The wind rolled low through the trees, brushing against the wet grass like a whisper.
A fist slammed against bark.
Thud.
Another.
Thud.
Then another. Louder.
Crack.
Kahel exhaled slowly, drawing his hand back. His knuckles were raw, skin split in tiny red lines that trickled down his wrist. The tree in front of him groaned, bark chipped and damp, bearing the scars of a thousand strikes.
It was still dark. The moon hung pale in the early morning sky, painting the forest in hues of silver and gray. A thick fog blanketed the woods behind his house—the kind of quiet only broken by the breath of someone trying to push beyond what a body was meant to do.
He stood still for a moment, blood dripping onto the cold earth.
Then he moved again.
Step in. Elbow. Palm strike. Backfist. Twist. Breathe.
Each movement flowed into the next, a dance he'd taught himself through pain, instinct, and desperation. His breath synced with the motion, forming a rhythm: inhale on impact, exhale on transition.
This was the Ninth Circulation of his morning cycle. With every repetition, he forced his qi—that faint golden thread in his body—to complete its path from his dantian, through his limbs, and back again.
But something always caught. Like a door half-closed.
No matter how many times he tried, his qi refused to fully flow. The energy would tremble, lose momentum, then fade.
He'd been stuck here for four months.
Middle-stage Qi Refinement.
It wasn't enough.
He stopped. Hands by his sides. Chest heaving.
The silence settled again.
Kahel tilted his head back, staring at the black sky peeking through the tree branches.
"Still not enough..." he whispered.
By the time the sun began to break through the mist, Kahel had already bandaged his hands and walked back down the dirt path toward the outskirts of Vouille. It was a small, sleepy town. Nothing ever happened here. No one noticed a boy slipping out before dawn every day to beat his hands bloody on trees.
His neighbors thought he was just quiet. A bit cold. Too serious for a fifteen-year-old.
None of them had seen what he'd seen.
None of them had heard his mother scream.
The house he shared with Mia wasn't much—two bedrooms, an old tile kitchen, and a sagging couch that creaked if you breathed too hard near it.
But it was home. For now.
As he opened the door, the soft sound of cartoons spilled into the hallway. A little girl with wild chestnut hair peeked over the couch, eyes half-lidded.
"Kahel?"
"I'm here."
"You went running again?"
"Yeah," he said, brushing dirt from his hoodie. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"
She shook her head and flopped back on the cushions. "No. But you left the fridge light on again. That's strike two."
He chuckled—just a little. "What happens at strike three?"
Mia sat up straight and puffed her cheeks. "You owe me chocolate bread for a week."
"Harsh punishment."
"I don't make the rules."
Kahel went into the kitchen and pulled out the last pack of pain au chocolat. She took it like it was sacred.
As she munched happily, her eyes wandered to his hands.
"You hurt yourself again."
"I tripped."
"You always trip the same way."
Kahel didn't answer.
Mia stared at him for a second longer. Her gaze was far too knowing for a ten-year-old, but she didn't press. She never did.
Later, after walking her to school, Kahel sat alone in the small shed behind their home. It used to be a storage space. Now it was filled with training logs, weighted ropes, broken practice swords, and a single photo frame sitting on a shelf.
A woman with warm eyes and tired cheeks smiled up at him from the picture.
He sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and began to breathe. Qi stirred. Slowly. Like embers refusing to catch fire.
"Mom," he whispered, "I'm not there yet. But I will be."
His breath slowed.
"I'll find the ones who did it. I'll tear through the sky if I have to. I don't care how many realms there are…"
The air around him vibrated faintly—his qi flaring for just a moment before flickering out.
"I'll become the strongest. Even if it kills me."
And far away, beyond the misty fields and rooftops of Vouille, a man stood on a hill beneath a crooked tree.
He wore no emblem. No name. Just a long coat and eyes that had seen centuries burn.
He watched the shed through a spyglass shaped like a dragon's eye.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"So… it begins again."