"A year of prosperity, a year of protection…"
The black-haired youth chanted softly as he struck the ground with a peachwood branch, performing a simple ritual meant to drive away scorpions, snakes, and all manner of creeping things.
"Chasing scorpions, chasing snakes… I wish for a year of protection, a year of prosperity."
He moved slowly around his modest home, rhythmically tapping the peachwood branch against the walls. The house was small—just a single room. A rough wooden bed rested in one corner, while a lone table stood against the wall. Upon it were two crude wooden altars, names etched deep into the grain. Nearby, bundles of herbs and vegetables hung drying beside a worn earthen oven.
Step by step, wall by wall, he completed a full circuit of the house.
Only then did he place the branch back onto the table.
Reaching for three incense sticks, he lit them carefully and set them before the two wooden altars.
They bore the names of his parents.
A poor man's shrine.
Where others might have proper ancestral tablets, carved stone, or lacquered wood, he had only these two rough pieces. Still, it was enough—for remembrance, for respect, for prayer.
Stepping back, he kowtowed three times, his forehead touching the ground with quiet reverence before he finished his prayer for prosperity.
The youth's name was Liu Ping'an.
All his life, he had lived in this small village.
Despite its remote, backwater nature, the town had once been prosperous. It was known for its textiles and fine china, so much so that people informally called it the Town of Kilns.
But that was in the past.
Liu Ping'an turned to his morning routine, preparing a simple vegetable soup. He added a small bit of saved lard into the pot, letting it melt and enrich the broth.
As he waited by the fire, he closed his eyes.
In his mind, a lump of clay appeared.
Using an imaginary pottery wheel, he began to shape it—his hands moving in the air as though they were truly touching it. Slowly, carefully, he molded the invisible clay, refining its form through pure visualization.
It was a habit he had picked up over the years.
Not one taught to him.
His master, Old Li—the village potter—had never taken much of a liking to him. Though Liu Ping'an had been hardworking, he was never well received. Old Li had only taught him the bare basics.
And even then, the results were… lacking.
In three years, Liu Ping'an had only reached a modest level of skill.
Meanwhile, his younger sworn brother—Lu Xiaojun, another disciple of Old Li—had reached the same level within mere months.
Liu Ping'an was diligent.
But he was also, undeniably, untalented.
Fffsssh—
Hot steam burst from the pot.
He quickly lifted the clay lid, the heat stinging his calloused fingers. Inside, the soup had turned rich and fragrant, the vegetables soft and glistening. The scent of fat and warmth rose with the steam, filling the small room.
Carefully, he poured it into a simple bowl and began eating.
"I have to go gatekeep Sheng today… hopefully there are a few more letters."
He muttered to himself between breaths, blowing gently on a spoonful before taking a sip.
The town's once-thriving china trade had been destroyed by a royal decree. The production of chinaware had been banned outright, stripping the town of its lifeblood.
Many potters had left.
Others found new work.
Old Li… had not.
Stubborn as ever, the old man refused to bend. When his livelihood vanished, he endured as long as he could—but last winter, he passed away quietly in his sleep.
"…I wonder how Takayuki-nii-san is doing?"
Liu Ping'an murmured, almost absentmindedly.
Because Liu Ping'an had not always been Liu Ping'an.
Before this life… things had been different.
When Torahiko Jin entered his first trial, something changed. In a sense, he had been reborn—awakening in the body of a two-year-old Liu Ping'an.
At first, everything had felt strange. Uncomfortable. Wrong.
But over time… he adapted.
He lived this life now.
His goal in this trial had been simple: grow stronger, begin cultivating, walk the path of martial power.
But reality was harsher than ambition.
For someone like him, even securing food and shelter was already a struggle.
Martial tomes? Cultivation manuals?
Those were luxuries beyond reach.
Even the lowest-grade techniques cost at least two silver essence coins.
In fifteen years, Liu Ping'an had barely managed to save twenty bronze essence coins.
And even if he somehow obtained a manual…
There was no guarantee he could learn it.
After all—
Talent was required to walk the path of the martial spirit.
And guidance.
Both of which…
He lacked.