Void Veins: The Forbidden Ascension

Torrential rain lashed against the Discard Pavilion, a rotting structure tucked away in the most remote, forgotten corner of the Lin Family Estate. Cold, filthy water seeped through cracked roof tiles, dripping rhythmically onto the moldy wooden floorboards. Inside the cramped, damp space, a gaunt young man sat cross-legged on a straw mat. His face was deathly pale, his lips tinged with a bruised blue. This was Lin Ye, the youngest son of the Lin Clan’s most reviled branch.

 Lin Ye attempted to circulate his qi—a fundamental practice that even a six-year-old novice should master with ease. Yet for sixteen-year-old Lin Ye, this was not practice; it was daily torment. Every time he drew breath, pulling the universe’s spiritual energy into his body, searing pain shot through his meridians as if thousands of needles were piercing him from within. Then, as quickly as it arrived, the qi leaked out through his pores, vanishing into the damp air without a trace. It was like trying to fill a bucket with no bottom.

 “Cursed Meridians,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from suppressed agony. It was the title the clan elders had branded him with ten years ago, after he failed his cultivation aptitude test. In the Lin Family hierarchy, where strength was law and pure bloodlines were destiny, Lin Ye was not merely weak—he was a disgrace. His existence was a stain on the clan’s reputation, a lingering reminder of ancestral failure.

 He opened his eyes, staring at his trembling hands. No glow of qi. No sign of a breakthrough. Only bone-deep exhaustion and a despair that gnawed at his soul with every passing second. Tomorrow was the Annual Assessment Ceremony. Every young clansman would be retested. For Lin Ye, this was not about promotion or resources. It was about survival. If he failed again—and he knew he would—he would be cast out forever. Left to wander as a beggar in the nearest mortal city, or worse, sold into the brutal labor camps of the qi mines by the unscrupulous traders who haunted the outer markets.

 Bang!

 A heavy kick slammed into the wooden door, flinging it open against the wall. A young man clad in luxurious blue silk stood in the doorway, flanked by two grinning servants. His face was handsome, but twisted with unmasked disgust.

 “Still breathing, trash?” sneered Lin Feng, Lin Ye’s cousin from the main branch. His tone was deceptively calm, but every word dripped with venom. “I came to ensure you didn’t run off before the ceremony. My father says if you have a shred of self-respect left, you’ll hand over your identity token now and leave voluntarily. Spare us the public humiliation.”

 Lin Ye did not move. He did not bow. He did not beg. He simply looked back at Lin Feng with empty, hollow eyes, as if the man before him were nothing more than a shadow. That indifference enraged Lin Feng further. He had expected tears, pleas, or at least a burst of futile anger. Lin Ye’s silence felt like a quiet mockery.

 “You think silence makes you strong?” Lin Feng stepped inside, his pristine shoes splashing through the puddles of dirty water. He kicked the mat Lin Ye sat on, sending the young man tumbling sideways into the mud. “You’re weak. You’ve always been weak. And tomorrow, the entire clan will see how utterly useless you are. I’ll make sure the examiners write a special note: ‘Not worth keeping.’”

 Lin Feng turned and left, leaving the door wide open to the storm. Wind and rain poured in unobstructed, accompanied by the chuckling of his servants as they faded into the night.

 Lin Ye slowly pulled himself up. His body ached, but his heart… his heart had died long ago. Shame? That was a luxury for those who still held hope. Lin Ye had none. All that remained was a primal instinct to survive, and a stubborn shard of dignity that refused to shatter even as his world crumbled around him.

 That night, Lin Ye did not sleep. He knew he could not face the ceremony in his current state. But surrender meant social death—if not physical. With one last spark of will, burning like embers in a storm, he made a reckless decision. He would enter the Forbidden Forest behind the estate—a place even the clan elders avoided without thorough preparation. They said the forest was cursed. Mutated beasts roamed its depths, and demonic residue from ancient wars lingered in the soil. Many young cultivators had vanished there over the years.

 But Lin Ye had no choice. Better to be devoured by a beast in the wild than to be discarded like trash in the light of day.

 Shivering and breathless, he tucked a dull kitchen knife into his sash—the only weapon he could find—and stepped out into the dark, rainy night. Every step was a battle against the wind and mud. The Forbidden Forest welcomed him with an eerie silence, a stark contrast to the drumming rain behind him. Giant trees loomed overhead like grasping skeletal hands, and a faint, shimmering mist clung to the ground.

 He walked for nearly two hours, driven by adrenaline and desperation. His feet slipped on gnarled roots; his hands were torn by thorns. Yet he pressed on. Until finally, his footing gave way at the edge of a steep cliff hidden by thick undergrowth. He fell, rolling and tumbling down, striking stones and branches, until he came to rest at the bottom of a deep, dark ravine.

 Consciousness began to fade. The pain across his body grew distant, replaced by a cold numbness. As his eyes drifted shut, his hand brushed against something smooth and cool among the rocks. It wasn’t stone. It wasn’t root. It was round, about the size of a fist, with a surface slick as jade.

 And yet… it pulsed. It felt alive.

 That was the last thing he knew before the darkness swallowed him whole.