The muddy square of Whispering Pines Town reeked of rotting greens and damp earth. A chill wind, carrying the scent of distant pine, did little to disperse the lingering stench. Lu Fengxiao stood by his worn timber cart, its wheels half-buried in the muck, a lone figure amidst the bustling crowd skirting wide circles around him. His hands, gnarled from years of felling spirit-logs, gripped the handle of a heavy chopping axe. The steel was dull, scarred, and looked unremarkable, but its heft was a familiar comfort. “Look at this dirt-dweller!” a voice boomed, sharp and disdainful, slicing through the vendor chatter. Feng Li, son of the esteemed Cloud-Piercing Pavilion’s Second Elder, sauntered into the square. He was a preening peacock in robes of shimmering jade-silk, his nose perpetually wrinkled as if scenting something foul. Behind him trailed two hulking guards, their arms crossed over chests emblazoned with the soaring crane crest of their sect. Feng Li’s gaze, arrogant and dismissive, landed on Lu Fengxiao. “Still peddling your pathetic kindling, log-splitter? Don’t you know better than to block the path of true cultivators?” A rotten head of greens, already soft with decay, flew through the air, splattering against Lu Fengxiao’s chest. The slime seeped through his simple linen tunic, cold and nauseating. The square, which had momentarily hushed, now erupted in a ripple of nervous titters and hushed whispers. Lu Fengxiao remained motionless, teeth grinding hard enough that a muscle twitched near his ear. The Heavenly Brand on his chest, a subtle, swirling sigil, flared. It wasn't just a mark; it was a living inferno beneath his skin, searing white-hot, a constant reminder of the celestial shackles placed upon him. *Not yet. Not a single spark.* He forced the thought through the agony, his fingers digging into the axe handle, splinters threatening to pierce his calloused palms. Each breath was a struggle, each second a battle against the raging storm within. To channel even a wisp of Qi would mean annihilation, his very soul scattered like dust in the wind. A hundred days. He had barely a hundred days left, and the clock of his destiny was ticking. “What’s wrong, kindling-seller? Cat got your tongue?” Feng Li sneered, another bruised turnip arcing towards Lu Fengxiao’s head. “Perhaps your silence means you agree with my assessment of your pitiful existence.” Just as the putrid projectile was about to strike, a small figure darted forward. Ting Zhiruo, her pale face framed by wisps of dark hair, stumbled between Lu Fengxiao and the incoming vegetable. Her right leg, twisted at an unnatural angle from a childhood accident, made her movements clumsy, but her resolve was unwavering. The stray vegetable hit her shoulder with a wet thud, spraying her simple, mended dress with green slime. She gasped, flinching from the impact, but stood her ground, her gaze, though timid, held a spark of defiance. “Leave him be, Young Lord Feng Li,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the renewed town murmurs. “He is just trying to make an honest living.” Feng Li’s face contorted in disgust. “And who is this crippled wretch? A beggar defending a peasant? Get out of my sight before I have my guards teach you some manners!” He raised a hand, not to strike, but to deliver a backhanded slap that would send the girl sprawling. “This is what happens when you dare to speak to a cultivator, you low-born vermin!” The Heavenly Brand on Lu Fengxiao’s chest screamed, a firestorm threatening to consume him from within. His vision blurred at the edges, the world narrowing to Feng Li’s arrogant face and Zhiruo’s trembling form. To witness injustice, to see the weak trampled underfoot, and be utterly powerless… it was a torment far worse than any physical brand. His pride, once as boundless as the heavens, was being ground to dust, each speck an agonizing tear in his soul. But he had promised himself. He had to endure. For Zhiruo. For the hope that remained. With a superhuman effort, Lu Fengxiao swallowed the inferno. The taste of bile and blood filled his mouth as he bit down on his tongue, the coppery tang a painful anchor. He moved, not with the explosive speed of the Sky-Cleaving Sovereign, but with the measured steps of a weary timberman. He caught Feng Li’s wrist, his grip surprisingly firm, not enough to harm, but enough to stop the blow mid-air. Feng Li recoiled as if burned, startled by the iron grip. “She spoke her mind. Leave her,” Lu Fengxiao rumbled, his voice low, a primal growl barely contained. His eyes, usually placid, now smoldered with an intensity that made Feng Li instinctively step back, a flicker of unease crossing his face before being replaced by bluster. “Hmph! You’ll regret this, rustic! Mark my words!” Feng Li huffed, pulling his wrist free and storming off, his guards scrambling to follow. The crowd slowly exhaled, tension draining from the onlookers as they went back to their bartering, though sidelong glances still followed Lu Fengxiao. Lu Fengxiao knelt, ignoring the searing pain in his chest, and gently helped Zhiruo up. “Are you alright, child?” She nodded, eyes rounded, a bruise already forming on her shoulder. “He was going to hurt you, Teacher Lu.” He offered her a rare, faint smile. “You were very brave, Zhiruo.” He glanced around, seeing the curious stares, the pity, the fear. “Come. Let’s go to my yard. I have something to show you.” The path to his small, muddy shack, tucked away behind a copse of old pines, was quiet. Xue-Zhi, the spirit-squirrel, chittered anxiously from Lu Fengxiao’s shoulder, his tiny paws digging into the rough fabric of his tunic. “*Boss, Boss! Your anger almost scorched my fur! Those petty mortals… why didn’t you just—*" Lu Fengxiao simply nudged the squirrel with his chin, a silent command for quiet. Xue-Zhi sighed dramatically, puffing out his cheeks. “*Fine. Be a martyr. See if I care when you explode into glittery dust.*” In the cluttered backyard, amidst stacks of chopped firewood and fragrant spirit-logs, Lu Fengxiao stopped. He reached for his timber cart, pulling free a rusty, small-handled hatchet. It looked like any other tool, its edge dulled, the head chipped. It was almost too light, too insignificant. He handed it to Zhiruo. “You need to learn to defend yourself, Zhiruo,” he said, his voice softer now, tinged with a warmth he rarely showed. “Not with grand techniques or fancy spells, but with honest effort. This axe… it will be your first teacher.” Zhiruo stared at the rusty tool, then at her own small, delicate hands. “But… I’m not strong, Teacher Lu. And my leg…” “Strength comes from within. From here,” he tapped her chest gently, “and here,” he touched her temple. “Start with the basics. This pine log,” he pointed to a fresh, knotty section of timber resting on a stone block, “is your opponent. Clear your mind. Focus your will. And swing.” Hesitantly, Zhiruo grasped the axe. It felt clumsy, unbalanced in her grip. She lifted it, her thin arms straining, and with a grunt of effort, brought it down in an awkward, arcing chop. The blade met the pine log with a dull thud. There was no clean split, no satisfying crack. The axe merely bit shallowly into the wood, stuck fast. But then, something impossible happened. From the rusty blade, an invisible, terrifying shockwave erupted, silent and unseen to the mortal eye. It didn’t just ripple through the air; it tore through reality itself. Above them, the clouds, thick and gray moments before, fissured. A jagged, silent crack appeared in the heavens, splitting the entire canopy of the sky as if an invisible giant had cleaved it with a celestial blade. The very air around them vibrated with a suppressed, ancient power. Teacher and disciple stood in the muddy backyard, the mundane world forgotten, staring up at the terrifying chasm in the sky, both stunned into silence.

The Weight of a Rusty Axe