After my uncle’s departure, Mother and Father turned to me, their eyes filled with a mix of pride and sorrow.

  “What do you want to do, son? Would you rather stay here with your loving parents, or go train in the army?”. I swallowed. Of course I wanted to leave. I adored them both, but everything within me burned for cultivation. All year I had meditated, studied scrolls, honed my ki, and this army training was the prize of my effort. I had to grasp this opportunity.

  “Mother, Father your son loves you very much. That is why I need to go. I need to become stronger as fast as I can so I can pay you back for your kindness and all the good things you gave me.“

  They both sighed together, shoulders sagging. I could see their hearts wrestle: each wanted to shelter me, each understood I belonged on that path. They exchanged a look of resignation and pride. It was a little strange how they deferred to me as though I was far older than my four years, I think in their own way they felt I was wiser beyond my years. Their trust felt like both a gift and a burden. In the end my parents decided to send me to train with my uncle. Pushing their feelings aside ,they also wanted for me to improve as fast as possible on my cultivation path.

  A week later, Uncle strode up to our doorway.

  “Come, little Skolar,” he rumbled, “We must reach the next city by nightfall.” My stomach fluttered with excitement and nerves. In my tiny backpack, a bag nearly as big as I was, its straps bitting deep into my shoulders, I’d packed my few possessions: a jade talisman, some wheat cakes, a thin change of clothes. My uncle unceremoniously shoved me into a wooden carriage. Startled, I found myself surrounded by a crowd of children, with legs longer than mine, voices louder, shoulders broader.

  One sneered: “Look at this guy. He’s so small. Hey, kid! Are you here to polish my boots?”

  My chest tightened. I’d forgotten how ruthless and mean children could be. I pressed myself into a corner, choosing a bench beside a quieter boy whose dark eyes were calm as stone. After a moment, he leaned over.

  “Hey,” he whispered. “Are you really a cultivator’s son? Why are you so little?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “I learn cultivation every day.” Instantly the others fell silent, uncertain whether to believe me. In my past, I learned that authority, even fabricated, could still keep bullies at bay.

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  The journey was quite uneventful. The carriage jolted onto the rough road and rumbled for hours.

  We bounced like potato sacks, each jolt felt like a hammer blow to my body. By the time we arrived, every inch of my body ached and I began wondering If i’d made a terrible mistake. Was I too small for this rigors? Was I foolish to dream of glory? My trembling hands gripped the edge of the bench until the wheels ground to a halt.

  A soldier’s shout rang out: “New recruits out of the carriage!“ We tumbled down onto gravel. Some of the children, accustomed with a softer life burst into tears.

  I felt a pang of sympathy but reminded myself: comfort could be a weakness. Luckily I was an old fart and physical comfort meant nothing to me, I lied to myself while rubbing my aching bottom.

  My uncle approached, his voice low, “Skolar my boy, you’re on your own now. Obey the instructors, follow orders, and remember the army’s first rule: respect your superiors. Make your family proud.” He clasped my shoulder, then turned away leaving me to deal with the new situation I was in.

  A gaunt man with a bald head and a jagged scar across his cheek stomped in front of us.

  “All of you, rags and weaklings, line up!” His bark left no room for hesitation. We scrambled, forming a lopsided line.

  The scarred instructor glared at each recruit. When he reached me, he leaned close, nostrils flared. “How old are you, child?” he demanded.

  “I will be four in a few weeks, sir,” I replied, mustering as much respect as I could.

  He arched a thick eyebrow, paused a heartbeat, and moved on without another word.

  Then he addressed us all: “You think the path of immortality is for the faint-hearted? You will be reforged here. Resist, and you will be cast out. First lesson: each of you will take this bucket, march to the river, wash yourself, and return with it filled.”

  Only now we noticed the buckets in one corner of the yard. I hurriedly went and picked one, it felt unwieldy and heavy, easily four liters of water would fit in it.

  At the riverbank, the water ran clear but froze my skin. I scrubbed with quick strokes, hissed at the cold water, then dipped the bucket beneath the surface and filled it to the brim. I ran back, the water sloshing dangerously, teeth chattering as icy droplets drenched my legs.

  I arrived near last, limbs shaking. The instructor’s lips curled into a grim half–smile. “Not bad. From now on, you will carry your bucket wherever you go. f i ever catch you with the empty bucket you will skip dinner.

  He laughed, a hollow sound that made my stomach twist. “And tonight, first-day bonus: no food for anyone. Sleep on hunger. You’ll find your beds in the third building on the right. Good night.”

  Deflated, I clutched my bucket and trudged toward the barracks. Out of twenty-seven children at dawn, only nineteen remained unbroken by the day’s trials. This was going to be much harder than expected. This world seemed to care little for childhood trauma. Instead they used it to sort the weak from the strong and to temper us from a young age.

  Inside the barracks, I found a narrow bunk topped with a rough straw mattress—no pillow, no blanket. The distant sobs and restless sighs of other recruits filled the air. My little body ached, but exhaustion claimed me swiftly. As I drifted to sleep on the cold planks, I vowed to endure.