Chapter 1: Cursed Child

In Xiangfeng Village, winter lingered late, nipping at the toes of those too poor for proper shoes. Frost silvered the crooked rooftops, while morning mist clung to the lonely mountains flanking the fields. Amid this biting cold, a boy knelt by a shallow creek, scrubbing the last flecks of dirt from a battered potato. His name was Jiang Wei—the one the villagers whispered about.

“He’s cursed,” sneered old Aunt Liu as she herded her grandchildren away. “Misfortune follows wherever he treads.”

Jiang Wei kept his eyes on the water. He was used to it—the glares, the murmurs, the way motherless children learned to keep their heads down. For all their talk, none dared approach him. It was easier to blame a strangeness they didn’t understand than to witness suffering they didn’t want to acknowledge.

Numb fingers ran over the leather cord at his wrist. Strung on it was a small, smooth pebble—the only thing his late mother left him, aside from rumors and a legacy of hardship. He’d never understood what comfort she found in it, but in lonely moments he would close his palm over it, and sometimes, just sometimes, he felt less lost.

A gust of wind swept through the village, rattling shutters. Somewhere on the other side of town, a bell tolled—a rare event that found even the most stubbornly superstitious shuffling from their homes. Word spread quickly: the Iron Banner Sect was recruiting.

As people gathered, Jiang Wei hovered by the edge of the crowd. Two disciples in crisp gray robes unfurled a scroll, their expressions bored. They called forth the young and able—a formality, no doubt; no one expected a talent from this forgotten place.

One by one, hopeful children placed their hands on the recruitment crystal. Dull, flickering lights. Disappointment, as always. When it was nearly over, one disciple glanced his way.

“What about him?” she asked.

Her companion scoffed, but she persisted. “Even the lowest root can sprout, under the right rain.”

Jiang Wei stepped forward, ignoring the mutters. He pressed his hand to the cold surface. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, a faint, flickering pulse—pale as dawn, but mysterious. The elders exchanged wary glances. The crowd recoiled.

A strange chill swept into his bones. For a moment, the world vanished. In that silent space, an ageless voice whispered from the pebble at his wrist: “Soon, you must awaken.”

He jerked back to reality, gasping. The disciples conferred, then beckoned him forward. "A rare, odd reaction," one muttered. "Worth observing," said the other.

As midnight fell over Xiangfeng Village, Jiang Wei packed the few things he owned. He glanced once at the darkened hills, remembering the stories his mother told—a forgotten throne, battles that shattered heaven, the legend of the Ashen Monarch. No one believed her, but tonight even his doubts trembled.

His journey had begun. Though none in the village would see him off, the pebble was warm in his palm, and in the wind he heard a voice that was old as time: "Destiny does not bloom in safe soil. Go, Jiang Wei."

And so, beneath a sky washed clean by winter winds, a cursed boy set forth—not knowing he would shake the universe to its foundation.

Chapter 2: The Stone’s Whisper

The road away from Xiangfeng Village was little more than a muddy track winding through ancient pines and hidden rocks. In the pale dawn, Jiang Wei’s every step was accompanied by the creak of his battered pack and the distant caw of a lone crow. He dared not look back—what awaited behind was rumor and isolation. Ahead lay uncertainty, but also the faint promise of change.

The Iron Banner Sect’s disciples led the small party of chosen youths in near silence. Most shuffled with wide-eyed nerves, clutching travel satchels or glancing longingly homeward. Jiang Wei walked at the rear, eyes downcast, fingers absently rolling the pebble on his wrist. Despite the cold, the stone felt strangely warm—a quiet, persistent heartbeat echoing with each stride.

Before noon, the party halted at a sharp bend overlooking a roaring river. One of the gray-robed disciples, Senior Sister Wen, turned to survey the gathered hopefuls. “This is the Crossing,” she announced. The wind tangled her hair, but her gaze was steady. “For a cultivator, the first trial is always to face the unknown. The path ahead is not for the faint of heart.”

The disciples beckoned for each child to approach the river’s edge. A slender wooden plank lay across the torrent—slick, perilous. One after another, the children attempted the crossing, some trembling, others spurred by pride. A few faltered, clinging to the disciples’ hands; none fell, but shame burned in several faces.

Jiang Wei’s turn came. As he stepped onto the wavering plank, the world contracted to a narrow strip above churning gray water. Fear chewed at his resolve. His fingers tightened unconsciously over the stone. A whisper, subtle as a sigh, curled within his mind: *“You have crossed deeper rivers than this. Walk forward.”*

He took a breath and moved, one step at a time, letting the stone’s presence anchor him amid the dizzying noise of the waves. Each stride felt surer, lighter, until his feet found solid ground on the far bank. Only then did he realize Senior Sister Wen was watching with a sidelong smile.

As the group continued, the journey grew more arduous. The mountain path steepened, shadows lengthened, and exhaustion gnawed at muscles and spirit alike. Yet, as dusk fell, a distant glow rose above the tree line—the outer gates of Iron Banner Sect, girded in copper and blue fire. Hope shivered through the group.

Camp was made beneath the stars; the children curled beside small fires, lulled by aching bones and quiet dreams. Jiang Wei lay awake, staring into the dark, the stone still warm against his skin. That night, its whispers grew clearer—a memory of a throne veiled in mist, laughter like thunder, and a single command: *“Survive. If you would claim your fate, outlast the night.”*

He closed his eyes, heart racing—not from fear, but for the first time, the quiet pulse of promise.

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Chapter 3: The Gates of Iron Banner

The sun was just a memory behind the thickening clouds as Jiang Wei trudged up the winding mountain road. Fog coiled between the ancient pines, muting the cries of the birds as he and the other village youths followed the Iron Banner Sect’s disciples toward the legendary gates. Each step was measured and heavy, exhaustion fighting every muscle, but a deep and growing fire in Jiang Wei’s chest urged him onward. The stone on his wrist was still warm, like a heart quietly beating in the gloom.

At last, the trees thinned, revealing the crest of the ridge—and beyond it, the Iron Banner Sect itself. Its outer wall stood tall, built of dense coppery stone that shimmered with ethereal blue lanterns. The massive sect gates—engraved with banners that seemed to flutter even in still air—loomed ahead, guardians between the mundane and the world of wonders that lay within.

Senior Sister Wen, now traveling at the front, called the recruits to halt a dozen paces from the archway. Her expression was solemn, voice ringing as she addressed them. “From this moment,” she declared, “your ties to the mortal dust are cut. If you still wish to turn back, do so now. Within these walls, only effort and destiny rule your days.”

No one moved. Jiang Wei’s hand wandered unconsciously to the pebble at his wrist. He remembered his mother’s stories—of heroes and emperors, secret legacies blooming under distant suns. But this was no longer a story. It was a threshold, and he was crossing it.

An elderly watchman, his back straight as a sword, awaited them beyond the flame-lit arch. In one gnarled hand, he held a bamboo scroll; with the other, he beckoned each youth forward to announce their name. When Jiang Wei’s turn came, the man’s sharp gaze flickered to the pebble tied to his wrist.

“What’s that trinket, boy?” the watchman grunted, voice torn by years.

Jiang Wei met the old man’s gaze with quiet obstinacy. “Just a keepsake,” he replied, voice soft.

The watchman’s mouth twitched, perhaps in disapproval, but he merely nodded and wrote Jiang Wei’s name on the scroll. “Many come with only memories,” he said, almost to himself. “Keep yours close, but keep your wits closer.”

Within the gates, the world bloomed into color and chaos. Colonnades wrapped around vast open courts, where disciples—some barely older than Jiang Wei—practiced sword forms and complicated movements in flawless synchrony. Banners shook in the mountain breeze, bearing the marks of different sect branches. Scent of incense mixed with woodsmoke drifted on the air, familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

“Gather here!” called Senior Sister Wen. She led the new arrivals into a circle near the base of a tall pavilion, where a stern-faced elder stood behind a lacquered table.

He distributed the tools of a novice disciple: a coarse gray robe with the Iron Banner stitched at the breast, a wooden identity tag, and a slip of parchment denoting their assignment—outer disciple.

“You are the lowest eaves of this house,” intoned the elder. “But remember: eaves are what shelter the beams. Faith, sweat, and iron will may win you the right to climb—but sloth will see you swept into the gutter.”

The group bowed and dispersed, each recruit now part of the sect’s endless tide. Jiang Wei was assigned to a dormitory with three peers: Yao Ping, a barrel-chested boy with small, bright eyes; Han Zhi, as thin and nervous as a startled fox; and Ming Xue, whose short hair and fierce, defiant glare announced her refusal to be overlooked.

Their dwelling was spare and cold, four bunks beneath lattice windows frosted with mist. As they stowed what little they owned, Yao Ping thumped himself onto a bed and immediately began to chatter. “We made it,” he said, grinning. “They can tell I’ll be an inner disciple soon! My uncle always said—”

Ming Xue cut him off with a dry snort. “Inner sect? Don’t make me laugh. Survive the first month and you’ll be luckier than most.” She tossed her small bundle onto a bunk and folded her arms, eyeing the others as if judging the pecking order.

Han Zhi gave a wan smile and whispered, “Do you think we’ll get decent food here? Or will it be like in the village?”

Jiang Wei almost smiled at the question. He had left hunger and humiliation behind, he hoped, but the uncertainty in Han Zhi’s voice reminded him of everyone left behind. “We’ll find out soon,” he said.

A bell echoed over the compound—sonorous, deep. “Dinner,” muttered Ming Xue, already standing. “Try not to look too lost.”

They followed their fellow disciples along winding stone paths toward a vast dining hall. The smell of rice and bitter greens drew grumbles from more than one stomach. Within, groups sorted themselves by subtle codes: veterans near the front, newcomers crowded at battered tables along the sides.

Jiang Wei kept quiet, observing the social currents. At the center, senior disciples wore robes white at the collar and red at the hem. They laughed together in clusters, ignoring the new arrivals. Among the outer disciples, subtle rivalries had already begun—furtive glances, sniffed derision.

Food was served in rough clay bowls, simple but filling. As he ate, Jiang Wei found a strange comfort in the unspoken camaraderie of the disgraced and determined. *We are all hoping for something,* he thought. *Even if we cannot say it aloud.*

That night, back in the dormitory, the haze of fatigue finally caught up to him. Yao Ping and Han Zhi were snoring in moments, but Ming Xue lay awake longer, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if memorizing every knot in the wood. Jiang Wei, for his part, closed his eyes but could not find rest.

Instead, the pebble at his wrist grew warm, almost hot. In the darkness, visions came—not dreams but memories: roaring banners, armies kneeling before a shadowed throne, a voice ancient as the world: *Strength is earned. Those who rise must first endure the valley of bones.*

His heart pounded, but he did not shrink from the images. They were not terror, but promise.

Before dawn’s first call, Jiang Wei was up, silent as a fox, slipping through the half-lit courtyard to breathe the mountain air. Tomorrow, the real cultivation would begin—training, hardship, the struggle just to be noticed. But for now, he was content just to stand at the threshold.

No longer a cursed child of a forgotten village, but an aspiring disciple on the edge of legend.

His journey, and the world’s, was only beginning.