Chapter 1: The Clan Heir Who Couldn't
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the meticulously kept courtyard of the Sayfrid Clan compound. Birds chirped annoyingly cheerful tunes in the sculpted trees. Annoying, because Ran Sayfrid was currently engaged in an activity that felt about as cheerful as chewing on gravel: cultivating.
He sat cross-legged on a smooth, grey stone slab, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed in concentration that would have impressed a constipated badger. His hands rested on his knees, palms up, trying desperately to coax the ambient Qi – the very essence of power in this world – into his body.
Come on, you stupid, floaty energy bits! Get in the meridian! Is it really that hard? It's like trying to convince a cat to take a bath.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He could feel something, a faint, wispy trickle of energy seeping into him. It felt less like a majestic river of power filling his channels and more like trying to suck a thick milkshake through a coffee stirrer. A very clogged coffee stirrer. After nearly an hour, he'd probably absorbed enough Qi to power a glow-worm for five seconds. Maybe.
Progress! At this rate, I'll reach Qi Condensation Stage One right around the time glaciers melt the lower continent. Assuming they haven't invented synthetic Qi reactors by then, making me even more obsolete.
He slumped, letting out a frustrated sigh that ruffled his dark hair. He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the intricate patterns carved into the stone beneath him. Eleven years, almost twelve. Eleven years of being Ran Sayfrid, son of the Patriarch, and possessor of the legendary… Grade 2 Inferior Spiritual Root.
In a world sharply divided between the powerful Cultivators, who wielded Qi to perform miracles and live for centuries, and the Ordinary Folk, who lived relatively normal lives aided by cultivator-derived tech, a Grade 2 Inferior Root was basically a cosmic joke. It meant his talent for absorbing and using Qi was abysmal. Most promising clan children showed Grade 4 or 5 potential by his age. He was stuck here, fighting for scraps of energy.
Grade 2 Inferior. Sounds like a bad cut of meat, doesn't it? 'Try our Grade 2 Inferior steak – guaranteed tough and unsatisfying!' That's me. Ran Sayfrid, the tough and unsatisfying heir.
He could almost hear the whispers, the pitying glances from the elders, the faint smirks from his more talented cousins. There goes Ran, playing at cultivation again. Bless his heart. It grated on his nerves more than the failed cultivation itself.
A shadow fell over him. Ran looked up, blinking against the sun. His father, Reynald Sayfrid, stood there. Patriarch of the Sayfrid Clan, a respected cultivator in his own right, with a presence that usually commanded attention. Now, though, his broad shoulders seemed a little slumped as he looked down at his son. There was warmth in his eyes, always, but also a familiar weariness.
"Still at it, son?" Reynald asked, his voice a low rumble.
Ran scrambled to his feet, brushing dust off his simple training robes. "Yes, Father. Just… practicing." Practicing new ways to fail, mostly.
Reynald surveyed the training ground, then his gaze returned to Ran. He stepped closer, placing a large, calloused hand on Ran's shoulder. It was meant to be encouraging, Ran knew, but it felt heavy.
"Persistence is a virtue, Ran," Reynald said, his gaze distant for a moment. "Even when the path is steep." He sighed, a sound barely audible. "Your twelfth birthday is next week. A significant milestone."
Yeah, the milestone where everyone officially stops pretending I might suddenly blossom into a prodigy and starts wondering how to politely sideline me, Ran thought bitterly. Outwardly, he just nodded. "Yes, Father."
"I know it hasn't been easy for you," Reynald continued, his voice softening slightly. "Cultivation requires talent, yes, but also heart. Don't lose heart." He squeezed Ran's shoulder gently. "Perhaps… perhaps your path lies elsewhere. There are many ways to serve the clan, to uphold the Sayfrid name."
Ran stiffened almost imperceptibly. Translation: We know you're useless at the main thing, son, so maybe try accounting? Or perhaps competitive flower arranging? Just don't embarrass us too much.
"I understand, Father," Ran mumbled, staring at his own feet. He hated the disappointment he saw mirrored in his father's eyes, even hidden behind layers of paternal love and duty. He hated the feeling of being fundamentally wrong, a faulty component in the grand clan machine.
Reynald gave his shoulder one last pat, then turned to leave. "Keep up your efforts, Ran. Effort itself is never wasted." He walked away, his back straight, resuming the posture of the Patriarch.
Ran watched him go, the forced pleasantness draining from his face, replaced by a familiar, dull ache of resentment and resignation. Effort isn't wasted? Mine feels like pouring water into a sieve. A very expensive, magically-charged sieve that mocks me.
He sank back onto the stone slab, the earlier frustration replaced by a hollow feeling. Twelve years old soon. The age when true talents started showing their brilliance, forming their Qi core, leaving the 'potential' stage behind. And him? He was still splashing around in the kiddy pool of cultivation, unable to even inflate his water wings properly.
He kicked listlessly at a loose pebble, sending it skittering across the courtyard. Maybe his father was right. Maybe his path did lie elsewhere. Maybe he could become the clan's most renowned… paperweight?
A dark, humorless chuckle escaped him. Yeah. Twelve years old. Twelve years of being the Sayfrid Clan's biggest, most persistent disappointment. Happy birthday to him.