The Iron Crane Martial Academy towered like a fortress over the pale morning sky, its massive gates adorned with fierce images of dragons and cranes engaged in eternal battle. The air vibrated with tension and the scent of perspiration and oiled wood. It was the day the academy would select which young souls were worthy to walk its hallowed halls — a day that could change the life of a boy for ever.

  Jian stood in the crowd of optimists, his lean form engulfed by expansive shoulders and swaggering gait. The discussion was a cacophony in his mind — booming voices of boasts of strength, tales of winners of previous year, goals of outpacing rivals. Their boasts reverberated behind Jian like thunder at a distance. None of them seemed to be intended at him.

  He held a frayed petition scroll, the ink faded but the longing still fresh in his mind. His surname unknown to the world of martial arts, and Jian himself no prodigy. For years, he had tried to practice in secret, imitating stances from dog-eared scrolls and practicing breathing control in the early, pre-dawn mornings. But his body was thin and wiry — like a sapling twisted in a gust.

  With the sun breaking over the horizon, the test began.

  One by one, each of the hoped-for stood on the granite platform to demonstrate dominance over Qi — the invisible energy that fueled martial ability. Effortlessly, yet with force, they floated and moved, their Qi burning like flame. Apopleptic cheers erupted from the crowd when some landed flawless tricks: summoning whirls of air, blasting stone apart with an outstretched palm, or shooting along so rapidly they appeared to melt away.

  Then he heard his name called.

  He moved forward, heart thudding so hard that it threatened to drown out the clamor. His knees trembled beneath him. He breathed in deeply, trying to call on the Qi he only faintly understood.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Nothing answered.

  His hands were shaking as he tried to raise his palm, but the energy that would have exploded was not there — as if his body was a dry well.

  The masters watched with cold eyes. The silence stretched until it became a weight oppressive on Jian's chest.

  One teacher moved his head from side to side, lips tightened into a stiff line.

  "Next."

  Jian went down, burning face with shame. Whispers followed him, cutting sharper than any blade.

  He saw as stronger boys smiled and bowed, their fates determined by nods from the masters.

  But his name was not mentioned.

  He had failed.

  The crowd parted as the chosen students passed through the gates. Jian stood still, refusing to step ahead. Refusing to let the day be lost in such defeat.

  The gates closed behind the new students with a deafening clang that seemed almost like final judgment.

  Jian's universe contracted.

  He walked towards the side of the gate, slumped shoulders, heavy eyes with disappointment.

  There, by a tattered notice board, a small scrap of parchment caught his eye.

  "Need assistants for the daily activities of the academy: washing, cleaning, repair. An opportunity to serve and learn."

  Jian hesitated. Pride and despair warred within him.

  But hunger — not just for food, but for purpose — urged him on.

  He moved closer and signed his name.

  The next day, Jian returned — not as an apprentice warrior, but as an assistant washer.

  He scrubbed the armor and the weapons still in the courtyard, his fingers cold and cracked from hard water and coarse brushes. The acrid smell of metal and oil clung to the air, mingling with the thud of hard training in the distance.

  He was invisible.

  A phantom behind the muscle and gift.

  But in the quiet moments between tasks, Jian was able to snatch minutes of reading forgotten scrolls tucked behind stacks of crates. He caught the quiet whispers of senior students discussing the movement of Qi, the Dao, and mysteries outside of martial art.

  His frame was weak, and the realm of warriors was closed to him, but his mind expanded a day at a time.

  Even as the gates closed on his dream for martial victory, Jian's journey was on the horizon.

  Sometimes, the smallest creak of a fracture in a wall is sufficient to create a new path.