The Living Jade Sect was a world of vibrant green. Its cultivators drew power from the flow of life itself, their techniques mimicking the growth of ancient trees and the ferocity of wild beasts. A disciple’s talent was reflected in the vitality of their bonded spiritual plant or the strength of their companion beast. In this verdant world, Han Yu was a rock—barren, lifeless, and utterly out of place.
His Stone Root was a joke, a cosmic error. It had zero affinity for wood, water, or life-aspected Qi. While his peers could make spiritual herbs bloom with a touch, his presence seemed to make them wilt. At the annual Beast Bonding Ceremony, the spiritual beasts had actively avoided him as if he were a plague. At eighteen, he was still stuck at the second stage of Qi Condensation, a level most disciples surpassed before they were twelve.
His designated role in the sect reflected his uselessness: apprentice sculptor. He spent his days in a dusty workshop at the edge of the sect, chipping away at blocks of stone to carve decorative statues of past patriarchs and mythical beasts. It was a lonely, spirit-crushing existence.
The sting of his inadequacy was sharpest in the presence of Wei Chen. Wei Chen was the sect’s sun, blessed with the ‘Verdant Heart’ root and bonded to a majestic Jade-Eyed Lion, a powerful spirit beast that radiated an aura of vitality and strength.
“Still playing with rocks, Han Yu?” Wei Chen’s voice cut through the quiet solitude of the workshop. He stood at the entrance, his green and gold robes immaculate, his lion companion sitting faithfully by his side, its intelligent jade eyes regarding Han Yu with animalistic disdain.
Han Yu didn’t look up from the statue he was carving. He was working on a dragon, trying to capture the flow of its scales, a flow he could see but never feel.
“A carver should at least have some artistic spirit,” Wei Chen continued, walking around the workshop as if inspecting his territory. “But your statues are as lifeless as your root. There’s no soul in them.” He patted his lion’s powerful head. “True power lies in life. In growth. In a bond like this. Something you will never understand.”
The lion let out a low growl of agreement, the sound vibrating with suppressed spiritual power. Han Yu’s own Qi felt like a stagnant puddle in comparison. He clenched his chisel, his knuckles white. Soul. Wei Chen was right. His creations were just shaped stone. They had no soul.
“The Elder’s Council is discussing reassigning you to the mines,” Wei Chen said conversationally, his tone dripping with malice. “It’s a better fit for your talents. You and the rocks can be together all day.”
With a final, contemptuous smirk, he turned and left, his lion casting a long, powerful shadow that momentarily swallowed Han Yu. The words hung in the air, a death sentence for what little hope Han Yu had left. The mines were a place for those with no future, a life of hard labor until one’s body gave out.
A wave of despair and rage washed over him. He was tired of being useless, of being a walking stone. He let out a yell of pure frustration and slammed his palm against a small, unfinished clay figure of a man he’d been working on. He didn’t just hit it; he poured all of his pathetic, stagnant spiritual energy into it, his entire will, his despair, his anger—a desperate, final act of defiance against his own cursed fate.
The clay figure, no bigger than his hand, shuddered. And then, it moved. It stiffly, jerkily, lifted one of its clay arms. There was no flash of light, no surge of life energy. It was silent, unnerving, and utterly impossible. Han Yu stared, his anger evaporating into stunned disbelief. The clay figure stood on his workbench, its blank face turned towards him, a silent soldier awaiting its first command. He had failed to connect with life, but in his despair, he had just given birth to something else entirely.