The boot connected with Kiet’s ribs, a dull thud echoing through the dense undergrowth of the Spiritwood Forest. He crumpled to the damp earth, a gasp stolen by the impact, the taste of soil and blood filling his mouth. Above him, the sneering face of Jiran, an outer disciple whose progress had barely scraped into the first realm of Qi Flow, loomed like a predatory bird. Two of Jiran’s cronies, their faces equally contorted in contempt, stood ready to continue the beating. Kiet coughed, a spray of crimson misting the leaves. His energy channels, once vibrant pathways of force, were now fractured conduits, rendering his own Qi useless. He was weaker than a common field hand, left to endure the cruelty of those who saw his brokenness as an invitation to torment. “Still breathing, you waste?” Jiran spat, nudging Kiet’s side with his foot. “Elder Rivan’s precious protégé. More like his precious trash. You couldn’t even hold a sword correctly, much less cultivate.” Kiet’s vision swam, the verdant canopy above blurring into an indistinct swirl. He tried to push himself up, but nausea wrenched his gut and pulled him back down. This was it, then. Left for dead in a forgotten corner of the forest, another nameless failure at Azure Peak. But as darkness threatened to claim him, a flicker—cold, ancient, utterly alien—ignited deep in his core. It was not Kiet’s flicker. Kiet’s spirit was a dying ember. This was a roaring inferno, a primordial consciousness rousing from a millennia-long slumber. The pain, the humiliation, the sheer impotence of the boy’s body—it all registered, not as Kiet’s suffering, but as an affront to something vast and terrible. The world snapped into sharp, brutal focus. The rustling leaves, the distant call of a mountain griffin, the rank scent of decaying earth, and the crude, immature Qi signatures of the three youths above him. Jiran’s foot was still pressing into Kiet’s side, but now, a gaze that had witnessed the birth and death of stars, a consciousness that had commanded legions of demons, settled upon the young bully. The dull, pain-filled eyes of Kiet now held a glacial depth that seemed to bore into Jiran’s very soul. Jiran’s sneer faltered. A faint tremor ran through his body. He had seen Kiet’s pathetic attempts at defiance countless times, but this… this was different. The boy’s eyes, usually clouded with despair, were now portals to an abyss. He instinctively recoiled, his foot lifting from Kiet’s ribs. “What are you staring at, cripple?” Jiran managed, his voice losing some of its earlier swagger, replaced by an edge of unease. His cronies shifted nervously, sensing the sudden shift in the air. Slowly, deliberately, the presence possessing Kiet’s body pushed itself upright, not with a struggle, but with a terrifying, measured grace. Dust and leaves clung to his threadbare outer disciple robes. His hands, small and bruised, trembled not from weakness, but from the unfamiliarity of such a fragile vessel. He looked at them, then back at Jiran. “Such meager Qi,” a voice rasped, not Kiet’s reedy whisper, but one imbued with the resonance of countless ages, vibrating with a suppressed power that made the very air thicken. “A child’s toy. You call this strength?” Jiran scoffed, trying to regain his composure, but his eyes darted around, searching for an escape. “What are you babbling about? You’re a fractured wreck, you hear me? A piece of trash nobody even bothers to clean up!” The Asura Sovereign, Vuong, in Kiet’s broken shell, merely tilted his head. The boy’s tattered sleeve fell back, revealing the thin, scarred arm. Vuong focused. He had no need to train this pathetic body, nor did he need to mend these ruined channels to exert his will. His supremacy resided in the soul, a domain these ants couldn’t even fathom. He reached out, not physically, but with an unseen tendril of soul-force, weaving through the ambient essence of the forest, brushing against the three boys. Jiran cried out, not from a blow, but from an internal violation. His Qi, the nascent energy he had so painstakingly gathered, began to churn violently in his chest. It didn’t flow, it writhed, coiling back on itself, burning with an intense, suffocating heat. His face flushed crimson, then mottled with pale patches. His inner reservoir, a small pond for these outer disciples, felt like it was being torn apart from the inside. He staggered back, clutching his chest, a gurgling sound escaping his throat. His two cronies, witnessing their leader’s sudden agony, hesitated. One of them, a lanky youth, charged forward, drawing a practice wooden blade. “You demonic freak! What did you do to him?” Vuong didn’t even glance at him. Instead, his frigid gaze fixed on the other crony, a squat boy named Rann. Rann felt a sudden, bone-chilling cold bloom in his stomach, spreading through his limbs, turning his blood to sludge. His Qi froze, solidifying into inert crystals that grated against his meridians. He collapsed, shivering uncontrollably, a whimper tearing from his lips. His teeth knocked together so violently he thought they would splinter. The lanky youth, midway through his charge, saw Rann fall and Jiran writhing on the ground, neither touched, yet both in profound distress. His confidence broke like brittle porcelain. He skidded to a halt, his practice sword clattering to the ground. His eyes, wide with terror, met Vuong's. “This is what you call strength?” Vuong reiterated, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “A flickering candle against a storm? You are nothing. Your Qi is a joke. Your existence, an insignificant blip.” The attacker whimpered, dropping to his knees. He felt a primal terror, far beyond any fear of physical harm. It was the fear of being utterly exposed, utterly insignificant, before an insurmountable, unknowable power. His mind screamed for him to run, but his legs were lead. He knew, with terrifying certainty, that this was not Kiet. This was something ancient, something that shouldn’t exist. Something that would crush him with a thought. Vuong turned his attention back to Jiran, who was now gasping for air, his face purple. He extended a hand, the small, frail fingers of Kiet, and a wisp of subtle energy, barely perceptible, unfurled from his palm. It brushed Jiran’s forehead, not to harm, but to investigate. The youth convulsed, then stilled, his breathing ragged but returning to normal. Vuong’s eyes narrowed, a profound recognition flashing in their depths. There. Faint, almost imperceptible, yet undeniably present. A familiar metaphysical residue, clinging to Jiran’s core like a phantom scent. It was subtle, refined, masked by layers of mundane Qi, but Vuong would know it anywhere. It was the signature of the man who had plunged a blade into his back during his ascension, the one who had condemned him to this humiliating rebirth. Daiyan. Vuong withdrew his hand, his gaze hardening. He looked down at Kiet’s small, unyielding fists, scarred and weak. This cage will not hold me for long.

A Vessel of Scorn