Chapter 3: The Boy with No Root

They say the spirit root defines your fate.

Heaven grants five elemental paths—fire, water, earth, wind, and metal. A prodigy might be born with dual roots. A rare genius, a tri-root. And in forgotten legends, those with pure roots—like the Celestial Flame or the Eternal Ice—rose to shake the heavens.

But to be born with no root at all?

That was to be cursed by the heavens themselves.

It meant one thing: you will never cultivate.

Wu Shen—Ashen Wu reborn—was just beginning to understand the full cruelty of his new vessel.

The morning bell had just rung when he was summoned alongside two dozen other servant boys. They were brought to the Spirit Basin, a cracked jade platform near the eastern cliffs of the Hollow Cloud Sect, where all outer disciples were tested for latent talent.

The rest of the sect didn't bother attending. Only a bored elder, Elder Mo, sat nearby sipping cold tea, and a pair of outer disciples stood guard with wooden staves, there more to scare the children than protect them.

Ashen kept to the back of the group.

He already knew the result.

But he had to see it.

One by one, the boys stepped forward, placing their palms on the basin's stone mirror. Light flared, and Elder Mo called out ranks in a voice that barely hid his disinterest.

"Earth Root, low grade."

"Dual Root—Wind and Fire. Hmph. Average."

"Metal Root. Mid-tier, possibly trainable."

Then came a scream.

A boy had placed his hand on the stone, and it remained black. Elder Mo barely looked up.

"No root. Next."

The child was dragged away like a sack of garbage.

Ashen felt the shift in the crowd. Pity and disgust. That boy's future was sealed. At best, he'd remain a servant. At worst, he'd be tossed out to fend for himself—or worse, used in outer sect trials as bait.

Then, it was his turn.

Ashen stepped forward and laid his palm on the cracked basin. Cold light pulsed under his skin. The stone shimmered. Then…

Nothing.

Black.

Elder Mo blinked. "Again."

Ashen pressed his palm harder. Willed the air to respond. The stone remained still, lifeless as ash.

"No spirit root detected," the elder said, now watching with vague curiosity. "Not even a fragment?"

He stood and placed his own hand on the stone, checking for cracks.

Ashen remained silent.

He already knew the truth.

This body was void. An empty vessel. Not even the weakest thread of spirit lineage. No affinity. No potential. Just… hollow.

Elder Mo frowned. "Strange. You weren't marked as rootless in your record. This is beyond rare…"

One of the outer disciples leaned in. "Should we reclassify him as a cripple, Elder?"

Ashen looked up at that word.

Cripple.

A term more cutting than any sword. In the world of cultivation, where strength defined worth, a cripple had no name. No future.

Elder Mo shrugged. "Mark him accordingly. He'll serve until he dies or breaks."

The guard snorted and reached for a hot iron brand nearby.

Ashen's eyes sharpened.

"Branding? For a servant?"

The guard smirked. "It's sect policy. Cripples wear the mark of ash."

He raised the iron.

But before it touched flesh, Ashen moved.

Not fast. Not with any great power. But with intent.

He grabbed the guard's wrist.

And the man winced.

His skin paled. His eyes widened.

"Y-You—!"

Ashen let go. The iron clattered to the stone.

Elder Mo's gaze flickered. He stepped forward, inspecting Ashen's hand. "No cultivation. No qi. Yet you resisted."

Ashen lowered his eyes. "I reacted from fear, Elder. Forgive my insolence."

The elder studied him for a moment longer, then waved a hand. "Leave the branding. A scared animal fights harder. Put him back with the latrine crew."

Ashen bowed low. "Thank you, Elder."

As he turned away, the basin behind him gave a faint pulse.

Not light.

But shadow.

Elder Mo blinked. "Hmm… Must be a fault in the stone."

He didn't see Ashen's faint smile.

Later, in the shadow of the latrine pits, Ashen Wu knelt in the mud and stared at his trembling hand.

No root.

No connection to the heavens.

But inside him, something else stirred.

A different connection.

He placed both palms on the frozen earth.

Closed his eyes.

Focused inward.

Most cultivators would channel qi through their meridians into their root, absorbing ambient essence into themselves.

Ashen… devoured.

It was subtle.

But from the earth beneath his hands, he felt the faintest trickle. Not elemental essence—but waste qi, the spiritual rot discarded from cultivation.

Even this garbage… he could eat.

The Heaven-Eating Scripture had not changed. Where others refined, it consumed. Where others meditated, it devoured. Where others needed a spiritual root, Ashen needed only hunger.

He drew it in.

The filth of the sect. The rot. The spiritual decay.

And it answered.

A tendril of grey essence crawled up his spine.

His bones cracked. His heart slowed. Then—thumped harder.

The Null Root stirred.

Not a real root. Not a gift of heaven. But a wound that could never heal. A scar left from his past death—and the perfect home for forbidden power.

He gasped.

Not from pain. But from joy.

Because now he was certain:

He didn't need heaven's blessing.

He would devour his own path.

Even if the world called him cripple, waste, slave—

They would learn.

He was not born rootless.

He was born to eat the sky.