Shen Chen grew up in the shadow of his own ordinariness.
The Shen Clan was a cultivation clan, its members trained from childhood to harness the spiritual energy of the world. The clan compound was filled with the sounds of training—the clash of spirit swords, the chanting of cultivation mantras, the explosive release of Qi. The air itself hummed with power.
Shen Chen was given the same training as his cousins, the same resources, the same opportunities. He was enrolled in the clan's cultivation academy at the age of five, alongside the other children of the main branch. His instructors were patient at first, guiding him through the basics of Qi circulation, meditation, and spiritual awareness.
But where his cousins excelled, he struggled. Where they advanced, he stagnated.
"Again," the clan's cultivation instructor said, his voice filled with frustration. "You are channeling your Qi incorrectly. Focus on your dantian. Feel the energy flow through your meridians."
Shen Chen nodded, his face flushed with embarrassment. He closed his eyes, trying to feel the flow of spiritual energy that his instructors spoke of. He had been told that everyone could sense it, that it was as natural as breathing. But for Shen Chen, there was nothing. Just emptiness.
"I... I can't feel anything," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
The instructor sighed, shaking his head. "Perhaps you are not meant for cultivation. Some people are born with limited spiritual roots. It is not a failing—it is simply the way of the world. Not everyone can be a cultivator."
Shen Chen opened his eyes and saw the disappointment in the instructor's eyes. He saw it in his father's eyes during family dinners. He saw it in his cousins' mocking smiles during training sessions. He saw it in the servants' pitying glances as they passed him in the corridors.
He was eight years old, and he had already learned what it meant to be worthless.