The Scion of Ruin

The Azure Cloud Sect loomed before Li Shen like a city carved from myth. Sprawling courtyards paved with cloud-white stone, towers that touched the sky, and waterfalls suspended mid-air without visible source or end. Even the wind here tasted cleaner, fresher, almost sacred. For a boy who had grown up surrounded by crooked wooden beams and smoke-stained skies, the sight struck him silent.

But wonder had a short lifespan.

Within hours of arriving—blood still not yet scrubbed clean from his old robes—Li Shen's status was made brutally clear. The survivors were sorted, not by merit or potential, but by the invisible weight of their spiritual roots. The moment the test orb dulled in his grasp, his fate was sealed.

Handyman.

The word felt like a collar, snapping tight around his neck.

They led him to the outskirts of the sect, where the grandeur faded into crumbling walls and thin mist. The Handyman Quarters were a cluster of low stone barracks nestled beside a refuse channel. A perpetual stink clung to the air—damp straw, beast droppings, and desperation.

Inside, the dormitory was dim, lit only by sputtering spirit lamps. Dozens of men and boys sprawled on thin mats, their clothes threadbare, their skin calloused. There were no greetings. No smiles. Only the scrape of wooden bowls and the dull thump of weary bodies hitting straw.

Li Shen was handed a broom before he was given a blanket.

---

Life in the Handyman Division blurred quickly into a cycle of toil and pain. Li Shen swept courtyards at dawn, scrubbed chamber pots at noon, hauled waste from spiritual beast pens in the evening. At night, his body trembled with exhaustion, his palms raw and blistered.

The tasks weren't merely physical. They were designed to humiliate. He mucked out stables with his bare hands. He was sent to chase spirit geese across the outer lakes—birds that delighted in biting and shitting on him. His meals were little more than gruel and pickled roots. Once, he dared to ask for more rice and was rewarded with a day in the latrine trench.

And always, there was Elder Guo.

Tall and skeletal, Elder Guo ruled the Handyman Division with an iron tongue and invisible whip. His voice carried more pain than any physical strike, and his spiritual pressure hung in the air like a thundercloud. He walked with hands clasped behind his back, eyes forever narrowed.

From the beginning, he seemed to despise Li Shen.

"You think this place is a charity?" he snapped on the second day, when Li Shen lagged behind carrying water barrels. "Spiritual roots like yours should've died with your clan."

He gave Li Shen the worst assignments. The filthiest pens. The hardest stones. The tasks others flinched from, he relished in assigning. More than once, Li Shen caught Elder Guo watching him, eyes gleaming not with malice—but expectation. As if waiting for him to break.

But Li Shen didn't break.

---

At night, long after the other handymen snored and the lamps dimmed, Li Shen sat cross-legged on his mat. The spiritual Qi in the Azure Cloud Sect was thick, almost visible—a shimmering mist that hung like dew in the moonlight. It should've been a boon. A gift.

Instead, it was torment.

He tried every method he could recall. Breathing patterns. Visualization. Guiding his focus through the meridians he'd only read about. But the Qi refused him. It touched his skin, his lungs, then recoiled. He could feel it—he was wrong. As if some vast law of Heaven marked him unworthy.

Each attempt left him shivering, his dantian empty, his veins sore. Cultivation here felt like wading through tar while drowning.

He began to understand. This was Heaven Suppression. A rejection that went beyond talent. Something ancient. Cosmic.

He was cursed.

---

And yet, even in failure, his mind clung to a memory—the feel of a rusted blade slicing through demonic flesh. In that moment, during the raid, something had moved inside him. Something real.

He reached under his mat and pulled free a broken mop handle. The wood was splintered, its weight uneven. It didn't matter. In the silence of the night, beneath the scorn of Heaven, he stood.

One step forward. A thrust. A pivot.

The movements were crude, born of instinct and desperation. But they sparked something within him. Not Qi. Not cultivation. Connection. His muscles remembered. His breath found rhythm. It was messy, unrefined—but it was his.

Every night, after failure at Qi gathering, he practiced. Slashes. Blocks. Stances. Not for style. Not for beauty. For killing. For surviving.

---

He began watching the Outer Disciples whenever he could—young men and women in finer robes, walking with ease and confidence. They carried real swords. Some rode spirit beasts. They trained with instructors. They took missions—real ones.

One afternoon, while scrubbing the outer courtyard, he overheard them speaking.

"…Mission Hall posted new bounties. Demon beasts near the lower ravines again. Easy spirit stones."

"Only if you've got a team. One swipe from those things and you're feeding the worms."

Demon beasts. Spirit stones. Power.

Li Shen scrubbed harder, his mind racing.

He needed to reach the Outer Sect. That was the next step. The only step. There, he could take missions. Face demons again. Grow stronger. Feed the fire that burned within him.

---

That night, after another brutal day, Li Shen once again tried to cultivate. Again, the Qi denied him. Frustrated, he slumped back.

A cold voice cut the silence.

"Still dreaming, slave?"

He looked up sharply.

Elder Guo stood over him, arms folded, face lit faintly by moonlight.

"I've seen your kind before," the old man whispered. "Crippled roots. False hope. You think being here changes anything? You're filth. Born low. Meant to die low."

He prodded Li Shen with his boot. "Tomorrow, you'll clear every stone in the south training ground. Alone. No breaks. Maybe that will teach you humility."

Then he was gone, his presence like a shadow dispersing.

Li Shen lay still, staring at the ceiling.

Crippled. Cursed. Doomed.

He reached beneath his mat, fingers closing around the mop handle. Slowly, he rose. The others slept on. He stepped outside, into the courtyard lit only by stars.

Thrust. Parry. Step. Slash.

He moved in silence. Not for show. Not for technique. For will.

Heaven may have cursed him.

But he would carve his own path. Even if the heavens bled.