Long ago before the age of the titans, before the unification, and before Arilmark’s March—there were four islands and three continents; and at one island of particular interest, lived a boy and his father. They were members of a village, Lemiuth Village, a small fief held by a lord they had never saw and governed as if he had never existed. It was fraction of his demesne, with a thing like that being as it is, sometimes the villagers had forgotten their taxes went to someone at all.

But that’s not super important right now. What is…

“Inhale, boy.”

A hoarse voice said. This man towered over the child like an aged tree, and his scowl looked as if it was sculpted.

The one under his vigil nodded slightly from closed eyes. Grisla of the Grittus clan and member of the family Orlith, listened to his father’s instructions and inhaled. Their training room was barely lit (his father’s flair for the dramatic) and smelled of evergreens. His inhale was slow, slower than it should, slower than most could maintain. An inhale so audible it dominated the room; covered the circling footsteps of his watchful father. And then—

He held it in.

Grisla’s bare chest, inflated and proud, stood firm underneath the body’s demand for release. He vehemently denied surrender no matter how much it yelled at him. This was the first task, the simplest, there’s no way he would turn it in so early.

I’m going to do this.

But it felt like an eternity was asked of him. Although it was unutterable, he still begged inside for release. His father’s footsteps have not changed in the slightest. One foot forward, one tap of wood and another foot followed. Foot forward, tap of wood, follow. Again, and again until Grisla’s quivering was visible. He knew his son was falling out of consciousness, but that wasn’t important—not until his signal would he be allowed to take another breath.

It was a battle of will and stubbornness; or a desperate hope and last-chance.

Grisla could not go on, and before his lips parted—

A dictum was given: “Exhale.”

He stopped himself from exhaling less like it was relief, and more like a Cultivator focusing himself. A small snort was given, nothing would be missed by his father. However, that was unimportant. What was—the exhalation, of course. A bucket drained from him, the stress, pain, and whatever emotions that stifled his path washed themselves away in a polite exit. They would return eventually, but the breathing exercises of Cultivators worked for more than just the martial arts they practiced. Those who did not find use in the relief it gave.

An exhale diffused some of the fog that pervaded his thinking before coming here. Then his father repeated his instructions. In a cycle that had his chest lifting and relaxing, each rotation cutting away the cloudiness that occupied. Finally—he feels like he’s ready.

Without even knowing it his father had disappeared. Still he continued his exercise. There was no order to stop, and now that the rhythm was in it would feel awful to pause the motions. Like the pang you would get from putting a finger on a pendulum. It was not a long wait nor a short one for his father’s return, given away by the whine of the floorboards and the distinctiveness of his walk.

Grisla needed no instruction and opened his mouth wide. What he got was a sphere of perfect dimensions: its surface held reflections as if it were glass, yet it couldn’t be edible if it were so. A transparency was also a key visual for the strange ball, inside held a wispy and bold green that tumbled along its interior as if it were always in an outing on the playground. His father’s fingers released it; not a care if his son were to miss and choke on it, such a fate would be embarrassing enough to ask his son to die right away.

Grisla’s mouth snapped shut. This pill seared his mouth like a shovelful of peppers and wouldn’t dissipate in the least until it was fully digested and pushed through his meridians.

Now they rested in silence.

The braziers at a slow burn kept Gihren from meshing into the darkness. All his attention was sucked to his offspring, this boy of his. A head taller than his peers at fifteen, with hair that couldn’t be tamed but tied. He offered to cut it once, fearing that his son might be mistaken for a girl from behind; only to get rebuffed by Grisla. Even if he had not the energy for much else, he always had reserved a piece for his appearance.

The cold of this month had shown itself well, with gusts that were barred by their fortress of a home; however small breezes still made it through and partied everywhere within, even making it to the floor below and battling against the warmth hosted here. With cultivation there was no fear of the elements, the scrolls and legends tell of ancient warriors and enlightened men standing exposed to heat or chill; unfazed to all. Those were stories though, but there was some nugget of truth that with power, man can resist against nature.

But first, man must struggle against himself.

Grisla shuddered and screamed to break the silence. This was it! His father thought, running to his side and putting a hand at his chest. When he concentrated his spiritual sense to the action inside Grisla, he smiled. Every human is born with a body and soul, and inside of a soul there lies a core of Juva so concentrated it was physical. That is where every martial artist draws their strength from. The mythical and fantastical feats that go beyond peak human ability—were supplemented by Juva. The fastest man is only the second fastest when a martial artist appears. For this reason, martial talent is all.

Something was occurring, Gihren knew it. His son’s core which, to be frank, is a decrepit thing that looked like it was only a day away from crumbling; and one day away from his son being essentially a cripple. The Soul Cleansing pill he had scrounged up his savings to purchase was doing its work. His core was amid panic as it greedily drank the contents of the pill. And then, underneath Gihren’s watch—it went silent.

His boy’s screams faded too. With his eyes still closed and head hanging low Gihren had no idea what the situation is as he’s nothing close to a healer. The only thing that was in his power as of now—was to just pray and hope it all goes well.

When Grisla’s eyelids opened, Gihren saw no chance in the light of his, still, “Alright, now begin the steps for Earth shatters; Heaven quakes.”

“Father…” Grisla said.

“Did I misspeak? Do as I say.”

Grisla proceeded to perform the sequence of their fist art. He threw a punch with killing intent, succeeded by another. Their first patriarch and author of this work intended for those who spectated or were victims of this rapid flurry of attacks to be awed in its spectacle or curse their enemy. But… as Grisla performed the technique, Gihren’s eyebrow went lower and lower.

“Kah!” Grisla finished with a final punch. That controlled rhythm he had over his breathing before now sounded like a once-ago tale as he struggled to maintain himself.

Somewhere, an owl hooted in the distance. The cicadas performed an orchestra, just outside their doors and over frosted plains and snow-capped mountains that stood as landmarks for their hamlet. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t take too long for them to be forgotten as a footnote on someone’s account.

Gihren’s lips moved before his thoughts could stop it: “Trash.”

The boy’s head acted as if he were trying to dodge the barb, but it was futile. Whichever of the two felt the most humiliation? Couldn’t say. What had looked like an impressive display of force and finesse turned out to look no more different than a child’s flailing. What have I done to deserve this spite, oh heavens? Gihren mused.

Just one pill from their clan’s sole alchemist had cost him years of savings: savings that would come into play had they been banished or if he were to become incapable as a true cripple. A bleeding heart would be an understatement for his feelings. Ten years since his mother had vanished, four years since his defeat at the Exchange; at the same time nearly four since his son’s Juva deficiency had been discovered. At fifteen to be stuck at the sixth cycle of Juva Solidification was a shame, but not everyone was destined for greatness. The fourth? A tragedy. How about the first?

Put nicely, to the clan there wouldn’t be a loss if Grisla perished.

Which is why he squeezed himself dry of what he had in order to support his son, despite his inept body. For the early years he was able to carry the burden himself—he wasn’t too shabby in his cultivation, and his mother before her disappearance had amassed a small fortune of materials to use. But the well ran dry, and he had to throw himself out into the wilderness and work to fund Grisla’s future.

Made ever the more difficult—if not impossible, by his crippling.

Without a word to spare, he walked and disappeared out of the room. Leaving Grisla, alone.

I failed, again.

This was the second purchase of a Soul Cleansing pill, the first his father believed it was a fluke, he had to; the second Grisla knew he had to beg Elder Olimuth to sell it again. Whether he had the means to purchase goods or not meant nothing if the precious resources will be invested into someone like Grisla. And, if it weren’t for his father and mother’s prior status in the clan, he would have been exiled years ago.

Exiled, the thought of it burned him.

He closed his eyes to assess his core. Deep within himself, he saw a mote of light. Not quite solid; not quite formless either. If it were to die, it would be a fair assumption to think of himself as dead too. He tried to pull at it. Trying to bring forth something out of the well. The sweat was like a misting over his forehead. When he had a little bit of Juva gathered, he threw himself back into a horse stance.

But it won’t mean I’ll quit!

He tried Earth shatters; Heaven quakes, again. More force than he needed to like before, more effort than he thought was necessary for a such a simple skill with such a gaudy name tacked on it. But Grisla kicked himself; who was he to insult something when he had no platform to speak from? A fist and the next came; he didn’t need his father’s spectating to know of what it looked like. “Earth laughs; Heaven ignores,” would be a perfect naming.

He tried again. And again, and again, another time; another after the previous, this time with more scream and spirit to it. The feeling of failure felt so tangible it could be sipped. It was late now and if he stayed up any longer, he would have to make it up in another day. Grisla slid down a pillar, “Then again, what use is there in saving sleep when there’s no progress to look forward to? Will there be a difference if I had slept six hours instead of eight?”

His core had always took, but never gave. He can take some Juva out of his core, but then the energy would be so unstable and brittle it would dissipate in a short moment. Leaving him to wonder where had all that energy gone to in the first place.

Grisla dwelled on it, like he dwelled on everything of importance. Leaving him exposed as the world silently blurred in front of him, his body cutting its threads and he drifted to sleep right there backed up against the pillar.

To the west of Lemiuth, a thunderstorm brewed.