HEAVEN'S FORSAKEN SON

Ashes of a Birthright

The yard of the Darkveil Clan brimmed with noise.

The spring wind gently blew against the lantern. That day was supposed to be a day of celebration because three sons had been born that morning. Each of them carried the bloodline of the Darkveil name.

The clan gathered with eager faces with their eyes bright with expectation.

On a raised dais, elders cradled two swaddled infants. A soft glow of qi shimmered faintly around their tiny bodies and the mark of spiritual roots had already stirred within them.

“Look at them,” someone whispered. “Blessed from birth. They will bring pride to our clan.”

Cheers erupted from the people present. Mothers smiled and fathers straightened their backs in pride. These children, blessed by the heavens, were already destined for cultivation.

But then, a heavy silence fell. 

A third infant was carried forward. He was small, quiet, his skin was pale and his cries were very weak. There was no glow of qi surrounding him. This was Arin Darkveil.

The clan physician, Elder Maon, leaned over the child, pressing his fingers lightly against the baby’s chest. His brows furrowed as his spiritual sense swept through. He went still for a while. 

The crowd leaned forward.

“Well?” an elder demanded. “What root does he carry?”

Maon slowly withdrew his hand. His voice came out low and sad.

“He is crippled. His meridians are blocked from birth. The child cannot absorb qi.”

A hush fell among the people and then, they started murmuring, one to another. 

“A cripple?”

“The heavens have cursed him…”

“To be born without meridians, what a great shame?”

The joy of moments ago twisted into scorn. Fathers shook their heads. Mothers turned their children’s faces away.

The boy’s mother, Selene Darkveil, clutched her infant to her chest with tears streaking her face. “No, he is not cursed. He is still my son.” She rocked him as if her warmth could shield him from the venomous stares.

But the man beside her did not move.

Darius Darkveil, his father, turned his face away. His jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffened, and without a word he walked off the dais. His black robe trailed behind him as he moved swiftly. 

He had already abandoned his son right from birth. 

That was the first moment of Arin Darkveil’s life.

Time passed, but the stain of that day never left.

Whenever Arin toddled into the yard as a child, people turned their heads away. But when other boys with qi laughed and trained with wooden swords, the elders watched proudly. But when Arin tried to join, they sneered.

“Stay back, cripple.”

“Don’t pollute their practice.”

His earliest memory was not of warmth, It was of pointing fingers and voices that hissed one word again and again.

“Curse.”

He did not even understand what it meant, but he felt it as the weight kept pressing down on his chest and it was suffocating him. 

By the time he was six, Arin understood shame too well.

One spring morning, he sat quietly at the edge of the training yard, clutching a wooden toy sword his mother had given him.

Two boys approached, both a year older and their smirks already cruel.

“Well, look who’s here,” one said, snatching the toy sword from his hands. “The cripple wants to play at being a cultivator.”

The other shoved him. Arin fell backward into a puddle of mud, his robe soaked instantly.

The boys roared with laughter. “Perfect! Trash belongs in the dirt!”

Arin’s small fists clenched, his lips trembled, but he forced the tears back. He bit his tongue until it bled.

He would not cry in front of them.

When they finally grew bored and left, he sat in the mud alone. His toy sword broken and his robe ruined. His heart was heavy as he tried all he could to bury his pain so that people won't laugh at him.

That evening, Selene found him where he sat still in the mud. 

She knelt beside him, wiping the mud from his cheeks with her sleeve. Her hands were rough from work, but gentle.

“Arin,” she whispered with her voice shaking, “promise me something. Do not let their words make you small. You are not trash.”

Her eyes burned with fierce love. “Even if the whole clan turns against you, even if the heavens themselves call you cursed… you are still my pride.”

Arin’s chest ached. He buried his face in her embrace and whispered, “Mother… I’ll be strong.”

He did not yet know how but at least her words made him feel better. 

One winter night, Arin wandered near the servants’ quarters. Lanterns flickered dimly, and he heard the voice of an old woman mumbling as she spun thread.

“Some are not cursed by chance,” she said, with her voice cracking with age. “Some are decreed by heaven itself. The skies decide who shall rise and who must fall. To defy such fate is to fight the heavens.”

Arin froze. The words felt like knives piercing into his young heart. He did not understand them fully, but something deep inside stirred. 

If the heavens had written him as worthless, could he not rewrite it?

The thought took root, though he could not yet grasp its meaning.

A year passed. Arin grew quieter and more withdrawn from people. His cousins flourished in their training.

 Kael Darkveil, his cousin, shone brightest and was praised endlessly as the clan’s rising star.

Every achievement of Kael was another lash against Arin. Every smile of the elders toward Kael was a reminder of the cold stares that turned his way.

And yet Arin endured it all. But fate was crueler still.

One night, Arin padded softly down the corridor of the clan hall, intending to sneak bread from the kitchen since he hasn't ate. His small feet made no sound on the stone floor.

But as he passed a half-open door, voices halted him.

Inside, he heard his father’s sharp and cold voice, 

“…That boy should never have been kept alive. We should have left him to die the day he was born. Every day he breathes, he stains the Darkveil name.”

Arin froze. His chest constricted and his breath caught.

For a moment he thought he had misheard, but the words echoed again in his head. 

 His own father wished he had died.

In that instant, something inside Arin shattered. But in that brokenness, something else came alive.

If even his father abandoned him, if even the heavens despised him… Then he would live not for their approval, but for himself.