The Legend of Dungsworth

“Quincy Dungsworth, hahaha! Just like your name, you really are TRASH!” sneered a boy named Blake Morrow, stressing the word trash. He kicked a pile of cat dung straight toward Quincy.

The skinny, ragged boy crouched down, shielding his head. Dirt and dust from the filth rained all over his body.

Quincy’s strange name had an unusual origin. Years ago, a hunter named Ezekiel Jhu discovered a baby crying atop a heap of rotting leaves. In the infant’s tiny hand was a lump of cat dung.

Then, out of nowhere, the baby’s hand glowed—and the dung vanished. Ezekiel thought the child had absorbed it. So he named him Quincy Dungsworth, the “Filthy Brat.”

Before Ezekiel was killed by a wild beast on a hunt, he had managed to enroll the abandoned child into the Ironhart Institute, an elite academy for cultivation.

At first, Quincy wasn’t qualified. The examiner declared his body empty—no inner energy, no sign of a Spiritual Core, even though he was nearly nine years old. By that age, human children usually showed signs of their innate spiritual seed, tied to one of the Seven Elements: Fire, Water, Wind, Land, Plant, Light, or Darkness.

Ezekiel knew Quincy would struggle, yet forced his way into getting him admitted—even if only as a servant. At the very least, the boy would see how others trained. Ezekiel, already nearing fifty, knew he could no longer protect the child. Quincy would have to learn how cruel the world could be.

After Blake left, his two lackeys, Tommy and Rolf, shoved Quincy with their feet until he curled up on the ground.

“Filthy Brat, playing with filth. You really are best friends, huh? Hahaha!” one of them jeered, then followed Blake.

This wasn’t the first time Quincy had been bullied. Yet he never fought back. He didn’t cry, didn’t resist. He just stayed silent, his gaze blank, like a lost soul.

The boy picked up a lump of dung beside him. “They say you’re my best friend,” he muttered with a crooked smile.

Unbeknownst to him, a girl a year younger had been watching. Winnie Ling—a sweet girl with long lashes, though a bit rough around the edges from her free-spirited life.

“Smiling while squeezing cat dung? What a weirdo!” Winnie scoffed, rolling her eyes. She had pitied him at first, seeing him bullied so often. But witnessing such bizarre behavior, she found him disturbing instead.

Her footsteps crunched away. Quincy turned, catching a glimpse of her retreating figure.

What was I thinking, treating dung like a friend? Hah… she probably thinks I’m insane. He sighed inwardly.

He quickly went to wash at a nearby well. Just as he finished, someone called out.

“Hey, Filthy Brat! Over here!”

It was Calder Flint, a second-year student, waving him over. Calder was the leader of Class 2A—famous, talented, and popular among his peers.

Quincy approached, as usual, silently awaiting orders. He knew Class 2A was scheduled to clear the courtyard of fallen leaves. Though they could have easily done it with their powers, what fun was training without a servant?

“Clean every single leaf in this yard!” Calder barked, tossing a broom at him. The handle smacked Quincy’s forehead, leaving a dark bruise. Calder’s classmates laughed as they followed their leader away, leaving Quincy to face the massive courtyard alone.

“One whole day and night still wouldn’t be enough,” Quincy muttered, staring at the endless sea of leaves. His bruise throbbed, but when he touched it, the pain vanished instantly.

What… what just happened?

By evening, Calder and his group returned. Only a small patch of the courtyard had been cleared.

“So slow! You barely did anything!” a girl snapped, kicking Quincy hard enough to knock him face-first into the dirt.

“Hey, mute boy!” another grabbed his hair, yanking his head up. “Watch and learn how it’s done!”

The boy unleashed his Wind Core—

Whoooosh!

In seconds, the leaves gathered neatly in piles.

They all assumed Quincy was mute. After all, none of them had ever heard him speak.

Even so, Calder wasn’t satisfied. “Trash should stay buried with trash,” he sneered, digging into the soil with his hands. His classmates understood instantly.

A student with the Land Core stomped the ground, causing it to collapse into a pit. They threw Quincy inside and buried him alive, leaving only his head exposed, then covered him with leaves.

The smell of smoke soon filled his nostrils. The leaves above his head ignited, flames spreading fast.

“AAAAAARGHHH!” Quincy screamed in agony. But no one cared.

“Hahaha! Who would mourn the death of trash?” one mocked as their footsteps faded away.

They set the leaves on fire? On purpose? They want me dead? I screamed, but they ignored me and left me to burn…

His mind went numb. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to death.

Then—

A charred piece of wood tumbled from the burning pile, striking his head. The moment it touched him, warmth surged through his body. Energy flooded his limbs, giving him the strength to break free.

BOOM!

The earth exploded, leaves and flames scattering. Quincy leapt up and seized the scorched stick. The instant it touched his palm, a radiant glow revealed strange carvings etched into the wood.

But the searing heat forced him to drop it. And then, on his right palm, a mysterious mark appeared—shaped like a blazing sun.

What… what is this mark?