Chapter 3 — Whispers of Strength
Morning came harshly.
The dull clang of the wake-up bell rattled the thin wooden walls of the dormitory.
Ashen groaned softly, muscles sore from his late-night cultivation attempt.
He barely managed to swing his legs off the bed before the door creaked open, revealing a tall, lanky youth with unruly brown hair and sharp, calculating eyes.
The boy looked at him once, scoffed lightly, and chose the other bed without a word.
Ashen said nothing.
It wasn't worth the trouble.
Friendships in the Outer School were fleeting, shallow things — most students saw each other as future competition, nothing more.
Ashen understood this well.
Trust was a luxury he could not afford.
---
After a hurried breakfast of plain porridge and bread, the Class D students gathered in the training yard.
Instructor Kairon, a grizzled middle-aged cultivator with a limp, stood waiting.
"Listen up, trash," he barked, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
"You are the bottom of the Outer School. No one expects anything from you. That said, the school needs laborers, servants, guards — even cannon fodder. If you can't climb, expect to be used."
A chill settled over the group.
Kairon grinned coldly.
"But if you can climb… even a dog can rise to be a lion. Today begins your physical strengthening. Fail, and you're expelled."
He tossed a thick iron rod onto the ground.
"Your task: swing this rod a thousand times before sunset. Full swings. No cheating. Anyone who collapses or quits… will be kicked out immediately."
Ashen looked at the rod.
It was heavy — easily ten kilograms, maybe more.
His heart sank.
---
The day became a blur of effort and pain.
Ashen gritted his teeth as he lifted the iron rod.
The first swings were manageable, almost easy.
But by the hundredth swing, his arms burned with fire.
By two hundred, his grip faltered with every lift.
By three hundred, the blisters on his hands had burst, blood mixing with sweat.
Around him, some students collapsed, gasping or weeping.
The instructors dragged them off without ceremony.
Ashen's vision blurred.
He could barely breathe.
The rod felt like a mountain in his hands.
"Why am I doing this?" a small voice whispered in his mind.
He thought back to his first night — the faint wisp of qi entering his body, the fragile, almost pathetic sensation of growth.
He thought of the Soul Merge ability inside him — silent, useless, burdensome.
He thought of Earth — the bustling cities, the warmth of his family, the life he could never return to.
Ashen clenched his jaw, the metal taste of blood flooding his mouth.
"Because there's no going back."
"Because here, strength is survival."
He raised the rod again.
And again.
And again.
---
When the sun finally dipped behind the training yard walls, Ashen collapsed to his knees.
His hands were a ruin of blood and torn flesh.
His arms hung limp at his sides.
But he had finished.
Exactly one thousand swings.
Instructor Kairon stood over him, eyes flickering with rare approval.
"Not bad, boy," he said, nudging Ashen with the tip of his boot.
"Remember this pain. If you survive long enough, you'll look back on today and laugh."
Ashen could only nod weakly, teeth clenched to hold back a groan.
---
That night, Ashen sat in the dormitory alone.
His roommate hadn't returned — probably still being "disciplined" for failing.
Ashen stared at his battered hands.
Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through his body.
Yet in the midst of the pain, there was a spark of something else — something new.
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, feeling inside himself.
There it was: a slightly stronger ember of qi, a little brighter than before.
Still small, still pitiful — but undeniably growing.
"This is real," he thought, heart pounding.
"I can get stronger."
---
In the days that followed, the training only grew harsher.
Basic body cultivation techniques were taught — methods to harden bones, toughen skin, reinforce muscles with spiritual energy.
Most students treated it like a chore, complaining constantly.
Ashen, however, absorbed every word, every lesson.
He practiced until his body trembled, until his mind blurred from exhaustion.
Because he knew: talent was not on his side.
Effort was all he had.
---
A month passed.
Ashen's body grew leaner, harder.
The once-impossible tasks became merely grueling.
He was still far from the top of Class D — stronger students from minor noble families outpaced him easily.
But he was no longer ignored.
Whispers began among the instructors:
"That one… stubborn little bastard."
"Could survive longer than most."
Ashen pretended not to hear.
He kept his head down.
He cultivated quietly at night, pouring hours into breathing techniques.
He made no friends.
He sought no alliances.
Trust was still a luxury he could not afford.
---
Yet, despite his growing strength, a seed of frustration gnawed at him.
He was progressing — but slowly.
Painfully slowly.
Meanwhile, rumors drifted down from the upper classes: tales of prodigies drawing in qi like rivers, breaking through cultivation stages in weeks.
Ashen bit his lip until it bled.
He knew he needed more.
A technique. A treasure. An opportunity.
Something to break free from mediocrity.
Something that could allow him to match — no, surpass — those born with genius.
But opportunities were rare in the Outer School.
The best treasures, the rarest manuals, the highest cultivation methods — all hoarded by the elite.
What could a lowborn boy, forgotten in the dregs of society, possibly obtain?
Ashen didn't know the answer.
Not yet.
But deep in his soul, where the Soul Merge ability slumbered, something faint stirred.
And in the distant future, a meeting with destiny awaited — hidden in the depths of a ruin no one dared to explore.
---