The weight of the wooden training sword felt like a mountain in Cheon Han-Yeol's grip. It wasn't because the wood was heavy, but because his body was empty.
"Again, you pathetic worm!"
A dull crack echoed through the training grounds of the Heavenly Demonic Divine Cult. The blow caught Han-Yeol across the ribs, sending him spiralling into the dirt. Dust filled his lungs, tasting of humiliation, defeat and bleeding as he stared in front.
Above him stood Wei-Ran, a servant of his sister. Wei-Ran's skin glowed with a faint, rhythmic pulse of blue Qi.
"The Young Lady is watching," Wei-Ran hissed, leaning down to grab Cheon Han-Yeol by his matted black hair. "Do you want to embarrass her further with your pathetic silence?"
Han-Yeol's eyes drifted toward the shaded pavilion overlooking the grounds. There sat his younger sister, Cheon Ma-Hee.
At twelve years old, she was already at the Early Soul Temperment Realm, her beauty as sharp as the jade sword resting on her lap. She didn't look at Han-Yeol with pity. She didn't even look at him with anger. To her, the elder brother who had lost his meridians at age eight was simply a shame to the cult.
"Wei-Ran," Ma-Hee's voice carried across the plaza, cold and effortless. "Stop playing. If my brother cannot even circulate a single breath of 'Nature Qi' after five years, then he is no longer a 'Cheon.' He is just... weight."
"As you command, My Lady," Wei-Ran bowed deeply toward her, his forehead nearly touching his knees.
Then, he turned back to Han-Yeol, a cruel grin splitting his face. He kicked a heavy blow into Han-Yeol's ribs.
Crack.
The sound of snapping bone echoed. Han-Yeol didn't scream. He couldn't. His body felt like a desert, a "Null State" where even the air he breathed seemed to vanish into a void.
"The Young Lady has ordered a 'Cleansing' in the Black Root Forest tonight," Wei-Ran whispered, his foot still grinding into Han-Yeol's chest. "She wants the family name scrubbed clean. Since you love the dirt so much, I've hired someone to make sure you stay in it forever."
Ma-Hee stood up, her silk robes fluttering. She didn't wait for Han-Yeol to respond. She didn't offer a final word. She simply turned her back on her brother, her "Servant-Dog" Wei-Ran following three paces behind her like a loyal shadow.
The fall of Cheon Han-Yeol did not happen with a bang, but with a silent, suffocating.
On his eighth birthday, Han-Yeol had been the Sun of the Heavenly Demonic Divine Cult. His meridians were like vast rivers, ready to hold the tide of the world's essence. But during the Great Ascension Ritual, something went wrong. A pillar of black light—the essence of a corpse—had surged into him. Nobody seemed to notice. But there was a silent celebration between 7 great clans and his own sister.
The physicians called it a "Backflow." Han-Yeol called it the end. When he woke, the rivers were gone. In their place was a dry, hollow canyon.
While Han-Yeol withered, his sister, Cheon Ma-Hee, bloomed. She was a year younger, a silver moon to his extinguished sun.
One year after his collapse, the Cult held the Succession Verifying Ceremony.
Han-Yeol was forced to stand before the entire Clan. Traditionally, an heir would strike a "Measuring Stone" to show their Qi. When Han-Yeol struck it, the stone remained cold and dark.
His sister, Ma-Hee, stepped up next. With a single touch, she turned the stone a brilliant, blinding blue. The Elders didn't just praise her; they ordered the servants to take Han-Yeol's Asur Dagger—the symbol of the most eligible heir—and fasten it to Ma-Hee's waist. He was stripped of his name in front of thousands. Unofficially she was given the title YoungPriestess. Untill the true Selection Ceremony.
"Move, Brother," she had said one morning, her voice already losing its warmth. "You're blocking the path to the training hall."
She didn't push him. She didn't have to. The pressure of her awakening Qi was enough to send Han-Yeol stumbling into the mud. Behind her walked Wei-Ran, a boy who once begged to be Han-Yeol's guard. Now, Wei-Ran carried Ma-Hee's sword and wore a smirk that grew sharper every day Han-Yeol remained "broken."
At the of 11, During a winter sparring session, Wei-Ran "volunteered" Han-Yeol to be the target for the new disciples. He wasn't allowed to hold a weapon or even raise his hands to guard.Han-Yeol coughed up blood onto the snow while his sister watched from the balcony, sipping warm tea. She didn't tell Wei-Ran to stop; she simply looked away as if he were a broken chair being discarded.
At age 12,During the Great Demonic Festival, the entire bloodline gathered to eat spiritual meats that boost cultivation. Han-Yeol was barred from the main table. He was forced to wait in the kitchens with the lowest-tier slaves.When the meal was over, Wei-Ran brought a plate of half-eaten bones and gristle to the kitchen. He dumped it on the floor in front of Han-Yeol."The Young Lady says even a dog of the Cheon family should be fed. Eat up, Prince. It's the only 'Essence' you'll ever taste." Han-Yeol didn't eat. He stared at the floor for six hours, A voice beginning to hum in his ears for the first time. He named the voice Mind Demon.
This was the year of the Great Humiliation. The Cult brought in a Sage-Physician from the Resurrection Sects.The physician suggested a "Burning Needle" technique to forcibly reopen the meridians. It was actually a torture method designed to see if there was any hidden energy left to steal for Ma-Hee.He spent three days probing Han-Yeol's body with golden needles.Han-Yeol was pinned down as red-hot needles were driven into his pressure points. He didn't scream, which unnerved the physician."A tragedy," the Sage concluded, wiping his hands as if he had touched a corpse. "His body is a leaky bucket. No matter how much Natural Essence he breathes, it vanishes into the void. He will never hold a single drop of Qi again."Little did they know, A Mystery was using those needles as anchor his soul more deeply into Han-Yeol's spirit.
That afternoon, Han-Yeol was stripped of his silk robes. He was moved to the Northern Graves—the solitary quarters—where the roof leaked and the tea was made of bitter weeds. He lived there alone.
Han-Yeol stopped trying to circulate Qi. Instead, he started to watch. From the edges of the training field, hidden behind stacks of firewood, he watched Wei-Ran and Ma-Hee practice theHeavenly DemonicBlade.
He saw the waste in their movements. He saw how the "Qi" made them arrogant, their strikes heavy but hollow. Deep in his mind, a voice he didn't recognize began to whisper: 'They are building houses on sand, Han-Yeol. You... you are digging a foundation in the bedrock.'
By age thirteen, Han-Yeol was no longer a person to the Cult; he was a tool. Wei-Ran had discovered a new use for the "Cripple Lord.""Stand still, trash," Wei-Ran would laugh, using Han-Yeol as a live target to test his "Impact Qi."Han-Yeol took every blow. His ribs broke and reset. His skin was bruised and yellowed. But something strange was happening. Every time Wei-Ran's fist hit him, a tiny, microscopic spark of that "Impact Qi" didn't bounce off. It was sucked into the "Leak" in Han-Yeol's chest.
For five years, Han-Yeol had been Insulted,Humiliated on several occasion. For five years, the "Void" inside him had been collecting the crumbs of every insult, every blow, and every drop of spilt blood.The five years of trauma caused Han Yeol to develop a cold, detached personality.
By the time he was sent to the Black Root Forest on that final, fateful night, the "Leaky Bucket" wasn't empty.
It was pressurised.
The Black Root Forest – Midnight
The forest was a graveyard of twisted trees and "Demonic Beasts"— energy that flickered like ghosts. Han-Yeol leaned against a mossy Stone, coughing up blood.
"Don't blame me, Young Lord," the masked man rasped, his dagger glowing with the Death Qi of a veteran killer. "Blame your sister. She pays a high price for a clean record."
As the blade lunged for his heart, Han-Yeol's hand slapped against the cold surface of the Stone. He didn't want to fight. He wanted to end.
But as his blood touched the stone, the "Void" inside his chest—the pit that had swallowed his life for five years—suddenly ignited.
The assassin's dagger stopped an inch from Han-Yeol's throat. Not because Han-Yeol blocked it, but because the air itself was being inhaled into Han-Yeol's body.
Ssssssss—
The assassin's eyes widened. His Qi, his muscles, his very soul began to unravel, being sucked into Han-Yeol's "Null Meridians" like water down a drain.
In the darkness of Han-Yeol's mind, a massive silhouette sat upon a throne made of broken statue of gods.
"You were never a 'Cripple," A whisper a sound that sent chills down his spine.