Hours had passed. The sun, once high, had slowly dipped below the horizon, and darkness began to claim the sky. Even as night fell, the golden door shone with a steady, fierce light that broke through the twilight.

  I stood there with my hand pressed against the barrier. I hadn’t moved—not once. I just couldn’t pull away.

  Fate… Fate… Fate.

  That single word echoed in my mind, repeating over and over—taunting me, weighing me down like shackles. All my life, it had wrapped itself around me, growing tighter with each passing year.

  As if the heavens sought to answer my turmoil, rain began to fall—soft at first, gentle droplets tapping against the plain. But soon, it turned heavy, a relentless downpour that soaked through robes, hair, and skin alike. Still, my hand remained pressed against the golden wall, the rain slipping down my face, mixing with the warmth of the light.

  I glanced over at the cultivator. Not a single drop touched him. It was as though an invisible sphere surrounded his form, repelling the rain with effortless grace. Each droplet curved and fell away, unworthy of staining him.

  Was this Qi? I wondered. The legendary force that cultivators could harness—the otherworldly essence that separated beings like him from the rest of us. The power that made them more than mortal.

  He remained rooted to the same spot as when he first descended—back straight, hands folded behind him, eyes steady, expression unchanged.

  How long has it been since the gate opened?

  An hour? Two?

  How long did I have left? Not long I’m sure.

  Then it happened.

  Once more, the earth beneath me began to tremble, a deep and thunderous rumble that shook through bones. The golden gate... was closing.

  No…

  I pressed my hand harder against the barrier, but an invisible force surged outward from the gate, sweeping across the plain like a great unseen tide. It pulled me away, ripped me from my place—pushing me back from my yearning.

  No!

  I had thought I was prepared to face failure. I had convinced myself that if the answer was rejection, I would fight it. But now, in the moment that truth stared me down, I realized how wrong I had been. I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t composed. I was broken.

  I clawed at the earth, fingers digging into the rain-soaked soil, but the pull was too strong. The mud, slick and treacherous, offered no anchor. My nails scraped uselessly through the muck as I was dragged backward, inch by inch, desperation overtaking reason.

  No! No—No!

  Others were being pulled as well, flailing, crying out, bodies colliding in the chaos. Some slammed into me as I fought to hold my ground, the weight of limbs and panic crashing against my back, shoulders, sides. It hurt. The bruises would fade, but the pain of losing the path I had chosen—that would stay with me far longer.

  Then, just at the edge of my vision, I saw movement. A shift so effortless, it stood in stark contrast to ours.

  The cultivator.

  He moved forward—not with steps, but gliding toward the golden vortex like he belonged to it. Like it welcomed him.

  Was he leaving?

  I didn’t want to do it.

  I never wanted to do this. I never wanted to expose that disgraceful part of me, to let the world see the pitiful sword I carried. But desperation is a fierce master, overwhelming every scrap of pride I had left.

  My hands, my fingers—they weren’t enough. So I did what I had sworn I would never do: I manifested my soul weapon.

  The very thing I had locked away deep inside—buried beneath layers of shame and resentment—was now all I had left. I despised it. I despised what it revealed about me, what it meant for me. But I needed it now.

  A pale shimmer of light bled from the center of my chest, and with it, the blade emerged—silent, slow, like it regretted being summoned as much as I regretted calling it forth. My soul weapon. This damned sword.

  It materialized fully in my grip. Longer than my arm, sturdier than my fingers—and right now, that was all that mattered.

  With a cry, I plunged it into the soil, using it as a makeshift anchor. I threw my weight forward, clawing toward the gate. Then I pulled it free, thrust it into the earth again, and pushed.

  Again.

  And again.

  Every inch I advanced, the gate’s force pushed back harder—like the very heavens resented my defiance.

  "Pathetic."

  Huh?

  The word struck me like lightning, cutting through the storm, the cries, the trembling earth. So close, so sharp, it was as if someone had whispered it directly into my ear.

  Without thinking, I looked up.

  White sandals hovered inches above the wet grass, untouched by mud, clean even beneath the downpour.

  My eyes climbed slowly, hesitantly, up the long, pristine white robe.

  And then—I met his gaze.

  The cultivator stood right in front of me, arms still behind his back, face unchanging… save for one thing.

  Disgust.

  He looked at me like one might look at something rotting in the gutter. Then he opened his mouth—and began speaking, slowly, clearly, as though reciting a list of disappointments.

  “A thin, brittle-looking thing,” he said, his voice cold and quiet but sharp enough to cut. “Unadorned. Unremarkable. A blade jagged in places—worn, rusted, beaten down. A hilt wrapped in tattered cloth, frayed and uneven. A soul weapon that inspires neither fear nor admiration.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Pathetic. Never in all my years have I seen a soul weapon so utterly devoid of potential.”

  Each word sank deep, deeper than any blade could cut. He wasn’t just describing my weapon—he was describing me.

  “And not only have the heavens rejected you—denied you even the chance to begin the path of cultivation—they’ve cursed your very existence. That weapon… your weapon… is not a tool for growth; it’s a sentence, a punishment. Perhaps for the sins of your ancestors. Or perhaps your own, in a life lived before this one. But whatever the reason—your constitution is weak, your soul is dull, your path is void.”

  His voice darkened, taking on a cruel edge.

  “You are the weakest body. The weakest soul. The weakest weapon. The weakest—”

  “ENOUGH!”

  The word tore out of me with such force I barely recognized my own voice. My throat burned. My hands trembled around the hilt of my soul weapon.

  For the first time, the cultivator paused. His eyes widened slightly in surprise—just for a moment. But it passed quickly, replaced once again by that same disgusted gaze.

  “I hate people like you,” I spat, rising shakily to my feet. “Those who look down on others. Who think a glance is enough to define an entire existence. Who believe they can judge the worth of a life they’ve never lived.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I stared directly into his eyes, feeling the weight of the world crash down on me—but I refused to bend.

  “I may be weak. In body. In soul. In weapon. But I have the strongest will.”

  I said it not as a boast, but as a vow.

  “Today, I may have been denied,” I said, my voice low but steady, trembling with raw conviction. “But next time—I will be here again. And again. And again! Every decade that passes, I will be here. I will throw myself against the will of the heavens until they have no choice but to acknowledge me. I will defy their authority and write my own story.”

  I tightened my grip on my battered sword, teeth clenched through the pain in my limbs and soul.

  “I will never give up. Not until my very last breath.”

  The rain poured harder, thunder rumbled somewhere far in the distance, but the cultivator before me didn’t so much as glance at the sky. His gaze stayed fixed on me, no longer laced with disgust—there was something else now. Something quieter. Intrigue, perhaps. Curiosity.

  “A mortal’s fire,” he said calmly, “burns bright… but it burns fast.”

  His voice was softer now, still firm, but no longer condescending. “You seem young—for a mortal. I’ve seen many like you. So many. Eyes filled with purpose, mouths full of fire and brave declarations. And every one of them…”

  He raised a single hand and slowly closed it into a fist.

  “…burned out.”

  He let the silence hang before continuing.

  “How many times do you think you can return here? Once every ten years, if you survive that long? If you outlive sickness, war, accident? If you manage to avoid the slow erosion of hope?” He stepped to the side, his robes trailing across the grass untouched by water or dirt.

  “Five times? Six? If you’re lucky—eight?” He tilted his head slightly. “Eight desperate attempts before your bones begin to break under their own weight. Before your voice trembles with age instead of passion. Before your heart, too tired to keep fighting, simply gives in.”

  He walked toward the golden vortex, but just before stepping through, he turned his gaze back to me.

  “Fate is decided at birth,” he said. “And yours… was denied. No amount of defiance will ever change that.”

  The cultivator stepped into the golden vortex, his figure swallowed whole by the swirling light. As he vanished, the gate fully closed, the hum of its divine energy faded fully and with it, the last hope of this decade.

  I collapsed onto my back, rain poured freely onto my face, mixing with mud, sweat… and perhaps a tear I would never admit to shedding.

  I stared at the sky.

  Grey clouds rolled overhead, shapeless and endless. The cold rain pelted my skin, each drop a quiet echo of disappointment. This scene—it felt familiar.

  The weather... It was just like that day.

  Another rainy day. Another moment full of helplessness.

  Splash. Splash.

  “Give it!”

  Thud.

  “Gah!”

  Splash.

  “Let go of it, you damn freak!”

  I was on the ground again—only this time, years earlier. Curled in a narrow alley, half-submerged in a growing puddle, my back stung with every blow. My ribs ached. My arms were wrapped tightly around the small cloth bundle in my grasp.

  The rain poured just as hard then as it did now, mixing with the filth of the streets, turning the alley into a river of mud and garbage. Their boots splashed through it with every kick.

  I groaned, curled tighter, shielding the bag with my body as best I could.

  This was routine. Street kids always picked on me—mocked me for my soul weapon, for my lack of worth, for being the easy one to beat down when their day went bad. A walking target, cursed by fate.

  But that day was different. I still had something worth standing up for.

  A small pouch, wrapped tightly in soaked fabric—medicine I had spent months saving for, coin by coin, job by job, meal by meal. All for my father. For the only person who had ever believed in me, even as the rest of the world turned its back.

  Eventually, they gave up.

  Maybe it was the rain, soaking them to the bone. Maybe it was the exhaustion from kicking someone who refused to break. Or maybe… they realized that to take the medicine from me, they would have to kill me first.

  And that day, even they weren’t willing to cross that line.

  So they left, spitting curses and frustrated laughter as their footsteps sloshed away into the alley’s shadows.

  I lay there for a while, breath shallow, limbs screaming with every twitch. But eventually, I forced myself to move. I had to. Each step home was a battle in itself—half-walking, half-stumbling, my body leaning awkwardly with every step. Pain pulsed through every joint, but I held the medicine close, never loosening my grip.

  Home.

  If I could even call it that.

  A battered shack at the edge of the district, barely holding itself together against wind and weather. But still… as long as my father was there, it was home. It would always be home. Until, one day… it no longer could be.

  I pushed open the creaking wooden door.

  The air inside was quiet—still heavy with dampness, but warm in a way only familiar places could be. A dim candle flickered in the far corner, resting on a crooked wooden table that looked ready to fall apart if you so much as sneezed too close to it. Next to that faint light, lying on a worn straw mattress, was my father.

  Sleeping. Breathing softly. Alive.

  I was thankful he was asleep—I thought, at least he wouldn’t have to see me like this. Not again.

  The shack was small—just one open room where every part of our lives shared space. There were no walls, no privacy, no separate bedrooms. The kitchen sat just beside my father’s bed, little more than a corner with a rough wooden board for chopping, and a small, blackened stove where I could cook over charcoal or wood.

  As for my room… there wasn’t one. My spot was on the floor beside my father, where I had always slept.

  I moved quietly, careful not to wake him. I wiped the blood, mud, and rain from my face with a rough, half-clean cloth—one of the few we had left. It stung, but I didn’t flinch.

  I set the medicine down, unwrapped it carefully, and went to work.

  Vegetables first—soft roots and wilted greens. No meat today. No surprise.

  I cut them slowly and steadily. Then, I added the bitter medicinal herbs to the pot, letting their scent mix with the stew.

  A poor man’s meal, but… healing.

  I kneeled down beside my father, my legs folding beneath me, the creaking of old floorboards drowned beneath the soft crackle of the candle’s flame.

  I looked at him. His face, once strong and full of laughter, now bore the marks of time and suffering. Age had stolen what little vitality he had left. His hair, once dark like mine, had turned a washed-out gray, thin and frail as mist. Wrinkles carved deep into his skin—some from years of hardship, others from too many sleepless nights spent worrying for me.

  But the most heartbreaking part...

  I reached out gently and tapped his chest, my voice no louder than a whisper.

  “Father... wake up.”

  For a moment, nothing.

  Then, slowly, his eyelids fluttered open.

  A lump caught in my throat.

  Tears almost welled up at the corners of my eyes—but I bit them back. Not now. Not while he was looking at me.

  His gaze met mine, weak and unfocused, the gray of his pupils slowly eating away at the black. He was halfway blind now, halfway fading—clinging to this world through sheer will… and through me.

  I could see it in his eyes.

  Even in that fading light, there was a warmth. A flicker of recognition. Of relief.

  He didn’t ask where I’d been. He didn’t comment on the bruises on my face. He just looked at me—like he always did—with quiet understanding.

  “Shen... welcome... back.”

  His voice was brittle, but it carried that same warmth it always did. That same smile—faint, weary, yet somehow still full of love.

  No matter how weak he became, no matter how close he edged toward the end, he always greeted me that way. As if my return meant something. As if it still mattered.

  “…Thank you, Father,” I whispered, my throat tightening as I knelt closer.

  “I made you some stew,” I added softly, setting the bowl nearby. “It’s got the medicine in it. Just like the old recipe… with whatever vegetables I could find.”

  He didn’t respond, but I saw his gaze flicker toward the bowl. That was enough.

  “Here,” I said, placing a hand gently behind his back, “let me help you sit up.”

  I slipped my arm around his frail frame, lifting him slowly, carefully—like I was holding something fragile enough to break beneath its own weight.

  And still… he felt so light.

  So much so that even someone like me, the one they called the weakest, could lift him without effort.

  That’s what hurt the most.

  Not the bruises on my ribs. Not the soreness in my arms. Not the humiliation I endured every day.

  But this.

  How easily I could hold up the man who once carried the world on his shoulders—for me.

  “There we go,” I murmured, adjusting the pillow behind him and pulling the blanket around his legs. “Nice and easy.”

  He gave the faintest nod.

  And I sat beside him, the bowl warm in my hands.

  Slowly, carefully, I fed him spoon by spoon, making sure he swallowed every last drop of the medicinal stew. He didn’t complain about the taste, though I knew it was bitter. He never did. He only focused on me, eyes blinking slowly between each bite, as if this moment—just the two of us—was all he needed.

  When the bowl was finally empty, I set it aside and gently helped him lie back down. He exhaled softly, as if even resting now took effort. I reached for the bowl to go clean it when I felt the faintest tug on my sleeve.

  His fingers, frail and trembling, barely held onto me.

  I turned to him. His lips moved, but no sound came. His mouth tried to form words—he wanted to say something. But the strength wasn’t there.

  Still… I understood. I always did.

  “Yes, Father,” I whispered, nodding with a small smile. “I understand.”

  I placed the bowl on the table and sat back down beside him, just like he wanted.

  I looked at him, at the man who had given me everything, even as he had nothing left. My voice was quiet, almost reverent, as I began to speak.

  “Long ago,” I said, “there was a man who defied the heavens.”

  His breathing slowed, his eyes fluttering shut as he listened.

  “They called him the Fate-Defying Cultivator—the first man who refused the path given to him. The one who carved a new destiny with his own hands…”

  And so, I told him the story he once told me—as a child, like I had countless nights before.