Wei Long woke before the sun rose, a habit he formed the moment he arrived at the Heavy Sword Sect. As he blinked himself awake, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Once he was satisfied, he pushed himself up from his straw mat.

  The dormitory was a long, narrow building with sleeping mats arranged in two rows. He looked to his left, seeing twenty of his senior sect brothers sleep soundlessly. The rhythmic breathing of their breaths floated through the dormitory air.

  Wei Long’s mat was at the far end, nearest to the door, where drafts of cold wind slipped through. This was a tradition within the sect. A tradition that dictated that the youngest disciples were meant to sleep by the door.

  Once his body was satisfied, he jolted up and slipped out from under the blanket. Goosebumps rose from his skin the moment the chilly air caught his forearm. A jolt of coldness ran up his legs the moment he placed his feet on the ground. He ignored it and started his morning routine.

  He grabbed his robes and began sliding his padded cotton training clothes on. The fabric was to be worn thin at the elbows and knees due to previous owners’ usage.

  Everything he wore had belonged to someone else before—hand-me-downs that hung from his small frame like sails on a day with no wind. He tied his belt twice around his waist, keeping his pants from falling during training.

  Wei Long was seven years old now and aware of his position within the sect hierarchy. The second youngest disciple was eleven years old. It made Wei Long feel like a bug, especially with his smaller frame compared to the rest of his senior brothers. After all, he’d been touted as the youngest disciple within the sect’s recorded history.

  Once he was satisfied with his robes, he moved as silently as he could to the water basin by the door and splashed his face.

  The shock of cold water burned away the last vestiges of sleep. He ran his wet fingers through his short black hair, smoothing it as best he could without a comb. The sect’s rules were strict about appearance—as untidy disciples brought dishonor to their masters.

  The world transitioned from black to deep blue as dawn approached. The mountain peaks surrounding the sect compound were dark silhouettes against a gradually lightening sky. Mist clung to the stone pathways and curled around the training dummies in the yard.

  The Heavy Sword Sect was perched in the mountains of Chengdu, Yangzhou. Its buildings were made of dark wood and gray stone, arranged around a series of training yards.

  At this hour, it was one of those very training yards that belonged entirely to Wei Long. He made his way into the shed and selected the smallest wooden practice sword, though even this was nearly two-thirds his height and awkward in his small hands.

  Wei Long took his position in the center of the smallest training yard, his breath forming into clouds which had dissolved into the cold air.

  He centered his stance, making it easy for him to move without fault. He kept his back straight, feet appropriately separated on the frost-covered stones. This was his chance—the only time of day when no one watched, no one could mock him.

  He brought the sword up above his head and then brought it down in a downward slash. He turned to his left, turning the blade downwards in a defensive posture, then spun into a wayward thrust. “One thousand swings before sunrise,” he whispered to himself.

  Each downward slash he made, he pivoted into a defensive position that was felt in his shoulders. The wooden sword whistled softly as it cut through the morning air.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Each swing was a promise to himself, a promise to never miss this opportunity.

  The mist parted and swirled around him as he moved, creating ghostly patterns that danced and dissolved with each precise cut. The cold numbed his fingers, but he maintained his grip, adjusting minutely when necessary to keep his form perfect.

  On his hundredth swing, sweat beaded across his forehead despite the chill. By the three hundredth, his arms trembled with effort. Still, he continued, watching how the first golden rays of sunlight began to catch on his blade, turning the dull wood momentarily into something magnificent.

  Halfway through his routine, voices echoed from the dormitory. His senior brothers were waking up.

  He increased his pace, knowing what would come next.

  “Oh…look at this,” Disciple Ren said coyly. “A little mouse is scurrying around before anyone else does.”

  Wei Long ignored the thirteen-year-old but saw him approaching from the corner of his eye, wielding his own training sword. “Trying to impress the masters again with your pathetic efforts? Hmm?!”

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Wei Long kept his eyes focused on his invisible target, maintaining his form as he continued his swings. “RAT!” Ren growled, “I’m talking to you!”

  Ren kicked a pebble that skittered across the stone floor. The pebble struck Wei Long’s ankle. A sharp pain shot up from his ankle straight to his calf. He hissed in his mind, but continued his downward sword slash into his eight hundredth stroke.

  Eight hundred and one…

  …Eight hundred and two.

  “He thinks he’s too good to answer,” said one of Ren’s companions with a snicker.

  “Or too scared,” added the other.

  Ren stalked his way up to Wei Long, his shadow falling over him, trying his best to intimidate him. Wei Long could feel Ren’s anger boiling over but kept his calm. He wanted to slap him across the flat of his sword, “You’re only here because Master Feng took a liking to you! Why waste your time training? It won’t help you get better. It won’t help you improve…You’re NOTHING YOU HEAR…NOTHING!” he spat.

  A smile flashed across Wei Long’s face unconsciously. He tried to stop himself, but it was too late.

  “WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT!?”

  Ren blocked Wei Long’s eight hundred and thirtieth sword slash and poked his wooden sword into his chest. “AM I A JOKE TO YOU!?”

  Yes, Wei Long thought, you wouldn’t last an hour in the streets of Sichuan City.

  Wei Long heaved heavily and kept his cool as best he could. He tightened his grip around his wooden sword, feeling his knuckles turn white against the worn wood.

  “Leave him be,” an authoritative voice called out.

  “Good morning, Senior Sister Nian,” Ren’s follower called out.

  Nian stepped into the courtyard, her own practice sword resting casually over her left shoulder. At seventeen, she was one of the more skilled disciples within the sect. She was one of the few Core Disciples that took time out of her training to visit outer disciples. “So you’ve learned nothing Ren?” She said coldly walking up to him.

  “Wei Long is seven years old, the youngest disciple in our history and you want to bully him. You truly are PATHETIC. Instead of bullying him, You should be practicing your third forms of the Heart Steel Sword…just as Master Feng instructed,”

  Ren’s face darkened, but he backed away from Wei Long. No one crossed Nian, not since she had defeated three Core disciples in a row during last autumn’s tournament.

  The trio left immediately, scoffing at Wei Long as they did. Nian walked toward Wei Long, hands clasped around her wooden sword. “If you have any trouble, feel free to visit me Wei Long.”

  Wei Long bowed, holding his sword between his hands, cupping his hands as he showed respect to his senior. “Thank you senior, but I am fine…” he said calmly. “Forgive me for not knowing the senior’s name.”

  “Tie Nian,”

  “Greetings, Senior Sister Tie Nian.”

  “Nian is just fine, Wei Long.”

  “Yes, Senior Sister,”

  Wei Long kept his head bowed, not daring to raise it. Sweat from his hands began to drip onto his face, despite how chilly the wind howled in the morning. He dared not move until his senior sister allowed him to; that was the etiquette he was taught. “At ease,”

  Wei Long dropped his hands and stood at attention. Tie Nian began circling him, measuring him like most instructors did when they came across him. When Tie Nian was satisfied she walked up to him and squatted slightly, looking him directly into his face. “Your left elbow drops on the backswing. Correct it and your wrist won’t hurt as much when you’re doing your chores.”

  “Thank You Sen…” He said but she gave him a stare that could pierce a lion. He give her a toothy smile and bowed again, “Thank You, Nian,”

  “Have a good day Wei Long,” She turned around without saying anything else, leaving Wei Long to his training.

  “I still have a few swings left,” he whispered to himself.

  He raised his sword above his head again, adjusting his elbow. He felt the difference immediately, and brought his practice sword down again, “Eight hundred and thirty-one.”

  Wei Long’s sword felt lighter somehow, he felt reinvigorated and continued until he could do his one thousandth swing.

  By the time he finished, the sun had finally crested the eastern mountain. His arms trembled with exhaustion, but there was no time to rest. His chores awaited him before his class started. He had floors to sweep, water to fetch, and meals to prepare.

  He stored his practice sword back in the shed and snatched up the broom. He attacked the dining hall floor with the same precision he applied to his swordplay.

  “You move like water, even with a broom,” Master Feng said, startling Wei Long.

  He turned to his right, where the door was and he saw Master Feng, one of the youngest masters within the sect standing, his foot proped up against the door.

  “Master Feng! Good Morning, Sir, are you well?”

  “I am fine, thank you.”

  He didn’t say anything more, but still remained at the door, which made Wei Long feel exposed. “Don’t mind me lad, continue what you were doing.”

  “Yes Master,” Wei Long answered nervously.

  He continued sweeping, trying to make himself seem fluid as he maneuvered through the dining hall. He occasionally looked up at Master Feng, but he just smiled in return.

  “My words weren’t meant as a compliment you know, Master Feng finally said eyes hinting of amusement.

  “Master?” Wei Long asked confused.

  “Earlier I told you, you move like water.”

  “Ahh, yes…if it weren’t a compliment, what did you mean then?”

  “Well…water is gentle but here, in the Heavy Sword Sect, we must become stone…water can carve through stone, given enough time.” He continued, fixing a penetrating stare on Wei Long. “How many swings this morning?”

  “One thousand, Master.”

  “Twelve hundred tomorrow.”

  Wei Long’s heart sank. Already, his arms felt like lead weights. “Yes Master,” He said, trying his best to smile.

  “And use this.”

  Wei Long looked up and Master Feng tossed him a stone wrapped in rope. Wei Long barely caught it as it almost slipped through his finger. He turned the stone in his hand, realising it was heavier than he anticipated whilst what he thought was rope, turned out to be a leather cord. “Tie it to your waist during practice.”

  “Yes Master,”

  “You wish to wield a heavier sword one day, do you not?” Master Feng asked.

  “More than anything, Master.”

  “Then you must become more than you are… Finish your chores early and get some rest. We’ll only be doing stance training today, alright?”

  “Yes Master.”

  “Good,”

  After the Master Feng left, Wei Long stared at the weight in his palm. It was impossibly heavy for its size, likely forged with ore from the sect’s secret deposit.

  Wei Long tucked the weight carefully into his pocket and returned to his sweeping with renewed vigor. He had only two hours to complete the remaining chores, but for the first time since arriving at the sect six months ago, a small flame of hope burned in his chest.