The morning sun broke through the storm-laden sky, casting light upon the filth-strewn streets. Lucian Voss lay sprawled against the cold stone wall of a crumbling alleyway, his body aching from the torment he had inflicted upon it the night before. His limbs were heavy, his breath shallow, but his mind burned with a singular, unshakable thought.
Again.
Pain was no stranger to him. He had known it since the day he first learned that the world did not grant kindness to those born with nothing. But this time, pain was not his enemy. It was his path forward.
Lucian forced himself to stand, his legs trembling beneath him. His fingers traced the surface of the scroll once more, the ancient symbols still shifting and pulsing with an eerie glow.
"Pain is the chisel. The body is the stone. Only through carving away weakness does one become unbreakable."
The words etched themselves into his mind. The first stage of cultivation, Tempering the Vessel, required complete destruction of the body's limits. He had barely scratched the surface.
His stomach growled. Hunger clawed at him, a beast gnawing at his insides. He had not eaten in nearly two days, yet he knew that giving in to such weakness would only delay his progress.
And so, he began again.
A Battle Against Flesh
He pushed himself into the unforgiving cobblestone, his arms trembling beneath the weight of his own exhaustion. His muscles screamed for rest, his vision blurred, but he refused to stop.
One push-up.
Two.
Three.
Fifty.
Seventy.
By the time he collapsed, his arms were numb, his body trembling violently. But he did not stop.
He pulled himself up and began again.
Each repetition was agony. Each movement a war against his own limitations. His body begged for reprieve, but Lucian knew mercy had no place on this path.
By the time he could do no more, the sun had long since risen. He could barely lift himself, his breaths ragged, his muscles refusing to obey. But beneath the exhaustion, there was something new.
Power.
It was faint, almost unnoticeable, but it was there. A whisper of strength that had not existed the day before. His body, though broken, was rebuilding itself. Stronger. Tougher.
And it would only grow from here.
The Hunt for Sustenance
Lucian knew he could not push forward without sustenance. Strength required fuel, and if he wished to reach even the first threshold of power, he needed to eat.
But food was a luxury he could not afford.
He staggered into the marketplace, his ragged appearance drawing sneers from the merchants and nobles who passed by. A street rat like him had no place in their world. But that did not matter.
Because Lucian had no intention of begging.
His sharp eyes scanned the stalls, searching for opportunities. He had stolen before—countless times. But now, theft was no longer an act of desperation. It was a test of skill.
His gaze locked onto a stall overflowing with dried meats and bread. The vendor, a burly man with a thick beard, was busy arguing with a customer, his attention divided.
Lucian took his chance.
His movements were swift, calculated. A single step forward, a precise flick of the wrist, and a loaf of bread was in his hands. Another step, a moment of hesitation as the vendor turned, then a second movement—smooth, effortless. A small bundle of dried meat disappeared into his tattered cloak.
And then he was gone, slipping into the alleyway before the merchant even realized something was missing.
He exhaled. His heart pounded, but a smirk tugged at his lips.
"Strength is not only forged in battle. It is honed in the mind, in the hands, in every decision."
He was beginning to understand.
Feeding the Fire
Lucian tore into the bread, his body devouring it with desperate hunger. The dried meat was tougher, but he chewed through it methodically, savoring every bite.
He would never waste food. Not a single scrap.
Too many times had he watched others starve, seen the corpses of those who had been too weak to survive. He knew what hunger could do to a man.
He would not fall victim to it again.
As he ate, he focused inward. The scroll had described something called Inner Perception—the ability to feel the flow of energy within the body. It was the first true test of a cultivator.
Lucian closed his eyes, steadying his breath. He reached into himself, searching for that flicker of power he had sensed before.
At first, there was nothing.
Then… a spark.
A warmth, deep in his core. Faint, but undeniable.
He focused on it, willed it to move. It resisted, sluggish, untrained. But as he continued, he felt it stir, like embers in a dying fire being coaxed back to life.
This… this was cultivation.
A grin spread across his face.
He had taken another step forward.
The First Opponent
The peace did not last.
A shadow fell over him.
"You've got guts, street rat."
Lucian's eyes snapped open, his body instantly on edge.
Standing before him was a gang of three—filthy, scarred men who ruled the slums with cruelty and violence. Thieves who preyed on the weak, who took whatever they pleased.
They had seen him steal.
And they wanted what he had.
Lucian rose slowly, his body still aching, but his mind sharper than ever. He knew how this worked. There would be no reasoning, no mercy.
Only survival.
The leader sneered. "Hand it over. All of it."
Lucian met his gaze, unflinching. "No."
The thug's grin widened. "Wrong answer."
He lunged.
Lucian moved.
His body screamed in protest, still weak from training, but he forced it to obey. He ducked low, avoiding the first blow, then drove his fist into the man's ribs. The impact was weak—he had no real strength yet—but it was enough to stagger him.
The other two closed in. Lucian twisted, his mind racing. He had no weapon, no formal training. But he had instincts.
He kicked the second thug's knee, sending him stumbling. The third swung a dagger—Lucian barely dodged, feeling the blade slice through the air just inches from his skin.
He needed an advantage.
Then he saw it—a loose wooden plank beside the alley wall.
Without hesitation, he grabbed it, swinging it with all his strength. It cracked against the leader's skull, sending him sprawling.
The others hesitated.
Lucian did not.
He lunged forward, slamming his knee into one of their stomachs, then drove his elbow into the other's jaw.
They fell.
A second passed. Then another.
Lucian stood over their crumpled bodies, his breath ragged, his muscles burning.
He had won.
It was not skill. It was not power.
It was sheer, unrelenting will.
As he looked down at the unconscious men, a single thought burned in his mind.
"This is only the beginning."