A harsh journey
Zhang Wei adjusted the grip on his white-silver sword, his palms blistered from the rough leather hilt, as the entourage stepped onto the uneven path leading out of the Zhang estate. The sunlight struck their robes, shimmering silk in the morning haze. Zhang Wei's pale pink attire, embroidered with delicate silver threads tracing dragons and clouds, was already streaked with dust and sweat. His siblings' robes—deep greens, blues, and gold-trimmed fabrics—flapped in the wind, but none carried the stains or wear as heavily as his did; already, the journey was claiming him.
Zhang Mi held her grandson one last time, her arms steady, fingers brushing the small white-haired child's cheeks. "Little son," she whispered, eyes soft, "I will care for him in your absence. Grow strong, Zhang Wei, and return worthy of both your family and your bloodline."
Her promise burned in his chest, grounding him. The child babbled in response, tiny fists pressing against her robes, a silent bond forming that Zhang Wei could feel even from a step away.
The elders' eyes followed him as he bowed low, their expressions sharp. The clan leader's words echoed in his mind: "The Qi Kingdom will not coddle weakness. Endure, or fail."
And then, the journey began.
Day One: The first steps were deceptively easy—flat plains dusted with the morning sun. Yet every footfall carried weight. Zhang Wei's shoes were tight against his already tender feet; the soft silk of his robe chafed where straps and belts pressed. The disciples were quick to notice his hesitation.
"Move faster!" one barked. "You will bring shame with every faltering step!"
"Your arms tremble with every swing of the sword. Pathetic," another added, eyeing his grip.
Even the elders observed closely, correcting his posture mid-step. "Back straight! Sword steady! Do not let exhaustion show—it is as shameful as weakness."
By the end of the day, sweat had plastered his robes to his skin, the pale pink now dulled and streaked with dust and grime. Blisters on his feet burned, and his arms ached, yet he forced himself to keep pace, thinking of the little son in Zhang Mi's care.
Day Two: The terrain turned harsh. Gentle plains gave way to rocky hills, the path uneven and treacherous. Every step demanded attention; one misstep could mean a twisted ankle or worse. The disciples' insults grew louder and sharper.
"You are dragging behind! Are you even trying, heir of weakness?"
"Soft arms, weak legs… what use are you to the clan?"
The elders circled like hawks, pointing out every wobble in his posture, every hesitant step. Zhang Wei's pink robe, now streaked with mud and torn at the hem, seemed to betray him with its delicate appearance. He ignored the burning in his lungs, the throbbing of his calves, focusing instead on the promise that Zhang Mi had made for the child.
At night, the group camped under thin tents. Zhang Wei's robe, damp from sweat and travel, offered little warmth against the chill. Elders hovered, correcting the way he slept, the way he held his sword, the very way he moved his hands even as he tried to rest. "If you cannot hold your body with discipline, how will you hold a blade?" one scolded.
Day Three: Mountain paths began. Sharp inclines forced Zhang Wei to clutch rocks and roots for support. His robe caught on jagged branches, ripping further, and his shoes, already battered, began to cut painfully into his heels. Streams crossed the path, icy water rushing over feet that were already blistered and sore. The disciples' ridicule was constant.
"Your legs wobble like a child's!"
"Even the youngest student moves faster than you!"
Each fall was corrected with harsh words, and elders made him repeat steps over again, standing straight, gripping the sword properly, maintaining balance on slick rocks. By sunset, Zhang Wei's robes were soaked with rain and mud, shredded in places, clinging to him like a second skin.
Day Four to Six: Hunger and exhaustion became relentless companions. Meals were meager—stale bread, cold water from streams—and the cold nights gnawed through their thin tents. Elders scrutinized even the act of eating. "Chew properly. Do not slouch. Every gesture reflects your discipline."
Dust, sweat, rain, and frost coated the group. Zhang Wei's robes had faded from pink to a muddied rose, torn in several places from thorned underbrush. His hair was matted, clinging to his face. The disciples mocked him at every misstep:
"Look at the heir of weakness, crawling like an insect!"
"You will never survive the Qi Kingdom in this state!"
Each insult struck like a whip, but the thought of the little son in Zhang Mi's arms kept him moving. Every step was no longer just endurance—it was a promise.
By now, Zhang Wei's sword arm was numb from constant gripping; his legs screamed with fatigue. Yet he matched every step with sheer willpower, often stumbling but never falling completely behind. The elders' sharp eyes caught every error: posture, stride, grip, expression—all evaluated with merciless precision.
Day Seven: The final day before reaching Qi Kingdom. Every step felt like walking through fire. The terrain combined mountain cliffs and rushing rivers; every footing was precarious. Zhang Wei's robes were shredded almost beyond recognition, the silver threads hanging in tatters. His hair clung to his sweat-streaked face, mud streaking his arms and legs.
Disciples taunted him mercilessly:
"Is this the famous heir? Pathetic. Not even a child would stumble like this!"
"Your bloodline is a joke if this is your strength!"
Yet Zhang Wei pressed on, lungs burning, legs trembling, palms raw. Every time he faltered, he thought of the little son, safe in Zhang Mi's arms, of the promise made, of the honor he could not betray.
The elders followed closely, offering corrections even as they allowed the group to continue. "Do not let weakness show," they reminded him constantly. "Pain is temporary. Discipline is permanent. Remember your duty."
By the time the first golden towers of Qi Kingdom appeared in the distance, Zhang Wei's robes were tattered beyond elegance, mud-caked and torn. His pale pink robe now seemed more a battle banner of endurance than a garment of wealth. Every step he took was measured, deliberate—proof of survival, proof of growth, proof that he had endured the unthinkable.
The week-long journey had broken him, tested him, and reshaped him. Exhausted, battered, and humiliated, Zhang Wei finally reached the gates of the Qi Kingdom. Yet in his chest, beneath the fatigue and pain, burned a quiet, unyielding fire. He had survived. He had endured. And he would not fail—not for his family, not for Zhang Mi, not for the little son safely cradled in her arms.