The frigid wind of the outer mountains howled endlessly, cutting across the stone paths of the Azure Cloud Sect like a blade. Thin, gray clouds hung low in the sky, blocking most of the sunlight, casting the entire outer courtyard into a dim, depressing hue.

In a remote, unoccupied corner of the training grounds, a young man in tattered gray robes lay curled up on the cold stone floor. His face was pale as paper, his lips chapped and bloodless, and his body trembled slightly from both pain and cold. A dark, sticky stain of blood had already seeped into the fabric around his chest, and his arms and legs were covered in fresh bruises and shallow cuts.

This was Lin Mo.

He was an outer disciple of the Azure Cloud Sect, and more importantly, he was the most useless, most ridiculed disciple in the entire sect’s hundred-year history.

Three years ago, he had wandered to the foot of the Azure Cloud Mountain, alone, homeless, with nothing but a tattered cloth bag and a faint hope of survival. The sect had taken him in not out of kindness, but because outer disciples were cheap labor—they chopped wood, carried water, cleaned halls, and did all the menial work that core disciples and even inner disciples refused to touch.

But Lin Mo was even worse than the average outer disciple.

Every new disciple who joined the Azure Cloud Sect would undergo a Spirit Root test at the entrance ceremony. The Spirit Root was the foundation of cultivation. Without it, one could never absorb the spiritual energy of heaven and earth, could never step into the path of immortality, could never break free from the cycle of life and death.

Fire Root, Water Root, Wood Root, Metal Root, Earth Root—any one of them would mark a person as a cultivator. Even a low-grade pseudo-spirit root allowed one to practice slow, basic techniques.

Lin Mo had none.

The crystal stone used for testing had remained dim and silent in front of him, not a single glimmer of light emerging. The elders had shaken their heads, the disciples had laughed, and the master who presided over the ceremony had even called him a complete waste of flesh and blood.

A mortal among cultivators.

A weed in the immortal mountain.

A trash that could never cultivate.

That label had been stuck to Lin Mo for three full years.

In the outer sect, he was the target of constant bullying. Other disciples would push him around, insult him, take his food, destroy his simple bedding, and even beat him when they were in a bad mood. No one stood up for him. No one cared. To everyone else, bullying the useless trash was just a way to pass the time.

Today was no different.

A few stronger outer disciples had grown bored during their break and decided to pick on him again. They had accused him of accidentally blocking their path, though he had done nothing but stand quietly to the side. One punch after another landed on his body, kicks slamming into his stomach and chest. They had mocked him, spat on him, and finally left him half-dead in this corner, laughing as they walked away.

Lin Mo coughed violently, fresh blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.

Every bone in his body felt like it had been broken. His chest burned as if on fire, and breathing became an agonizing chore. He could feel his strength fading rapidly, his vision growing darker and darker.

Is this how I die?

Alone, in a corner of a sect I once thought would give me shelter.

Beaten to death by a group of disciples who called themselves fellow practitioners.

A nobody, a worthless mortal, dying without anyone noticing.

He closed his eyes slowly, accepting the coming darkness.

Despair flooded his heart.

He had never asked for much. He had only wanted a warm meal, a safe place to sleep, a little respect. But in this world where strength ruled supreme, a mortal without cultivation was less than an ant.

Spiritual energy, cultivation, immortality…

All of it was a distant dream he could never touch.

Just as his consciousness was about to sink into eternal darkness, something happened.

A faint, warm light, so dim it was almost imperceptible, suddenly stirred deep within his soul.

It was not bright.

It was not aggressive.

But it carried an ancient, vast, unfathomable aura, as if it had existed since the beginning of the world.

Boom—!

A silent thunderclap exploded inside his mind.

Not a sound that others could hear, but a shockwave that shook his very soul.

The next moment, an incredible change occurred.

The severe pain all over his body began to fade at a terrifying speed.

The broken bones mended themselves.

The internal injuries healed.

The cold and weakness were replaced by a gentle, surging power.

And then, he felt it.

Tiny, invisible strands of energy floating between heaven and earth, gently entering his body, flowing through his meridians, gathering in the area below his navel—the dantian, the sea of Qi where all cultivators stored their