I Shall Rewrite the Protagonists’ Fate

Wú Diàn woke up to another day of hardship. His small hut, precariously built with his own hands, stood on the edge of the Sky Tower School's most desolate grounds. The roof leaked when it rained, the walls offered little shelter against the cold, and the damp smell of unwashed cloth hung in the air. Yet, Wú Diàn endured.

He dressed in plain black robes, their faded hue a testament to his years of toil and solitude. Grabbing his broom, he stepped outside, stretching slightly as the dawn light touched the horizon. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the rare stillness before the chaos. Then, with practiced ease, he began to sweep.

Despite the menial nature of his task, Wú Diàn's movements were precise and fluid. Each stroke of the broom seemed to guide the dust and debris toward a single point, as though obeying his silent command. His back remained straight, his focus unwavering, even as sweat dripped down his face—a stark reminder of his fragile physique.

Life as an experimental disciple in Sky Tower was harsher than most could bear. Cast out from the main ranks after failing to break through the third stage of the tempered body in three years, Wú Diàn was labeled as a disgrace. Experimental disciples received no resources, no support. They were left to fend for themselves or leave the school altogether. Yet Wú Diàn chose to stay, clinging to a sliver of hope and an iron will.

As he worked, disciples began to gather, their gazes sharp and predatory. By now, he was used to their routine—every five days, they came to watch, mock, and ultimately fight him, lured by the school's Challenge Rule. A fight with Wú Diàn was a low-risk opportunity to prove their dominance.

The crowd grew, whispers and laughter filling the air.

"Still sweeping, huh, Wú Diàn?" one jeered.

"Pick me this time," another shouted. "I'll end it quickly for you."

Wú Diàn ignored them, his focus remaining on the ground. With time, the group swelled to thirty or forty disciples, all vying for the chance to challenge him.

At last, Wú Diàn stopped sweeping. He set his broom upright, then sat cross-legged in the middle of the path, his expression calm. The gathered disciples tensed, their chatter fading into an expectant silence.

When the Sky Tower's bells tolled nine times, signaling the start of a new day, Wú Diàn stood, gripping his broom. Without a word, he tossed it high into the air. The crowd's eyes followed its arc, anticipation mounting as it spun before landing, its handle pointing toward a burly youth.

The crowd groaned with disappointment as the chosen disciple stepped forward, grinning broadly.

"Fellow disciples, today's victory is mine," the boy announced, mockingly clasping his hands together in a show of gratitude.

"Che, lucky bastard," someone muttered.

"You rigged it, Wú Diàn," another accused. "How do you always avoid me?"

The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving Wú Diàn and the selected opponent standing in the empty courtyard.

"Experimental disciple Wú Diàn, tempered body third stage," he introduced himself, his voice steady despite the odds.

"Ordinary disciple Zhou Ding Jun, tempered body fifth stage," the burly youth replied, cracking his knuckles.

The Sky Tower's rigid hierarchy loomed over them like an unyielding wall. Wú Diàn was at the very bottom, while Zhou Ding Jun, though not yet a student of a mentor, ranked higher as an ordinary disciple. The gap in strength was evident, but Wú Diàn stood firm, his determination unshaken.

This was not just a fight; it was survival in a school where the weak were crushed beneath the strong. And Wú Diàn, against all odds, refused to be crushed.

In the Sky Tower, one rule governed the disciples: all could be challenged once every five days. However, challenges were limited to opponents within three cultivation levels of the challenger, ensuring fairness. The stakes? Contribution Points—treasures as valuable as life itself. These points, also called Main Gate Contribution Points, could be exchanged for martial arts techniques, weapons, or even gold and silver. Yet, few would squander them on mundane currency.

Challenges were the most popular method to earn points, and as dawn broke, a crowd gathered in anticipation. Their focus was on a single figure—Wú Diàn.

Wú Diàn's name was infamous. A trial disciple perpetually stationed at Sky Terrace, he was known not for his victories but for his consistent defeats. Yet, today, as he stood amidst the jeering crowd, he shouted boldly, "Please instruct!"

A burly figure stepped forward—Zhou Ding Jun, his senior by two cultivation levels. Zhou smirked, his confidence palpable. The outcome seemed obvious.

Wú Diàn attacked first, his thin frame moving with surprising ferocity. His fists lashed out, channeling every ounce of energy he could muster. Each move adhered to the fundamentals of the Shaolin Fist, a discipline all disciples had to master. But Zhou's movements were calm, precise. He sidestepped Wú Diàn's strikes effortlessly, countering with a swift punch to the solar plexus.

Wú Diàn staggered but didn't fall. Suppressing his pain, he retreated, narrowly evading a second blow. Zhou's eyes narrowed in surprise. "He's faster than I expected," he muttered, adjusting his stance.

But the gap between their cultivation levels was insurmountable. Wú Diàn charged again, his spirit indomitable, yet each clash ended with him being flung backward. The crowd chuckled, some even mocking Zhou Ding Jun for taking part in what was essentially a charity match.

Still, Wú Diàn refused to stay down. "Again!" he yelled, his voice hoarse but unyielding.

Attack after attack, fall after fall. His fists were strong, but his malnourished body betrayed him. His persistence, however, was extraordinary. Even when his face was bruised, his breathing labored, and his movements faltering, he kept standing back up.

The spectators whispered among themselves, a mix of admiration and disbelief.

"Is he mad? Why does he keep going?"

"Tenacity like that… you don't see it often."

"But it's useless. He can't win."

Zhou Ding Jun, though victorious, felt no satisfaction. With every clash, his respect for Wú Diàn grew. Finally, after yet another exchange that left Wú Diàn sprawled on the ground, Zhou shouted, "Are you insane? You'll kill yourself at this rate! Just give up!"

Wú Diàn wiped the blood from his lip and smirked faintly, his voice steady despite the toll on his body. "I'll only stop when I've reached my limit."