Author question: Can you be sure I exist? Maybe I am just a figment of your imagination
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The Celestial Radiance Sect prided itself on being one of the most prestigious sects in the region. Its disciples trained in radiant cultivation techniques meant to emulate the purity and power of celestial flames. Strength, precision, and control were the sect's core tenets, but none of these ideals were extended to Liang Feng anymore. His curse had marked him as an outcast, an unwelcome blemish on the sect's otherwise flawless reputation.
The sect's training grounds were bustling with activity as disciples paired off to spar under the watchful eyes of Elder Wen and a few senior disciples. The air was filled with the sharp clang of steel meeting steel, the occasional grunt of exertion, and bursts of spiritual energy crackling like firecrackers.
"Liang Feng, step forward," Elder Wen commanded, his voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument.
Liang approached the center of the training circle, his heart steady but his jaw tight. He could already hear the whispers.
"Why does Elder Wen even bother with him?"
"He's just a punching bag for the others at this point."
"It's only a matter of time before the sect sends him away for good."
The words grated against him, but Liang had learned long ago not to react. He stood tall, his expression calm, his focus entirely on the elder.
"You'll spar with Wei Han," Elder Wen announced, gesturing toward the crowd.
Wei Han strode forward, his movements confident and his smirk sharp enough to cut. The senior disciple was everything Liang was not—praised, powerful, and unburdened by any flaws. Wei's talent with flame techniques was second only to his penchant for cruelty, and he had made Liang the target of his mockery since the day Liang's curse was revealed.
The crowd grew silent as the two disciples faced each other. Wei Han's smirk deepened as he took his stance, his aura blazing to life with golden light. Liang mirrored the stance, though his cursed flame remained dormant, hidden within him. He knew better than to unleash it here—it would only earn him more derision.
"Ready?" Elder Wen asked.
Wei's eyes gleamed. "Oh, I've been ready."
The elder's hand dropped, signaling the start of the match.
Wei moved first, his blade slicing through the air with a precision that spoke of years of relentless training. Liang met the strike with his own blade, the clash of steel ringing out across the training grounds. For a moment, the two seemed evenly matched, their movements a blur of speed and skill.
But it didn't last.
Wei feinted left, then struck right, his blade catching Liang off guard and grazing his arm. Liang hissed as pain bloomed, but he refused to falter. He stepped back, adjusting his grip on the sword, his breathing steady despite the blood now staining his sleeve.
"You're slow," Wei said, his voice loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Maybe that curse of yours is weighing you down."
Laughter rippled through the onlookers, but Liang blocked it out. He focused on Wei's movements, on the rhythm of his strikes, searching for an opening.
Their blades clashed again and again, but Wei had the upper hand. He was faster, stronger, and unburdened by a flame that drained his life force with every passing moment. Still, Liang fought on, each strike a testament to his resilience.
"You know, Liang," Wei said, his tone mocking, "I've always wondered why the sect keeps you around. You're a liability, plain and simple. A ticking time bomb just waiting to go off."
Liang didn't respond. He couldn't afford to waste his breath on words when every ounce of his energy was needed to keep up with Wei's relentless assault.
The match reached its tipping point when Wei feinted again, this time aiming a strike at Liang's legs. Liang moved to block, but his cursed flame chose that moment to flare wildly, disrupting his focus. Wei's blade struck true, knocking Liang off his feet and onto the ground.
The crowd erupted into cheers for Wei and jeers for Liang.
"Get up, cursed one!" someone shouted.
"Doesn't he know when to quit?"
Wei stepped back, lowering his sword as he looked down at Liang. "Pathetic," he said. "You're not even worth the effort."
Liang pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. His shoulder throbbed where Wei's blade had struck, and his legs felt like lead, but he refused to stay down. He wiped the dirt from his robes, his expression calm despite the fire of humiliation burning within him.
Elder Wen approached, his face unreadable. "That's enough," he said, his tone firm. "Wei Han, you're dismissed. Liang, remain here."
Wei shot Liang one last smug grin before walking off, the crowd dispersing to give him congratulations and praise. Liang remained where he was, his gaze fixed on the ground as Elder Wen stopped in front of him.
"You lack control," the elder said, his voice low enough that only Liang could hear. "That flame of yours—if you can't master it, it will destroy you. And if it destroys you, it could harm this sect as well. Do you understand?"
Liang nodded, though he didn't trust himself to speak. He knew the elder's words weren't born of concern for him but rather for the sect's reputation. If Liang's cursed flame spiraled out of control, it would reflect poorly on the Celestial Radiance Sect.
"I suggest you spend more time in meditation," Elder Wen continued. "Focus on controlling that flame of yours, or you'll have no place here."
With that, the elder turned and walked away, leaving Liang alone in the center of the training grounds. He remained there for a moment, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight.
Around him, the world moved on. Disciples resumed their sparring, their laughter and conversation a constant hum in the background. No one spared him a second glance.
Liang took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs before releasing it slowly. His cursed flame flickered faintly in his palm, a reminder of the power that set him apart—and the curse that ensured he would always stand alone.
He turned and walked away from the training grounds, his steps steady despite the pain in his shoulder and the weight of his humiliation. As he left, the whispers followed him, but he ignored them.
Let them talk, he thought. Words couldn't change his fate, but perhaps his actions could.