Chapter 1: The Path of the Weak (Fixed)

The wind howled through the rice fields, carrying the scent of damp earth and the deep despair of those who toiled upon it. The last remnants of sunlight faded behind the mountains, casting long shadows over a lone wooden house standing in the middle of the farmland. The structure was old—its walls worn by time, its roof barely holding against the relentless wind.

Inside, a young boy sat cross-legged on the cold wooden floor, his dark eyes fixed on the rough calluses covering his hands. Dirt clung beneath his fingernails, and his body was thin from years of hard labor. Yet despite his frail appearance, his expression showed no trace of weakness—only silent determination.

His name was Xian Zhu.

The son of a farmer. A boy born with nothing—no status, no wealth, no future.

Yet as he clenched his fists, fire burned in his chest.

"Why does the world bow only to the strong?" he thought bitterly. "Why do those in power decide the fate of the weak?"

He had seen it firsthand.

Months ago, the Azure Sky Sect had arrived in their village, demanding tribute. Their leader, an arrogant and ruthless elder, had given them an ultimatum: hand over a portion of their harvest or be branded as criminals against the sect.

His father, Xian Fu, had begged for mercy. He had knelt before the sect elders, explaining that the drought had left them with just enough rice to survive the winter.

They didn't care.

A disciple, clad in flowing silk robes embroidered with the sect's emblem, stepped forward and struck Xian Fu's leg with a casual kick. A sickening crack echoed through the village square.

Xian Zhu had been there, frozen in horror as his father crumpled to the ground, writhing in agony. He had screamed, tried to fight back, but the cultivators merely laughed and tossed him aside like an insect.

"Only the strong have the right to negotiate," the disciple sneered before walking away.

The villagers did nothing. Some lowered their heads in fear, while others turned away as if they had seen nothing at all.

In that moment, Xian Zhu learned a cruel truth.

Power was everything.

It didn't matter if a man was good, hardworking, or honorable. Without strength, he was nothing more than dust beneath the feet of those who ruled the world.

That night, as his mother wept over his father's broken body, Xian Zhu made a decision.

"I will never be weak again."

---

Beyond the fields, the night stretched endlessly, the moon casting silver light upon the land. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the distant hoot of an owl hidden among the trees.

Xian Zhu grasped an old, rusted sword—his grandfather's relic from a long-forgotten era. The blade was dull, its edges chipped, useless even against the weakest of cultivators.

Yet to him, it was more than just a weapon.

It was a promise.

A promise that one day, he would bow to no one.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the open field behind his house—a place where the soil had been trampled by years of farming. This land, once meant for growing crops, would now serve as the foundation of his training.

He raised the sword and swung.

Once.

Twice.

A hundred times.

Each movement was slow and clumsy, his arms burning from strain. His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles screamed. Sweat dripped from his brow, soaking into the dirt below.

But he did not stop.

Because pain was temporary. Weakness was eternal.

The villagers called cultivators immortals—beings who had surpassed the limits of human existence. They lived for centuries, wielding powers beyond imagination. With a mere flick of their fingers, they could split mountains and part seas.

But they were not gods.

They bled. They suffered. They died.

That meant they could be surpassed.

That meant he could reach the peak.

But first, he needed resources.

Cultivation required spiritual energy—Qi, the lifeblood of the world. The problem was, he had no access to it. The great sects hoarded cultivation techniques, refusing to share their knowledge with commoners. The wealthy bought rare treasures to accelerate their progress, while the weak starved in the dirt.

Xian Zhu had no such luxury.

So he would forge his own path.

Through sheer will and relentless training, he would force his body to grow stronger. Even if it meant swinging this dull blade ten thousand times, a hundred thousand times, until his arms were numb and his movements as sharp as a knife.

Days passed in silence.

Xian Zhu trained from dawn until dusk, his hands blistered and bleeding, his body pushed beyond its limits. The villagers whispered behind his back, mocking him.

"Why waste time on useless training?" they sneered. "A farmer's son will always be a farmer."

He ignored them.

One night, as he practiced beneath the moon's glow, a shadow approached from behind.

"Still playing with that broken sword, little rat?"

Xian Zhu turned, his grip tightening around the worn hilt of his blade.

Standing before him was Liu Kang, the village bully—a broad-shouldered youth who towered over him. Behind Liu Kang were two other boys, their faces twisted in smug grins, illuminated by the flickering lanterns of the village.

"You think swinging that rusted piece of trash makes you strong?" Liu Kang sneered, cracking his knuckles. "How about we test that?"

Xian Zhu didn't hesitate.

With a sharp breath, he lunged forward, swinging his sword with all his might. His movements were rough, unrefined—but faster than Liu Kang had expected.

The chipped blade scraped against Liu Kang's cheek, leaving a thin trail of blood. The larger boy's eyes widened in shock before twisting into rage.

"You little bastard!" he snarled.

Liu Kang struck back, his fist slamming into Xian Zhu's ribs with brutal force. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, his vision blurring from the pain. Before he could recover, another kick crashed into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs.

Yet he did not scream.

Even as the blows rained down, even as agony burned through his body—he did not scream.

Because pain was temporary.

Weakness was eternal.

Eventually, Liu Kang stepped back, breathing heavily. "Pathetic," he spat. "Remember your place, farmer's son."

The three boys turned and walked away, leaving Xian Zhu lying in the dirt. His body ached, his vision swam—but beneath the pain, he felt something else.

Rage.

The wound on Liu Kang's cheek—he had drawn blood.

Even without cultivation, even without Qi, he had injured someone stronger than him.

It wasn't enough.

But it was a start.

As he lay beneath the vast, indifferent sky, a grim smile tugged at his lips.

"One day, I will carve my name into the heavens."

"One day, you will all kneel before me."

Armed with a rusty sword and strong will, Xian Zhu took his first step forward.

ard.

The road ahead was cruel, paved with blood and suffering.

But if that was the price to become the Supreme Sword Dao, then he would gladly pay it.