Chapter 4: The Mud Blood Boy
I never thought I'd walk so far in my life.
The road to Wuyingdian Academy wasn't a path—it was a test. For days, I moved alone through mountain trails, my feet sore and bleeding through the soles of worn sandals. The mist was thick in the mornings, clinging to my skin like cold breath. At night, I slept under trees and listened to the distant cries of beasts I couldn't name.
In my satchel were only dried herbs, my mother's pendant, and a few half-read scrolls. But I carried something else—something I couldn't name back then. A kind of weight in my chest, like a stone in water. I didn't know if it was fear, or hope.
Maybe both.
When I finally saw the academy from the ridge, I stopped walking.
It didn't look real.
Wuyingdian sat like a carved throne atop a cliffside, its towers spiraling toward the clouds. Silver-tipped rooftops shone under the sun, and bridges stretched across chasms like spider silk. Waterfalls spilled from the rocks below the main gate, humming with spiritual resonance.
I remember thinking: This is where legends are born.
And then I thought: What am I doing here?
My first day was chaos. Carriages rolled in from all corners of the continent. Nobles stepped out in silk-trimmed robes, with guards and servants at their heels. Some had family crests stitched into their collars. I had stitching too—holding my sleeve together.
I walked up to the front gate on foot, scroll in hand, dirt on my face.
That's when I heard it the first time.
"Mud Blood."
Someone whispered it behind me, followed by a snicker.
"Look at his shoes. Did he walk the whole way?"
"Probably bribed his way in. Doesn't even have a crest."
I kept walking. Head high. Eyes forward. Ma always said, They can mock your clothes. But never let them steal your breath.
The initiation ritual came quickly.
All new students were gathered before the Spirit Altar—an obsidian monolith said to resonate with the inner thread of qi. One by one, students stepped forward and placed their hand on the stone.
Some lit it gold. Others flared blue or crimson, showing elemental affinity. Whispers of awe followed each success.
When my turn came, the crowd went quiet. I felt their eyes.
I placed my hand on the stone.
Nothing.
Not a flicker.
Maybe a faint warmth, like steam on a cold morning. But no glow.
The silence turned sour.
"…Mud Blood," someone muttered again.
The proctor frowned. "You may enter under general studies. One cycle to prove your worth."
I bowed. "Understood."
But inside… I was burning.
The Southern Dormitory was where they put students like me—those without titles, without sect lineage. My bunk creaked. The straw mattress smelled of old smoke. My robes were stolen on the second night, replaced with a stained set soaked in ink.
I didn't complain.
I trained.
Every night, while others slept, I snuck out to the Moon Pond. I meditated under the weeping pines, listening to the ripple of water, feeling for qi currents in the air. I remembered Ma's voice.
"Balance lives in breath. Power lives in silence."
Our first instructor, Master Wen, didn't like to repeat himself.
He made us run the mountain trail before sunrise, barefoot. We had to stand in ice-cold streams and try to move qi through our bodies until we stopped shivering. Most students groaned.
I just listened.
Master Wen said something once that stuck with me: "Loud talent burns quick. Silent strength endures."
I began building my own techniques—simple at first, shaped from instinct and memory.
Still River Breath: deep rhythmic breathing to center qi flow and reduce inner turbulence.
Water Thread Focus: a visualization method that helped me map qi through my meridians like gentle streams.
Pulse Step: using breath and timing to sync movement with terrain, softening steps and increasing agility.
They weren't fancy. But they worked.
Friendship came unexpectedly.
Baoyu was the first to speak to me without mockery. "You always stare at the sky like it's going to answer you," he said one afternoon.
I smiled. "Maybe it will."
He laughed. "Well, if you find out, tell it I need help passing core theory."
He became my roommate and my closest friend. Loud, hungry, honest to a fault. He punched a boy once for calling me 'Mud Blood' during training. Took detention for a week. I never forgot that.
There were others too—Meilan, soft-voiced and sharp-eyed, who loved formation scripts. Xuan Jie, the scholarly boy who shared his ink when mine ran dry. We weren't a clique. Just outliers who gravitated to one another.
Not all encounters were friendly.
Zhao Ren made sure of that.
He was from a powerful prefecture clan. Always flanked by sycophants. Every time he passed me, he smirked like he already knew my ending.
"Enjoy the mud while it lasts," he'd say. "They'll send you back soon enough."
The first time we sparred, I lost.
But I didn't break.
He hit hard. I moved soft. He raged. I observed.
And I remembered.
The academy itself was divided not just by geography—but by belief.
The North Wing trained warriors and body cultivators. The East trained scholars and elementalists. The South—my wing—focused on internal cultivation. And the West… they dealt in strategy, illusion, and forbidden arts.
Each wing had its own Council. Factions formed. Politics brewed. I stayed out of it—until I couldn't.
One night, someone tried to steal my pendant.
They failed.
But it was a message: You don't belong here.
I didn't retaliate.
Instead, I hunted herbs in the Mistgrove, beyond the boundaries of student access. I brewed my own qi tonics, weak but pure. I copied notes from forbidden scrolls when the library guard fell asleep. I watched fights. Studied formations. Listened to rumors.
Knowledge became my weapon.
One year passed.
My name began appearing in the top quarter of the written exams. In technique drills, I held stances longer than most. In sparring matches, I rarely won—but I never crumbled.
Then came the match that changed everything.
A public exhibition.
My opponent?
Yuwen Jian—star student of the Thunder Gate lineage.
I stood across from him in the dueling circle. His arms crackled with lightning. The crowd whispered, some already laughing.
I didn't speak.
The gong rang.
He charged.
I bent, moved—not fast, but precisely. I let his force pass through me. Redirected a strike. Countered with two fingers to his wrist. He stumbled.
He didn't fall.
But neither did I.
And that night, when I walked back alone, no one whispered 'Mud Blood.'
Not out loud, anyway.
As I sat beneath the stars, pond water lapping at my feet, I opened my hand. The wooden pendant glowed faintly, pulsing with a warmth I had come to recognize—not power.
But memory.
Ma once said: You don't need to roar to be heard. You only need to endure until the silence listens.
I was still no one special.
But I was still here.
And sometimes… survival is the first step to greatness.