Tian Hao groaned as the early morning sunlight, sharp and intrusive, pierced the opulent curtains of his chambers, stabbing at his eyes like tiny, golden needles.
He rolled over, burying his face in the plush silk pillow, a futile attempt to drown out the insistent call of the new day. His head pounded, a relentless drumbeat echoing the excesses of the previous night's revelry. Each pulse of pain was a sharp reminder of the copious amounts of wine he'd consumed.
"Ugh," he mumbled into the pillow, his voice thick with sleep and regret. "Note to self: pacing is key. Even on the hedonistic path, moderation seems to be a… relevant factor."
But there was no escaping the inevitable. The morning cultivation session loomed, a mandatory ritual he couldn't afford to skip, not if he wanted to maintain the pretense of a reformed young master.
He knew the eyes of the sect, particularly Elder Hua's, were upon him, scrutinizing his every move, waiting for him to falter, to revert to the wastrel they all expected him to be. Skipping a session would be akin to painting a target on his back, an invitation for further criticism and ridicule.
Dragging himself out of bed, the silken sheets clinging reluctantly to his skin, he stumbled towards the basin of water in the corner of the room. He splashed the cool water onto his face, the shock momentarily clearing the fog from his mind, the droplets clinging to his skin like tiny jewels. He glanced at his reflection in the polished surface of the water, grimacing at the sight of his disheveled appearance. His robes were wrinkled, his hair a tangled mess, and his eyes were still bloodshot, a clear testament to the previous night's indulgences.
"Well, at least I look the part of the unrepentant prodigal son," he muttered wryly, attempting a smile that felt more like a grimace.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame the unruly strands, before trying to force his robes into place, smoothing out the wrinkles as best he could. He knew he couldn't erase the evidence of his previous nights pursuits entirely, but at least he could make an effort to appear… somewhat presentable.
He hurried out of his chambers, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind him, and joined the stream of disciples making their way to the training courtyard. The crisp morning air, fragrant with the scent of pine and blooming lotus flowers, did little to dispel the lingering haze of the previous night's indulgences. The sunlight, bright and unforgiving, seemed to highlight every flaw, every imperfection, as if mocking his disheveled state.
As he stepped into the courtyard, the increasingly familiar weight of scrutiny settled upon him. He could feel the stares, the whispers, the veiled amusement and open disdain radiating from the assembled disciples. Their eyes flickered towards him like curious insects, drawn to the spectacle of the young master attempting to conform, their expressions a mix of amusement and anticipation. They were waiting for him to fail, to stumble, to prove them right. He was a source of entertainment, a jester in their otherwise serious world of cultivation.
Tian Hao tried to ignore them, his jaw tightening slightly as he fought to maintain a neutral expression. He took a spot near the back of the group, hoping to blend in, to become just another face in the crowd. He lowered himself onto the ground, attempting a cross-legged posture that felt awkward and unnatural, his limbs stiff and uncooperative. The silken robes, meant for lounging and luxury, bunched uncomfortably beneath him, a constant reminder of his discomfort in this setting.
Elder Han, his presence radiating a calm authority, at on a raised platform at the front of the courtyard, his gaze sweeping over the assembled disciples. He raised his voice, his words carrying clearly across the open space. "Disciples!" he announced, his tone firm but gentle. "Today, we will work on the foundations of channeling and breathing techniques. Remember, a strong foundation is the key to any successful cultivation journey." His eyes scanned the group, pausing briefly when they landed on Tian Hao. There was no judgment in his gaze, no hint of the disapproval Tian Hao had come to expect, only a quiet expectation, a silent encouragement.
Tian Hao swallowed, a nervous flutter in his stomach, and took a deep breath, his lungs protesting slightly as the cool air filled them. The lingering effects of the wine made his head swim slightly, and he found it hard to focus on Elder Han's instructions. He straightened his back as best he could, attempting to mimic the composed posture of the other disciples.
'Focus. This isn't partying, this is a performance. I know how to play along. Pretend to care for a few hours,' he told himself.
Elder Han began to demonstrate the breathing technique, his movements slow and deliberate, each inhale and exhale a precise, controlled flow of energy. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, his body a perfect example of disciplined control. The other disciples mirrored his movements with ease, their postures steady and composed, their breathing synchronized as if they were a single organism.
Tian Hao, however, struggled.
His attempt to sit cross-legged was far from graceful—his legs cramped painfully, refusing to bend properly, while his knees felt like they were made of stone. He shifted awkwardly, the silk of his robes slipping beneath him, causing him to lose his balance more than once. His foot even fell asleep at one point, sending pins and needles prickling up his leg, forcing him to shake it out, much to the amusement of the disciples nearby.
After several attempts to find a comfortable position, he ended up nearly toppling over, his arms jerking out wildly for balance. The disciple next to him stifled a snicker, quickly hiding his smile behind his sleeve. Tian Hao felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck, but he forced himself to ignore it, his lips twisting into a tight smile.
"Graceful, Tian Hao, very graceful," he thought wryly. Just blend in. Be a wallflower.
Closing his eyes, as instructed, he tried to focus on his breathing, on the flow of energy Elder Han described. But his mind, still clouded by the remnants of the previous night's indulgences, refused to cooperate. His thoughts, like unruly children, darted in a thousand different directions, refusing to settle on the task at hand. The pounding in his head made it impossible to find the quiet stillness Elder Han spoke of. Breathe in, breathe out. Feel the energy. Right.
He inhaled deeply, drawing the air into his lungs, but he held his breath too long, his chest tightening uncomfortably. He let it out in a loud, choking gasp, his body convulsing slightly, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent courtyard. A ripple of amusement spread through the nearby disciples, their stifled laughter like pinpricks against his already frayed composure.
"Pathetic," someone muttered under their breath, just loud enough for Tian Hao to hear.
He opened one eye, glancing sideways at the speaker. It was a young disciple with sharp features and an arrogant smirk, his eyes narrowed with disdain. Tian Hao recognized him vaguely from the fragmented memories of his predecessor – a minor rival, always eager to point out Tian Hao's shortcomings, a small, venomous snake basking in the young master's failures. Tian Hao resisted the urge to roll his eyes or offer a sarcastic retort. He knew any reaction would only fuel the amusement, solidify his image as the incompetent fool. Instead, he closed his eyes again, focusing on not falling over, on simply surviving the session with some semblance of dignity intact.
Elder Han's calm voice, resonant and soothing, carried over the courtyard, his words a gentle reminder, a guiding hand in the midst of Tian Hao's internal chaos. "Maintain your posture," he instructed. "Keep your breathing steady. Breathe deep into your lungs, filling them completely. Hold for a moment, then release slowly, feeling your internal energy flow through your meridians with each breath." His words were rhythmic, almost hypnotic, a counterpoint to the chaotic drumming in Tian Hao's head.
"Cultivation is about balance," Elder Han continued. "Remember the wisdom to overcome strength with softness (Yǐ róu kè gāng; 以柔克刚). Cultivation is not about brute force. Keep your back strong, but let your front remain soft, open to the flow of energy. It is through this balance of firmness and flexibility that you will find true strength."
Tian Hao bit back a groan, the effort to sit upright an agonizing strain on his aching muscles. He tried his best to mimic the steady, controlled rise and fall of Elder Han's chest, to emulate the effortless flow of energy he demonstrated.
He attempted to pull the air deep into his lungs, as instructed, but his body resisted, his breath catching in his throat, his lungs seemingly shrinking with each attempt. His efforts felt clumsy, forced, a pale imitation of the effortless grace displayed by the other disciples. He could almost hear the quiet, steady flow of energy in Elder Han's breath, a gentle hum that resonated through the courtyard, while his own attempts felt more like sputtering embers, struggling to ignite.
He listened, focused on the slow rise and fall of breaths from those around him, but after he nearly fell asleep he opened his eyes, focusing his attention on not falling backward into a snoring disgrace.
The session stretched on, each minute an agonizing eternity, each mistake earning him another look, another whisper, another suppressed chuckle from the surrounding disciples. He was a spectacle, a source of amusement, a living embodiment of everything they weren't. He felt their judgment like a physical weight, pressing down on him, suffocating him.
Just a little longer. Just get through this.
By the time Elder Han finally dismissed them, Tian Hao's legs were numb, his back ached, and his pride was bruised and battered.
He slowly rose to his feet, wincing as he stretched his sore muscles, his body protesting every movement. The other disciples dispersed quickly, many still casting amused glances his way, their whispers trailing behind them like lingering wisps of smoke. He caught snippets of conversation – his name followed by words like "lazy," "hopeless," and "disgrace."
He forced a smile, his lips tight and strained, pretending not to care, pretending to be unaffected by their ridicule. He turned and made his way out of the courtyard, his steps slow and deliberate, each movement an effort to maintain some semblance of dignity, to mask the exhaustion and frustration that threatened to overwhelm him.
As he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was an imposter, a fraud in this world of cultivation, a pretender to a throne he had no right to occupy. He was, now, Tian Hao, the young master, and yet he felt more like a lost soul, adrift in a sea of unfamiliar expectations.