The sun rose higher, warming the stone courtyards and casting long shadows over the outer sect. Li Xiyan wiped sweat from her brow, the scent of dust and herbs thick in the air. Her hands were calloused from scrubbing the temple steps early this morning—another task that no one else bothered with. The outer disciples rarely earned praise, and she knew better than to expect kindness.
Yet, as she moved through the bustling grounds, she felt eyes watching her.
Not the warm kind.
Whispers floated through the air like drifting smoke.
"Did you see? Li Xiyan's still scrubbing. She's never going to make it anywhere."
"She's so useless, always hiding behind those spirit beasts."
"Why does the sect even keep someone like her around?"
Xiyan's heart clenched, but her face remained calm. She had heard it all before. Those words were like shadows—there, but unable to touch her light.
She retreated to the far corner of the courtyard, near the stone wall cracked from years of neglect. There, the faint hum of broken formations could be heard beneath the surface. No one maintained them anymore; the elders considered them useless relics of old sect wars.
But Xiyan had a secret.
Every night, after her chores, she would sneak out to the training grounds and pour what little spiritual energy she had into repairing the ancient seals and formations. It was exhausting, invisible work, and no one knew. Not even the sword prodigy who had watched her tend the injured fox days ago.
Tonight, she planned to reinforce the protective barrier around the outer sect. It was small but crucial—it kept weaker disciples safe from wandering spirits and bandits.
As she worked, her mind drifted to the fox spirit, now fully healed and bounding through the garden with renewed grace. That small kindness had already begun to change something inside her—a quiet confidence growing like roots underground.
Suddenly, a soft voice broke through the evening stillness.
"Why do you waste your time on these broken stones? You should focus on real cultivation, not chores."
Xiyan looked up to see a fellow outer disciple, a sneer curling his lips.
"I do what no one else will," she replied quietly. "Even the smallest strength matters."
He scoffed but said nothing more.
Later that night, as Xiyan finished reinforcing the formation, she felt a presence behind her.
The sword prodigy stood there, arms crossed, eyes thoughtful.
"Why do you care about something so small?" he asked.
She met his gaze steadily.
"Because no one else does."
For the first time, he nodded — just slightly — as if a silent understanding passed between them.
And in the quiet of the night, beneath the stars, the first threads of trust began to weave their fragile pattern.