In the Xiantian realm, a place where immortals lived in grand sects above the clouds, Lin Feng was an anomaly. He was not born with a heavenly bloodline, nor did he belong to a prestigious clan. Instead, he came from a small, forgotten village nestled between towering mountain ranges. His life was defined by struggle—both against his own limitations and the overwhelming powers of those around him.
The village of Greenleaf was a simple place, where people lived by the sweat of their brow. They grew crops, hunted game, and carved out a humble existence far from the lofty ambitions of the powerful sects. For Lin Feng, however, the village was a prison, a constant reminder of how small and powerless he was in the grand scheme of the world.
His father, Lin Tian, had once been a respected soldier in the Northern Army, fighting valiantly on the front lines against demonic beasts. But a crippling injury had forced him to retire to the remote village, where he had met Lin Feng's mother. Before passing away in battle when Lin Feng was just a boy, Lin Tian had taught his son the basics of swordsmanship. These lessons were Lin Feng's most cherished memories, though he knew deep down that they were rudimentary compared to the profound techniques practiced by the cultivators of the sects.
Every night, after days spent gathering wood, hunting in the forest, or helping the villagers with their chores, Lin Feng trained alone under the moonlight. His sword, a relic of his father's past, was worn and rusted, but it was his only companion in this harsh world. The blade was heavy in his hand, the weight of it a constant reminder of the responsibilities he bore. Each swing was a declaration of defiance against the life that seemed determined to hold him down.
Yet, despite years of effort, Lin Feng found himself stagnating at the peak of the Mortal Realm, unable to take that crucial step into the Xiantian Realm where true immortals began their journey. He practiced tirelessly, meditated endlessly, and even experimented with rudimentary cultivation techniques he had pieced together from fragments of old scrolls. But his progress was excruciatingly slow.
The villagers pitied him but often mocked him behind his back, calling him the "forever struggler." Even the children whispered about how Lin Feng was chasing an impossible dream, clinging to his broken sword and shattered pride. He ignored their words, but the wounds they inflicted on his spirit ran deep.
One fateful night, Lin Feng stood at the edge of the village's training grounds, an open clearing surrounded by tall trees. The moon was high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the land. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He had been practicing for hours, pushing himself to the limit.
"Just one more swing," he muttered to himself, gripping his sword tightly. His muscles burned with exhaustion, but he refused to stop. "Just one more…"
As he raised his blade, a rustling in the nearby bushes caught his attention. Lin Feng froze, his instincts honed from years of hunting. Slowly, he turned toward the sound, sword raised. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a figure emerging from the shadows.
It was Zhang Wei, a disciple of the Thunder Cloud Sect. Zhang Wei had been visiting Greenleaf for the past month, tasked with overseeing the village as part of his sect's duties. He was young, arrogant, and reveling in the superiority his status as a sect disciple afforded him. To the villagers, he was a figure of awe and envy. To Lin Feng, he was a constant source of humiliation.
"Well, well," Zhang Wei drawled, his lips curling into a smirk. His robes shimmered faintly with the power of his cultivation, the lightning insignia of his sect glowing proudly on his chest. "Still out here, swinging that rusty sword of yours? Tell me, Lin Feng, do you really think this is going to get you anywhere?"
Lin Feng said nothing, his grip tightening on his sword. He had learned long ago that responding to Zhang Wei's taunts only made things worse.
Zhang Wei chuckled, stepping closer. "You're pathetic, you know that? You've been training for how many years now? And yet, here you are, still stuck at the Mortal Realm. It's almost sad. Almost."
Lin Feng forced himself to stay calm, though his heart was pounding with anger and frustration. He knew Zhang Wei was right in many ways—without a proper cultivation method or resources, he had no chance of reaching the heights of the sect disciples. But that didn't mean he would give up.
Zhang Wei's eyes gleamed with amusement as he unsheathed his sword. It was a magnificent blade, its surface crackling with arcs of lightning. The weapon radiated power, a stark contrast to Lin Feng's battered relic.
"Why don't I help you realize the futility of your efforts?" Zhang Wei said, his tone mocking. Before Lin Feng could react, Zhang Wei lunged forward, his sword slicing through the air with incredible speed.
Lin Feng barely managed to block the strike, the force of it reverberating through his arms. Zhang Wei's attacks came relentlessly, each one faster and more precise than the last. Lin Feng tried to defend himself, but it was like trying to hold back a storm with a wooden shield.
"Is this all you've got?" Zhang Wei sneered as his blade struck again, sending sparks flying as it clashed against Lin Feng's. "You've been swinging that sword for years, and this is the best you can do? Pathetic."
Lin Feng gritted his teeth, his body moving on instinct as he dodged and parried. But Zhang Wei was too strong, too fast. In one devastating blow, Zhang Wei shattered Lin Feng's sword, the rusted blade breaking into pieces. Lin Feng was sent crashing to the ground, his breath knocked out of him.
Zhang Wei stood over him, his sword pointed at Lin Feng's throat. "Remember this feeling," he said coldly. "This is what it means to be weak. You'll never rise above your station, Lin Feng. No matter how hard you try, you'll always be nothing."
With those parting words, Zhang Wei sheathed his sword and walked away, leaving Lin Feng lying in the dirt. The broken remnants of his sword lay scattered around him, glinting faintly in the moonlight.
Lin Feng stared up at the stars, his body aching, his pride shattered. For a long time, he lay there, unable to move, unable to think. The world felt impossibly vast, and he was nothing more than a speck of dust, powerless and insignificant.
But even in his darkest moment, Lin Feng refused to surrender. Tears welled in his eyes, but he clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. Somehow, some way, he would find a way to break free from his fate. He didn't know how, but he swore to himself that he would not remain weak forever.
The night stretched on, the moon watching silently as Lin Feng rose to his knees, then to his feet. He gathered the broken pieces of his sword, holding them tightly in his hands. They were a reminder of everything he had lost—but also of everything he still had to fight for.
Lin Feng's journey was just beginning, and he knew it would be fraught with pain and hardship. But he would not stop. Not until he had carved his name into the heavens themselves.