I was thirteen when I first began cultivating, and I’ll admit, it wasn’t the impressive start I’d once imagined. Looking back now, it’s a wonder I didn’t give up right there and then. The endless breathing exercises, the lectures from elders who looked like they hadn’t seen a speck of dust in a decade—it all felt pointless, honestly, like trying to forge a sword by polishing the hilt.
The Stone Clan had just settled into new territory, mountains as sharp and unfamiliar as Ironwave’s influence over our heads. Back then, I didn’t know the stakes; I didn’t realize our clan had fled from the grip of Thundercrest’s wars to find a shred of independence here. The adults, of course, kept the details close, but even without them, there was an intensity in the air, like every breath we took had to count.
I remember that first gathering well. Elder Wei lined us all up in a clearing, his expression as unreadable as a rock’s. He had that look of unshakable conviction, the kind you only get after years of repetition and patience—two traits I’d yet to learn, let alone respect. He took one look at us, and I could see the disapproval simmering behind his steady gaze, like he was already disappointed in the lot of us.
“You’re young,” he started, his voice a low rumble, “and, frankly, inexperienced. We’ve begun a new chapter, but it won’t mean anything if you don’t commit yourselves to your cultivation. The clan needs strength, and strength requires focus. Diligence.”
He looked directly at me then, as if I embodied every lazy impulse he’d ever known. “Alexander, I expect you to be as disciplined as the rest. Your father has reached Foundation Establishment. This clan has expectations for you, too.”
I managed a nod, wondering what exactly he meant by “expectations.” Given the way Elder Wei’s face soured every time he looked at me, I had a feeling I wasn’t living up to any of them.
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They began us with the basics—grounding stances, breathwork, all that. We’d line up at dawn, going through the motions under Elder Wei’s watchful eye. For the others, things seemed to move fast enough; Han Li, a year older and eager to flaunt it, already had a faint glow of Qi surrounding his hands after the first month. Mei Yun, whose movements had a water-aligned flow, wasn’t far behind. They were practically stars in the making, their progress visible and, from where I was standing, a bit too easy.
I, on the other hand, was stuck with my own secret path. That secret had started about a year before, in the most unassuming of places—a cave tucked away behind a rocky outcropping high up the mountains. I’d been exploring, a habit I’d picked up in my boredom between lessons, and I stumbled across what looked like the remains of an old shrine. The walls were carved with faint symbols, some faded beyond recognition, others still giving off a faint glimmer.
In the center, half-buried in the dirt, was a thin, ancient scroll wrapped in brittle cloth. Curious, I picked it up, and though most of it was illegible, there was one phrase I could still make out: Ethereal Ascension Method.
The scroll outlined a cultivation path unlike anything I’d heard of, one that worked primarily on strengthening the body, grounding Qi in a pure, unaligned form. It was slower, yes, but the energy it built felt more solid, as if it were forming something deeper than what I’d seen from others. I never told anyone about it. Why would I? It was mine, a discovery as private as it was strange, a secret method I would cultivate on my own terms. Of course, I didn’t know then how that decision would come to shape everything that followed.
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By the second month, Elder Wei’s patience was wearing thin. One morning, as we cycled through the basic stances, he finally pulled me aside, his expression a mixture of disappointment and restrained irritation.
“Alexander,” he started, his voice controlled, “your progress is… lacking.” He didn’t mince words, not that I’d expected him to. “There are others here who push themselves harder, and they’ve shown it. The clan doesn’t have room for those who idle. You need to be diligent. Work harder.”
I stared at him, trying to hide the frustration simmering beneath my skin. I knew better than to argue, but I wanted to tell him that diligence wasn’t the problem, that I was working harder than any of them. It just didn’t look like it. But there was no point; the Ethereal Ascension Method was my own secret, and to Elder Wei, I was simply wasting time.
“Yes, Elder,” I muttered, bowing my head. He dismissed me with a shake of his head, moving on to offer praise to Han Li, who flashed me a triumphant grin.
The others saw me as someone who’d chosen the path of least resistance, but I knew I’d chosen the opposite. Each session, the Ethereal Ascension Method demanded focus, grounding Qi deep within me. It strengthened my body from the inside out, the kind of resilience that couldn’t be seen but that I could feel settling into my bones. Unfortunately, none of that earned a nod of approval from Elder Wei.
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Days turned into weeks, and my routine became a quiet test of patience. The others moved on to more advanced techniques, their Qi manifesting in colors and shapes that marked their elemental alignments. I stayed with my silent, invisible progress, the Ethereal Ascension Method grounding me with each breath, each layer of energy building a little more slowly, a little more deeply.
The whispered remarks from the others became a constant background noise, a reminder of my apparent inadequacy. “Maybe Alexander’s destined to be an observer,” Mei Yun remarked one day, loud enough for a few laughs.
I forced myself to stay silent, to ignore them. But in those moments, I’ll admit, I questioned my own path. Was I truly making any progress? Or was I wasting my time with a method that kept my strength hidden?
One evening, I took myself to a secluded ridge above the compound, the mountains stretching out beneath me, the quiet of the valley filling me with a rare sense of peace. I sank into my routine, breathing in, channeling the pure, unaligned Qi that felt like grounding itself. It was strength, I could feel it—but it was like trying to prove a mountain existed beneath a fog.
Looking back, I can still feel the frustration of those days, though now it’s tinged with a faint amusement. To anyone else, my struggle must have looked pointless, even laughable. But I suppose it’s that struggle that built the resolve I would come to rely on.
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By the end of those first few months, the others had outpaced me visibly, their techniques bright and obvious, the kind of progress that earned them nods of approval from the elders. My own path was slower, quieter, and to them, I was just the elder’s son who couldn’t keep up. But for me, those months taught me something I wouldn’t appreciate until years later.
The Ethereal Ascension Method wasn’t about speed; it was about endurance, the kind that doesn’t fade, the kind that builds a foundation like stone. I hadn’t known it then, but those slow breaths, that steady rhythm, was carving out a strength that wouldn’t falter when the time came to lean on it.
Our clan was small, our resources limited, and our future uncertain. But even in those early days, I could feel we were building something with potential. I was laying a foundation, one slow, quiet step at a time. And while no one could see it then, it was the first of many steps that would lead us to a future I could only imagine.
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And to all the doubters, well… patience is a hard sell when you’re the only one buying.
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