A Crippled Spiritual Root Is Not a Person

The Human Realm — a barren land raked by a freezing wind.

The Northern Province, Bukju. Cheongun City.

Of the five great provinces of the Human Realm, the Northern Province was a place where a savage cold wind howled through every season of the year. Poor soil and a brutal climate made it a hard land for mortals to survive in, yet pure heaven-and-earth spiritual energy gathered there, and mountain ranges rich in ice-attribute resources rose on every side. Cultivation clans and sects had sunk their roots deep into the frost.

Among them, the Baek Clan of Cheongun City was a cultivation family of no small name in the Northern Province. More than a thousand years had passed since its founding, and in its prime it had even produced an ancestor of the Golden Core Realm. Its power was no longer what it had once been, but within Cheongun City, few had never heard the Baek Clan's name.

And on this morning, the Clan Head Hall of that Northern Province family was already in an uproar.

"Baek Hyun. From this day on, you are no longer of the Baek Clan."

Baek Jong-ak, current Clan Head of the Baek Clan, spoke the words. His voice was exceedingly genteel.

For a man scraping someone out of the family register, it was genteel past the point of sense. Baek Hyun nearly let out a hollow laugh.

Some men wipe the blade after they cut a throat. Some say they are sorry before they swing. Baek Jong-ak was the latter sort — though of course he did not actually apologize. The cultivation world was always like that, and Baek Jong-ak did not possess even that scrap of a conscience.

"Did you not hear me?"

"I heard you."

"Then why is there no answer?"

Baek Hyun was on his knees.

The floor of the Clan Head Hall gleamed like a mirror. Someone had worked it with a polish mixed from spirit stone powder, perhaps; his own face stared back at him with unpleasant clarity. He looked like wreckage. Days without a proper meal had hollowed his cheeks, his lips were split, and a stale, sour smell clung to his worn clothes. They were throwing him out of the clan, after all. It seemed they had already stopped treating him as a person.

Baek Hyun lifted his head.

"Then you are saying I am no longer a Baek?"

"That is correct."

"And my name comes off the family register as well?"

"That is correct."

"The spirit stones the clan has been issuing me will be cut off, then."

Baek Jong-ak's brow creased.

"You drag useless words out at length."

"I am only confirming. My memory is a little poor."

"Baek Hyun!"

An elder standing beside the Clan Head barked.

Baek Hyun shut his mouth.

In truth, his memory was excellent — especially when it came to who had done what to him. He remembered that with vicious clarity. He was a cultivator's son, after all. His memory was not quite goldfish-grade.

He remembered the day a childhood fever had nearly killed him, and the uncle who had said not to call a physician. He remembered the older cousin who quietly skimmed the clan's allotted spirit stones and pressed them into his own son's hand. And he remembered the faces of the men now standing before him, solemn as judges, discoursing on the clan's great righteousness.

He remembered every last one of them.

People were treacherous creatures. They would call you brothers of the same blood when it suited them, and the moment you ceased to be useful you became worse than a stranger. Quite naturally, too.

"Since your father's death, the clan has cared for you more than enough."

Baek Jong-ak went on.

"For three years we had you learn the Basic Tu-Na Technique, and every month we supplied spirit stones according to clan law. And what have you accomplished?"

Baek Hyun did not answer.

"You have not even attained Qi Sense. Children your age have already entered the Qi Condensation Realm. A lack of talent cannot be helped — but how long is the clan meant to look after you?"

A lack of talent cannot be helped. Baek Hyun turned the phrase over again and again. What a convenient thing to say. When they took what belonged to someone else, it could not be helped. When someone took what belonged to them, it became a violation of heaven's bond. He had no idea where the moral law of the cultivation world was supposed to live. Buried under a heap of spirit stones, perhaps. That might actually be it.

"Therefore, as of today, the resources issued to you will be withdrawn — your residence as well. Leave Cheongun City before the sun rises tomorrow."

"...Yes."

"And."

Baek Jong-ak paused.

Baek Hyun sighed inwardly. What else was left? If they meant to draw his blood on the way out, that would be awkward. He was in such poor shape lately that there probably wasn't much blood left to take.

"You will also return to the clan the item your father left behind."

Baek Hyun's eyes narrowed.

"Which item would that be?"

"The wooden plaque."

"That is my father's keepsake."

"I am told an ancestor of the Baek Clan left it. It is only proper to regard it as the clan's property."

Baek Hyun was silent for a moment. Then he laughed. The laugh came out of him on its own.

"Clan Head."

"Speak."

"You said my Crippled Spiritual Root was heaven's decree."

Baek Jong-ak's face hardened.

"Then why is my father's keepsake the clan's?"

"You dare!"

The elder stepped forward.

Baek Hyun bowed his head.

"I apologize. I misspoke."

He withdrew without resistance. There was nothing to be gained by arguing here. These men were not opponents you could beat with words. Proving them wrong did not make them admit they were wrong — least of all men seated that high.

There was another way to win. Someday, he would make them regret having treated him as they pleased. That was impossible now. So first, he had to live. Baek Hyun thought that mattered more than anything else. Dead men don't get their revenge.

"I cannot give you the wooden plaque," he said. "If it is anything else, take whatever you like."

Baek Jong-ak smiled, cold.

"Very well. Take that with you, too. It will be of no use to you in any case."

Right. Then I suppose I can help myself to whatever I like of yours, too.

He did not say it aloud. Not yet.

Being cast out of the clan took barely an hour.

The Detached Annex where Baek Hyun had lived stood empty. The servants were already gone, and two clan guards waited at the door. Whether they were there to watch him or to see him off, he couldn't say — but they did not have the faces of men seeing anyone off.

Baek Hyun looked around the room. One worn bed. One table with a broken leg. And, shoved into a corner, an introductory manual on the breathing method. That was all of it. Sixteen years of living, and this was his fortune. Even among mortals, poverty this complete was rare.

He picked up the manual. When he opened it, large characters filled the first page.

Baek Hyun had clung to this book for three years. What others mastered in half a year, he had trained for three — no, he had thrashed and struggled for three years trying to master it. The result? Nothing. He had never felt spiritual qi. He had never gathered energy in his dantian. For three years he had sat there and done nothing but breathe.

Thinking about ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it, it was a remarkable talent. If the cultivation world ever held a contest for the most expensive breathing, he might have taken first place.

He closed the book.

"What a dogshit world."

The curse came out on its own. He moved to throw the book, then stopped. Paper was too precious to waste. It would do for kindling. Hadn't someone said nothing in the world was useless? People were a different matter.

Baek Hyun packed. Two changes of clothes, his father's wooden plaque, a few old books. Last of all he groped under the bed and came up with three copper coins. He stared at them for a long while.

Three coins. Buy one bowl of noodles, and there would be nothing left.

He slipped them into his pocket. At least he would not starve today. The thought improved his mood a little. Human beings were truly pathetic animals. Struck from the family register, thrown out of his home, a lifetime of training turned to wasted breath — and he found comfort in the fact that he could eat a bowl of noodles. But what else was there to do? He was hungry.

Night deepened.

Baek Hyun shut the door of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Detached Annex and sat on the edge of the bed. Tomorrow he would have to leave this place. He had not decided where in the Northern Province he was meant to go. Outside Cheongun City there were plenty of villages where mortals lived. If he hired out his body for day labor, eating would at least be possible. Of course, the dream of becoming a cultivator would have to be put away. A Crippled Spiritual Root could not take in spiritual qi. That was common sense in the cultivation world.

Common sense was a frightening thing. Once someone laid it down, no one bothered to ask whether it was true — especially when that common sense happened to profit them.

Baek Hyun drew the wooden plaque from inside his robes. A wooden token no bigger than his palm. The corners were worn smooth, and characters too faint to read were carved into its face. His father had always carried it on his person, but he had never said what it was. Whenever Baek Hyun asked, the answer never changed.

"You'll know later. And what comes after that, too."

He had died before that later ever arrived. A truly irresponsible father.

"Father."

Baek Hyun murmured it, looking at the plaque.

"What did I do wrong?"

There was, of course, no answer.

"It would have been nice if my spiritual root had been as good as everyone else's. If I'd at least managed Qi Sense."

He tightened his grip around the token.

"I wasn't born just to live like this and die. Was I?"

That was the moment. His palm stung.

"Ow."

The scratch across the back of his hand from earlier in the day must have split open. A single drop of blood fell onto the wooden plaque.

And then a low hum rose from the wood. The plaque trembled.

Baek Hyun's eyes went wide.

"What?"

The characters carved into its surface began to glow, faint and unsteady. He snatched his hand back. Too late. The plaque flared hot in an instant, and a thread of light drove straight into his brow.

"Agh—! Fuck!"

He rolled off the bed. His head felt as if it were splitting apart. Characters he could not identify rose before his eyes, tangled over one another, then snapped into order and became lines of text.

Baek Hyun clenched his teeth.

"What the hell are you saying, you insane—"

Baek Hyun's mouth fell open.

What? So every verdict he had ever received was justified? No — wait. Did that mean every humiliation of the last three years, every scrap of effort, had been perfectly natural and perfectly impossible to change? The Clan Head and the elders who had driven him out? And this nameless voice now ringing inside his skull, speaking terms he had never heard in his life?

His heart hammered. The next lines crushed what little expectation he had left.

Baek Hyun stared blankly into the empty air.

Ninety-nine point seven percent? What was that supposed to mean? Nine hundred and ninety-seven out of a thousand ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠die? So the chance of living was zero point three percent? Three survivors in a thousand?

This wasn't a heaven-sent fortune. It was a death sentence.

"Hey."

He spoke to the empty air.

"You screwing with me?"

"You just said the odds of dying are ninety-nine percent!"

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do, you bastard!"

Baek Hyun clutched his head. He was going to lose his mind. Being thrown out of the clan was bitter enough, and now some unidentified thing that had rolled in from who knew where was trying to kill him too. Heaven didn't merely dislike him. It had plainly decided to finish the job.

He thought it over. A zero-point-three percent chance of survival. Should he take it? Or walk out of the city tomorrow and spend his life selling noodles?

Honestly, the second option wasn't bad. He would go hungry, but at least his body wouldn't burst apart and kill him.

Then one thought surfaced. Baek Hyun looked down at the wooden plaque. What if this was real? What if he truly had a constitution that could cultivate? What if he could pay back every person who had laughed at him?

Baek Jong-ak's face rose in his mind. That genteel face, erasing a name from the family register. That shameless face, reaching even for a dead man's keepsake.

Baek Hyun smiled, slowly.

"All right."

He climbed onto the bed and folded his legs into a cross-legged seat.

"Let's do this."

In that instant—

"Aaaaagh—!"

Baek Hyun's scream tore the night open.

Something writhed beneath his skin. Pain like breaking bone swept his whole body. The world in front of his eyes went white, and the taste of blood climbed into his mouth. A thousand needles heated in fire seemed to sink slowly through him, probing every corner of his insides. He seized the bed and held on. He thought he was going to die. No — he truly might.

But he set his teeth.

Fuck. Dying like this would be too much of a loss. I haven't even eaten the noodles yet.

That was his last thought. Baek Hyun's consciousness cut out.

Silence settled once more over the Detached Annex in the dead of night.

A long while later, a final message rose from the wooden plaque.

No one knew.

Not yet. Not Baek Hyun. Not the Baek Clan. Not the whole of the Northern Province. No one knew that a single Crippled Spiritual Root, meant to be driven out tonight without a coin to his name, might overturn the board of the Human Realm.