Cultivation Without Heaven

Wan Juo waltzed out of the academy amid glances. His body had started rioting. Hunger gnawed at him like a starved beast. He didn't walk. He lunged forward, every step propelled by a craving deep in his bones.

The streets buzzed. Merchants called out deals, the distant hiss of qi forged tools pierced the air, and the scent of boiling broth cut through the city haze like a knife through flesh.

Moments later, he arrived.

The noodle stall hunched between two qi lantern posts, crooked and modest, like everything else in the Lower Quarters. Its red banner read: Cheng's Broth. The paint was faded, the characters barely legible.

Juo slid in like a shadow, slammed a hand on the wooden counter. "Old man Cheng," he panted. "Two bowls. Hot. No questions."

From behind a steaming pot, a pair of fogged up glasses glinted. "You're a bold one," came a voice, gravel and humor laced together. "Didn't think my new hire would try robbing me on day one."

Wan Juo managed a weak grin. "I'll pay you back… after I survive this shift."

"You haven't started your shift."

"And I might not, if you don't feed me," he said solemnly. "My body's about to break its contract with existence."

Cheng turned, arms crossed. "Do I look like a soup kitchen to you?"

Wan Juo blinked. Looked around at the rickety benches, cracked bowls, and leaning signboard. "…Honestly? Yeah."

The old man snorted despite himself. "Smart mouth on an empty belly. Maybe I should charge extra for the sarcasm."

"I haven't eaten since dawn," Wan Juo said, voice dropping to a whisper. "You remember what you said when I asked for this job?"

"Come back when you're desperate," Cheng muttered.

"Well," Wan Juo gestured toward his shaking knees, "I'm back."

There was a long pause. Then a sigh. "Tch. Sit down before you collapse. But this is coming out of your future pay."

Wan Juo sat without hesitation. "You're a generous tyrant."

"Keep talking and I'll cut it to half."

Moments later, the old man returned with two steaming bowls. The scent hit like a blessing. Wan Juo picked up the chopsticks, took a bite.

Tears welled up as the warmth slid down his throat.

"Oi, don't cry into the broth," Cheng said.

"Only those who've truly starved can understand..." Wan Juo whispered. "Only those who have eaten… can survive in this chaotic world..."

Cheng scoffed. "First day and you're composing poetry? Finish eating before your enlightenment spoils."

The shift was long, sweaty, and brutal.

By sunset, his sleeves were soaked in broth, his fingers burned by spilled tea, and his shoulders screamed from carrying pots.

But he'd survived.

And earned twenty silver.

He blinked at the coins in his palm. "You said it was ten silver a shift."

Cheng shrugged. "I lied. You worked harder than most, and also you will be getting two bowls of noodles as your feeding."

Wan Juo looked up, surprised.

The old man didn't look back. Just waved a hand and muttered, "Don't make me regret it."

Back at House Cinder Root, in the narrow dorm space that barely passed for a room, Wan Juo finally collapsed onto the thin mat laid over the cold stone floor. Moonlight filtered through cracked windows and torn rice paper lanterns.

But he didn't rest.

He couldn't.

His mind ticked with pressure.

Seven days. That's what the Academy gave him.

Students with clan backing were given mentors, scrolls, elemental baths. Most opened their Second Gate within three or four days.

Wan Juo had none of that.

No wealth. No lineage. No mentor.

Just desperation.

And a deadline.

"Seven days, Wan Juo," Instructor Han had said. "We don't waste resources on kindling that won't catch fire. Open your Second Gate… or don't come back."

It wasn't mercy. It was a countdown to exile.

Outside the academy walls, exile didn't mean living alone.

It meant dying alone.

"In the wilds," Han once said, "there are beasts that smell stagnant qi. If you leave unawakened… you won't last a night." And he knew... he had already seen them.

He rubbed his eyes, then left.

After trudgingly walking to his dorm, he rested a bit and quickly sat in a lotus position. Fingers locked. Breath steady.

He began.

"Don't force nature," Instructor Han had said. "Be one with it."

He tried to circulate elemental fire from his dantian to his chest, then upward to the Gate of Truth, the First Gate he had barely opened last week.

Nothing.

Stillness. Stubborn resistance. Like trying to ignite wet bark.

He grit his teeth.

Most fire elementalists followed a rigid path: gather qi in the dantian, cycle it through the heart, then open the Gate of Flow, the Second Gate. Only after that did the Gate of Fire, the Third Gate, allow for the formation of an Elemental Ring.

But that was the clan way. The luxury way.

Wan Juo had scraped knowledge from discarded scrolls, torn manuals, bloodstained pages in alleyway stalls. He remembered one in particular.

A foreign technique. Wild. Dangerous.

He inhaled.

The Breathing Sword Technique: Return to One Sword Formation.

Where others forced qi through themselves, this method used a medium.

A sword.

Not to fight, but to breathe.

To resonate.

Qi is frequency. Element is tone. A body hums. A sword sings.

If harmonized… fire could be drawn not from within, but from the world itself.

His heart thudded.

But swords were expensive. Even the cheapest blade cost ten silver.

And he had twenty.

Ten was for rent. Five for food. Three for bribes.

Two to gamble on dreams?

Not tonight.

He limped to the rear of House Cinder Root.

There it stood: a tree blackened by age and ash. Its branches curled toward the sky like dying fingers.

The age old Cinder Tree.

According to Instructor Shen, once, long ago, this tree had survived a Heavenly Flame Storm before Tianxuan was founded. Its bark still faintly radiated a light amount of fire elemental energy.

He knelt.

Plucked a fallen twig.

Long. Slightly curved. Light.

This wasn't just wood. This was history. It had already survived what he hadn't faced yet.

He sharpened the tip against stone. Sat again.

Back straight. Arms extended. Twig in both palms.

He breathed in, not through lungs alone, but with the twig.

Resonating.

Calling.

Inviting the flame.

He did not know if it would work. Only that he had no other choice.

The twig trembled slightly.

So did he.

But both held.

And so, he began.