"How many times do I have to repeat myself before it gets through to you?"
The shout echoed across the training field, drawing curious and judgmental glances from the surrounding disciples.
"This is the seventh time you've failed," the instructor continued coldly. "On paper, you were supposed to be one of the most gifted here. So tell me, what happened? Have you forgotten how to cultivate?"
He scoffed.
"I can't deal with someone as talentless as you."
Talentless.
The worthless prodigy.
The words did not escape him. They never did. He had simply heard them too many times for them to hurt the way they once had.
He had been born with a gift others envied, yet he could not bring out even a fraction of it.
No matter how much he trained.
No matter how deeply he understood cultivation theory.
No matter how many times he endured failure.
The same question always returned.
Am I really that useless?
He bowed slightly, his expression calm and unreadable.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Please… let me try again."
He sat down and closed his eyes.
Breathing slowly, he tried to gather Essence.
It flowed toward him,
Then dispersed at the most critical moment.
He frowned and tried again.
And again.
A dull pressure settled in his chest, followed by a faint ache behind his eyes.
No… that's not right.
He adjusted his breathing and focused once more.
Essence surged toward him...
...and scattered like mist.
Again.
His brows furrowed as he shifted his attention inward. He could feel the Essence clearly, its presence, its movement, its nature.
Understanding was never the problem.
Circulation was.
The moment the Essence entered his body, it dispersed as if rejected. His Channels burned faintly, while his Core remained silent and unmoving.
He endured it.
Seconds passed.
Then minutes.
Sweat formed on his forehead as those around him progressed at their own pace. Some smiled in satisfaction. Others frowned, but none looked as defeated as he felt.
Eventually, the session ended.
"Time's up."
He stood and left without a word.
As he walked away, he noticed the disgusted expressions directed at him. Someone clicked their tongue as he passed.
He did not react.
He was used to it.
He returned to his dormitory.
The room was small and cold, furnished only with a narrow bed and a wooden table stacked with worn books. Sitting down, he stared at his hands,frail, unremarkable, far too weak for his liking.
He wanted to be strong.
Not for glory.
Not for fame.
He wanted strength for comfort.
A life that wasn't exhausting.
A life that didn't require constant calculation just to survive.
A life where he could choose whether to stand against danger or walk away from it.
That was all he wanted.
Simple dreams.
Yet the fire in his chest refused to die.
He stood and picked up the worn cultivation manual from the table. Its pages were frayed, the ink smudged where his fingers had traced the same passages countless times.
It was tiring.
Still, he read.
Outside, time moved forward, uncaring of his struggles.
But he did not stop trying.
He did not give up.
Not yet.
Not now.