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Furnace: The Non-Kettle
墨書 Inktalez
The spiritual energy in my dantian receded like a retreating tide, leaving behind a pitiful thinness. I leaned against the cold stone wall, suppressing the metallic taste in my throat, listening to the unabashed laughter not far away.
“Ha! I told you, that waste, Ye Xichen, has been trying to cultivate for almost three years and still hasn’t managed to condense even the first strand of true qi!”
“Who can blame her? She’s stuck with Cold Jade Waste Veins. She’s just not cut out for cultivation, yet she still occupies a spot as an inner sect disciple.”
“Shh! Keep your voice down; don’t forget about her face…”
“What does her face matter? Can it compare to Grandmaster Shushan of the Shangguan Family’s stunning beauty? I see her as nothing but a disaster, having caused Grandmaster Shushan’s downfall and now lingering here at Lingxiao Pavilion, bringing shame upon herself!”
Their cruel words pierced my heart like poisoned needles. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, stubbornly refusing to show any sign of weakness. They were right; I was Ye Xichen, known throughout Lingxiao Pavilion as a waste. Burdened with the rare Cold Jade Waste Veins, my spiritual energy was weak and my meridians blocked—an obstacle on the path of cultivation.
What was even more tragic was that I bore a striking resemblance to Lingxiao Pavilion’s former pride—Shangguan Ningxue. This face brought me no benefits; instead, it became a death warrant. The gazes of my elders were always complex—filled with pity, disdain, and mostly deliberate distance—as if I carried some kind of misfortune. My peers were even more unrestrained, their jealousy and contempt intertwining as they poured all their malice onto me.
In this cold darkness, the only warmth I had ever received came from my senior brother, Bai Jingshu.
“Xichen, don’t pay them any mind.” His gentle voice came from behind me, carrying a familiar warmth.
I turned abruptly to see Bai Jingshu standing not far away, his moon-white robe appearing especially clean in the morning light. His eyes were warm and gentle, like spring rain that could easily disperse the gloom accumulating in my heart.
“Senior brother…” I lowered my head, my voice slightly choked. He always appeared when I was at my lowest.
“The path of cultivation is inherently difficult; there’s no need to rush,” he said as he approached and gently patted my shoulder, his touch natural and reassuring. “Look, the weather is nice today. How about we go to the back mountain and see the newly bloomed magnolias?”
He always found the most tender ways to shift my focus, carefully preserving what little self-esteem I had left. I knew he was a direct disciple of the sect leader—a prodigy with an unlimited future. He didn’t have to concern himself with someone like me, a blemish on his reputation.
“Thank you, senior brother.” I looked up at his gentle gaze, filled with gratitude and dependence. He was different; he was my only light.
Bai Jingshu smiled slightly, like snow beginning to melt: “We are fellow disciples; there’s no need for thanks. But… sigh, your constitution truly is…” He hesitated, his eyes revealing just the right amount of regret and helplessness.
That helplessness pricked at me like a fine thorn. I knew even he thought my Waste Veins were beyond saving. A wave of immense disappointment and inferiority washed over me again. I hurriedly bid farewell and almost fled from the training ground.
I retreated to my humble dwelling and curled up in a corner. Why? Why was it me? Why give me a glimmer of hope for cultivation only to grant me such a dead-end? And this face… Shangguan Ningxue—a name that existed only in legend—loomed over me like a massive shadow, defining me while simultaneously destroying me.
I hated these Waste Veins; I hated this face; but most of all, I hated being powerless—relying on others’ pity just to survive! Tears finally slipped down my cheeks—cold and despairing.
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