrace the Wei name too badly."
The threat was clear. It wasn't just about passing the test; it was about serving as whetstones to sharpen the glory of the main branch.
Wei Yuan's fists, hidden in his sleeves, clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He could feel Old Man Ji shrinking behind him, the old man's fear a palpable thing.
"We will do our best," Wei Yuan said, his voice even.
"Hmph. Your 'best' is an embarrassment." Wei Feng's eyes fell on the calligraphy brush in Wei Yuan's hand. He let out a bark of derisive laughter. "Look at this! The mighty Wei Clan's descendant is reduced to playing with ink and paper like a failed scholar. You truly are the pinnacle of trash."
His two lackeys echoed his laughter, the sound sharp and cruel in the silent pavilion.
Wei Yuan didn't respond. He simply stood there, his gaze as calm and deep as a forgotten well. Arguing was pointless. It would only invite a beating. He had learned that lesson years ago. His strength was not in his fists, but in his endurance.
Seeing he couldn't get a rise out of Wei Yuan, Wei Feng grew bored. "Just remember, three months. Don't even bother showing up. It would save you the humiliation."
With a final sneer, he and his followers turned and left, their arrogant laughter echoing long after the heavy doors slammed shut, plunging the pavilion back into its dusty gloom.
Wei Yuan stood motionless for a long time. The injustice of it all was a fire in his Dantian that burned hotter than any blocked Qi. The clan's glory was built on the suppression of branches like his. The resources, the techniques, the respect—all funneled to the main branch, while others were left to starve.
"They're gone, little Yuan," Old Man Ji whispered, patting his arm. "Don't listen to them. Your heart is good. That's what matters."
Wei Yuan finally unclenched his fists, a long, slow breath escaping his lips. He looked down at the brush in his hand. Soothe the spirit, Uncle Ji had said. Right now, his spirit felt like a raging storm.
He walked to the table, laid out the paper, and ground the ink stick on the stone, the rhythmic scraping sound a counterpoint to the turmoil in his chest. He didn't think about techniques or styles. He simply dipped the weasel-hair brush into the viscous, black ink.
The world seemed to fall away.
The mocking laughter of his cousins, the looming threat of the Branch Purge, the constant, gnawing pain in his meridians—all of it dissolved. There was only the brush, the ink, and the stark white of the paper.
His mind entered a state of profound, absolute focus. He wasn't trying to write a character. He was trying to pour all his frustration, all his indignation, all his unyielding will onto the page.
His wrist moved.
The brush danced, a blur of motion. It was not a stroke, but a release.
One character.
道
(Dao)
The Way. The Path.
As the final stroke lifted from the paper, something impossible happened.
A faint, golden light shimmered, rising from the wet ink. It was no bigger than a strand of silk, yet it shone with a warmth and purity that seemed to fill the entire room. Wei Yuan watched, mesmerized, as the golden thread drifted from the paper, bypassed his skin, and flowed directly into his chest, sinking into his Dantian.
It didn't use his meridians. It simply... arrived.
There was no violent surge of power. Instead, a gentle warmth spread through him, soothing the ever-present ache in his core. It was like a single drop of pure water falling into a stagnant, muddy pool. It didn't fix the pool, but for the first time, there was something pure within it.
Then, a translucent panel of light flickered into existence before his very eyes.
[Name: Wei Yuan]
[Age: 14]
[Cultivation Realm: Marrow Cleansing (Initial Stage)]
[Physique: Knotted Meridians (Cursed)]
[The Loom of A Hundred Arts]
[Mastered Arts: None]
[Art in Progress: Calligraphy (Initiate - 1/100)]
[Insight Threads: 1]
Wei Yuan stared, his heart pounding against his ribs. He blinked. The panel remained. This... this was the interface from the fantastical stories whispered among the outer disciples, a cultivator's system!
The Loom of A Hundred Arts.
Calligraphy (Initiate - 1/100).
Insight Threads: 1.
His gaze darted from the panel to the character he had just written, then back to the panel. The pieces clicked into place with the force of a thunderclap.
It wasn't a fluke.
His cultivation path wasn't through the conventional absorption of spiritual Qi. It was through... the Arts. The very "useless" pastimes his clan scorned.
He had focused his will, achieved a moment of true insight in calligraphy, and generated an "Insight Thread." This thread was a form of pure, refined energy that his body could absorb directly, bypassing his cursed meridians entirely.
His hands began to tremble, not with fear or pain, but with a surge of earth-shattering elation.
They called him trash. They called him a cripple. They had left him to rot in a dusty pavilion with nothing but forgotten scrolls and stacks of cheap paper.
They had unknowingly handed him the keys to his own destiny.
He looked at the inkstone, the brushes, the reams of paper. These were not mere tools for a scholar. They were his forge. His alchemy table. His arsenal.
The Branch Purge was in three months.
Wei Yuan picked up the brush again, his eyes burning with a light that had not been there before. It was the light of hope, forged in the fires of absolute despair.
His war had just begun.