The fragile peace inside the small home didn’t last long.

Outside, the rain that had once drummed a steady rhythm against the roof had unraveled into a feral storm. Wind tore through the village, shaking loose shutters and sending debris tumbling down the muddy streets. Lightning slashed scars across the blackened sky, each flash illuminating the towering silhouette of Mount Qingcheng in stark, fleeting brilliance. The mountain loomed like an unfeeling sentinel, its presence cold and indifferent to the chaos below.

Tianmo lay restless on his thin straw mat, the storm’s fury echoing the turmoil in his chest. His mother’s words lingered, twisting in his mind and colliding with the bitter memory of his father and the suffocating grip of the Qingcheng Sect.

"Strength isn’t all about fighting. It’s about knowing when to stand tall and when to bend."

But bending felt like breaking.

Suddenly, Tianmo sat up, his body silhouetted against the faint glow of the dying embers in the hearth. His fists clenched tightly at his sides as frustration clawed at him, raw and unrelenting. He couldn’t take it anymore.

Quietly, he slipped out of bed, wrapping himself in a threadbare cloak to shield against the storm’s bite. He padded softly to the door, his footsteps careful not to wake Meili. For a moment, he lingered, gazing at her sleeping face. Even in rest, her features were etched with weariness, lines carved by years of hardship.

“I’ll protect you,” he whispered, his voice nearly drowned by the roar of the storm. Then, without another word, he stepped outside.

The storm greeted him like an adversary. A gust of icy wind slapped him, plastering his hair to his face as rain lashed against him, sharp and unrelenting. In seconds, his cloak was soaked through, heavy and useless, but he didn’t stop. There was something about the storm’s wildness that spoke to him, pulling him forward with an almost magnetic force.

He made his way to the training grounds, the clearing where wooden posts stood like pillars, their surfaces worn smooth by years of strikes. The ground beneath his feet was a slurry of mud, but Tianmo hardly noticed as he approached the tallest post, rain streaming down its slick surface.

He planted his feet firmly in the soaked earth and swung his fist. The impact jolted up his arm, the unyielding wood refusing to give an inch. He struck again, harder this time. Then again. Each blow was sharper, more desperate than the last.

“Why do they kneel?!” he shouted, his voice raw and strained against the howling wind. “Why does everyone just bow their heads and let them take everything?!”

His fists moved faster, rain and sweat mingling on his face as he pounded the post with all the frustration bottled inside him. “They took my father! They took everything! And all anyone does is talk!”

The wooden post bit back, the sting of every strike sending pain shooting through his battered knuckles. His hands ached, the skin raw and split, but he refused to stop. Tears blurred his vision, though the relentless rain disguised them.

“Why can’t I be stronger?!” he choked out, his voice breaking. “Why wasn’t I strong enough to stop it?!”

His punches slowed as exhaustion overtook him, each strike weaker than the last. His arms trembled, his breath came in ragged gasps, and for a moment, his knees buckled.

The storm roared around him, the wind screaming through the trees like a chorus of unseen voices. Then, with a flash so bright it seared the darkness, lightning split the sky. The deafening crack of thunder followed, shaking the ground beneath his feet and leaving the air charged with an electric hum.

Tianmo froze, his chest heaving, his body soaked and trembling. He stared at the training post, his breath catching in his throat. The hum wasn’t just in the air—it was inside him. A strange warmth spread through his chest, coursing down his arms and into his fingers, pulsing like the faint rhythm of a heartbeat.

“What... is this?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm. His trembling hand reached out, brushing the rain-slick surface of the post. The warmth pulsed again, stronger this time, and he staggered back, breathless.

The storm seemed to hold its breath for a single heartbeat before resuming its relentless fury. The warmth inside him faded, but it left something behind—a spark. Small, faint, but unyielding.

Eventually the storm had passed, leaving Blackstone Village drenched and battered in its wake.

Tianmo stood alone in the clearing, his bruised and bloodied fists hanging limp at his sides as the first rays of dawn spilled over the horizon. The once violent winds had softened to a low, mournful sigh, and the rain fell in a steady drizzle, blanketing the village in a shimmering gray veil of rainwater.

His knuckles throbbed, streaked with mud and faint traces of blood. But despite the ache, there was a quiet spark of triumph in his chest—a warmth that refused to be extinguished.

“I’ll get stronger,” he whispered, his voice barely carried by the cool morning breeze.

He turned back toward the village, his soaked cloak clinging to his body like a second skin. Slipping into the house as quietly as possible, he shut the door behind him with care. Grabbing a threadbare rag from the counter, he began furiously scrubbing at his hair and clothes, water scattering across the wooden floor.

“Come on, dry already,” he muttered, scowling as the damp cloth seemed to do more smearing than drying.

Then came the sound he dreaded—a sharp creak of the floorboards behind him.

“Tianmo!”

His mother’s voice cut through the air like a whip, freezing him mid-scrub. He spun around, clutching the wet rag to his chest as though it could shield him.

Meili’s sharp gaze swept over him, taking in his raw knuckles, mud-smeared hands, and the water dripping from his shivering frame. For a moment, her expression softened, concern flickering in her eyes. But then her brow tightened, and her tone turned stern.

“Look at you,” she said tightly. “What were you doing out in the storm?”

Tianmo mustered his most innocent grin, though it came out looking more mischievous than sincere. “Uh… practicing my martial arts?”

“Practicing,” Meili repeated, her voice flat as she crossed her arms and took a slow, deliberate step closer. “In a storm that could’ve sent you flying halfway up the mountain?”

“Strengthening my focus!” he declared, puffing out his chest with mock seriousness. “You know, like the elders say—‘the harshest conditions forge the strongest warriors!’”

Meili pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long, exasperated sigh. “And the foolish ones end up bedridden with a fever. Dry yourself properly before I decide to test your ‘focus’ myself.”

“Yes, ma!” Tianmo chirped, darting toward the door to wring out his cloak.

“And don’t think you’re skipping breakfast!” she called after him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” he shouted back, disappearing into the soft drizzle outside.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The storm had left its scars on Blackstone Village. The narrow, muddy paths were crisscrossed with deep grooves, broken branches lay scattered everywhere, and sagging rooftops strained beneath the weight of waterlogged straw. Smoke curled from chimneys, tendrils of warmth rising into the pale gray morning sky.

Villagers moved with quiet determination, patching walls, clearing debris, and wringing out soaked linens. Their faces, lined with weariness, carried the stoic resolve of those who had weathered far too many storms. But here and there, laughter broke through the gloom—children splashing in puddles, their giggles a rare melody in the dreary morning.

Tianmo strolled through the streets, his soaked cloak finally wrung out, though it still clung to him awkwardly. His thoughts were elsewhere, the faint hum of energy he’d felt the night before, dancing at the edges of his awareness. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his chest, unsure whether it had been real or just a strange trick of the storm.

But something pulled him from his thoughts as he passed the training grounds. His sharp eyes caught sight of the tallest wooden post, its rain-slick surface marred by a jagged crack running down its side.

Frowning, Tianmo approached, reaching out to touch the wood. His fingers traced the splintered edges, and a faint scent of ozone lingered in the damp air.

“The storm…” he murmured, his brow furrowing.

The hum he’d felt before flickered faintly in his chest again, like an ember catching a stray breeze. His knuckles ached as if remembering the strikes from the night before, the pain sharper now, carrying a strange, pulsing energy.

He stepped back, unease prickling at the edges of his thoughts. Was it the storm... or was it me?

For a moment, the clearing felt too quiet. The faint scent of ozone hung in the air like a question without an answer. Tianmo glanced around, half-expecting someone to appear and reprimand him—or worse, confirm the fear taking root in his chest. But the clearing remained empty, and the strange hum faded into the steady rhythm of the soft rain.

Movement ahead caught his attention.

In the clearing, Jianyu was struggling to drag a heavy bundle of broken branches toward the edge of the field. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he stood ankle deep in a puddle, teetering with every step. At seventeen, Jianyu was one of the Hei Clan’s youngest training advisors—a position he held more out of diligence than natural talent. Though he wasn’t the most graceful fighter, his good natured persistence made him popular among the younger trainees.

“Hup! Huff… almost there,” Jianyu muttered, his face scrunched with effort as the bundle wobbled dangerously in his grip. Despite his best intentions, he often found himself fumbling through the simplest tasks, much to the amusement of the younger boys—and Tianmo especially.

“Morning, Jianyu!” Tianmo called out, his grin widening.

Startled, Jianyu stumbled and nearly toppled into the mud. “Tianmo!” he yelped, his voice cracking as he barely managed to stay upright. “You’re up early.”

“Storm woke me,” Tianmo replied, watching as Jianyu wobbled again. A moment later, the entire pile of branches collapsed with a wet thud.

Jianyu sighed, running a muddy hand through his hair. “It’s harder than it looks,” he muttered, glancing toward the village where others were still clearing debris. “Everyone’s busy this morning.”

“Looks like the branches are winning,” Tianmo teased, folding his arms with a smile.

“Tch! You’re not wrong,” Jianyu admitted, scratching the back of his head. “If I don’t clear this before the elders come to inspect the grounds, they’ll have me cleaning every corner of the field for a month.”

“Let me help,” Tianmo offered, stepping forward.

Jianyu hesitated, his pride bristling. “I’ve got it. Don’t you have some prank to pull?”

“What, and miss the chance to see you fall on your face again?” Tianmo said, raising an eyebrow. “C’mon, if we work together, we’ll finish before the elders show up.”

Jianyu sighed, his shoulders slumping in reluctant defeat. “Fine. But no funny business.”

“Me? Funny?” Tianmo grinned as he grabbed a branch. “I’m helpful.”

“Helpful... sure,” Jianyu muttered under his breath—just as his foot caught on a branch, sending him sprawling face first into the mud with a loud splash.

Tianmo burst into laughter, clutching his sides. "And you said no funny business!”

Jianyu groaned, pushing himself up, mud dripping from his soaked clothes. “It's not funny!”

“Oh, it’s hilarious!” Tianmo said, tossing another branch onto the growing pile. He leaned on the sparring post, his grin widening as Jianyu flicked mud off his hands. “You’re lucky no one else saw that.”

Jianyu shook his head, muttering under his breath as he bent to gather another armful of broken branches. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“A likeable menace,” Tianmo replied, darting nimbly around the puddles as he helped organize the scattered debris. His small hands worked quickly, though his mind was already drifting to a different matter.

“You know,” he said casually, watching Jianyu struggle to lift a particularly heavy branch. “I think I’m ready to start learning the clan’s martial arts.”

Jianyu paused, glancing up from his work. “We’ve talked about this, Tianmo. You're not Qi sensitive.”

“Who needs Qi?” Tianmo snorted, dropping a bundle of sticks with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve already outpaced the other kids my age. You’ve seen me. I can keep up!”

Jianyu straightened, brushing the mud from his hands. “Martial arts isn’t just about speed or strength,” he said, his voice patient but firm. “It’s about discipline, control. If you rush into it, you’ll hurt yourself—or worse, someone else.”

Tianmo crossed his arms, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Discipline, discipline—everyone says that! But waiting just makes you weak. My father didn’t wait.” His voice dropped, trembling with frustration. “And neither will I.”

Jianyu’s expression softened at the mention of Hei Fang. For a moment, he hesitated, then crouched so they were eye to eye.

“Your father was strong,” Jianyu said gently. “No one doubts that. But strength without control? It’s like a storm, Tianmo. It tears apart everything in its path, even the things it wants to protect.”

Tianmo’s fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t care. I don’t want to wait until someone tells me I’m ready. I am ready.”

Jianyu let out a quiet sigh, the corners of his mouth pulling into a faint, resigned smile. “You’re stubborn, just like him.” He ruffled Tianmo’s hair, earning a glare of protest. “One day, you’ll understand. Now go on and get home before your mother comes looking for you."

Tianmo froze mid-glare. His mind replayed the tone of Meili's voice from that morning, her narrowed eyes drilling into him as she stood in the doorway. The image of her crossed arms and that you'd-better-not look sent a chill down his spine.

"Oh no," he gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as if Jianyu had struck him with a mortal blow. "You're right! I'm late! Again! She's going to kill me! Jianyu, you don't understand this is serious! I can't face her wrath twice in one day!"

Jianyu blinked, startled by the sudden outburst. "Uh... Tianmo?"

"It's over for me," Tianmo wailed, dramatically dropping to his knees. "This is how it ends. Not in a glorious battle against some fierce opponent, but as a tragic victim of a mother's scolding. The ancestors will never forgive me."

Jianyu burst into laughter, nearly dropping the branch he'd been holding. "Tianmo, you're unbelievable. Go before you actually make yourself late!"

Tianmo sprang to his feet, darting toward the path. "Don't forget me, Jianyu!" he called over his shoulder. "Tell my story to future generations—let them know I faced death with dignity!"

----------------------------------------

By the time he reached the house, the morning sun had pierced through the lingering clouds, painting streaks of gold across the gray village. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the faint sound of chatter mingled with the distant patter of dripping water.

Tianmo hesitated at the door, his stomach twisting. He could already hear Meili’s voice in his head, sharp with disapproval.

Pushing the door open slowly, he crept inside, but before he could even close it, her voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You’re late.”

Meili stood by the stove, her arms crossed, her sharp eyes narrowing at the mud streaking his clothes. "Don't even try sneaking past me."

"I wasn't sneaking," Tianmo said quickly, flashing his most innocent smile. "I was... returning home heroically!"

Meili raised an eyebrow. "Heroically?"

"Yep. I saved the training ground," he added, stepping inside as he kicked his muddy sandals off.

Meili sighed, turning back to the pot on the stove. “Sit down and eat before your ‘heroic’ deeds starve you.”

Tianmo plopped down at the table, wolfing down his portion like he hadn't eaten in days. He could feel his mother's gaze on him, her sharp eyes softening just slightly.

By the time Tianmo finished the last of his meal, the warmth of the soup had settled in his chest, but his mind remained restless. He could feel Meili’s gaze lingering on him as he scraped the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, the faint sound of the rain outside filling the silence between them.

“You’re unusually quiet,” Meili said softly, placing her own bowl on the table. “What are you scheming now?”

Tianmo glanced up, his sharp eyes meeting hers for a brief moment before darting back to his empty bowl. “Nothing,” he muttered, standing abruptly. “Just... thinking.”

“Thinking?” Meili tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “That usually leads to trouble with you.”

“Not this time,” Tianmo said, forcing a grin as he slid his chair back and grabbed his cloak. “I’m just going back out to clean up the village.”

Meili’s sharp eyes narrowed. “You’ve already done enough ‘cleaning up’ for one morning.”

Tianmo shrugged, slipping the damp cloak over his shoulders. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll be back before lunch!”

Before she could protest, he was already halfway out the door, he paused for a moment on the threshold, glancing back at Meili as she shook her head and turned toward the stove.

“Don’t be late again, Tianmo,” she called, her voice soft but firm.

“I won’t!” he shouted back, already jogging toward the edge of the village.

The damp paths wound between the cottages, still scattered with debris from the storm. Tianmo’s steps quickened as the forest loomed ahead, its dense canopy casting long shadows across the muddy ground.

The familiar hum of restless energy stirred within him, and his lips curved into a determined grin. Training alone would be better anyway. No one would tell him to wait or hold back.

No one would stop him from becoming stronger.