Train This Skill Too Fast, and It Could Kill You

Chen Qingge was fourteen, the eldest son of the Cangyuan Dynasty. His nine-star Martial Disciple cultivation was real; he had simply kept his ability to fight above his level hidden.

The technique had been passed down by his great-grandfather, and rushing through it could be fatal. He had to temper all nine stars in each realm to their limit before breaking through. Take one step too soon, and his qi and blood would collide head-on with his soul power.

So he was slow. His peers advanced one after another, while he stayed where he was. The court's assessment called him "lazy," and so did the scholars at the academy.

But the position they cared about wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to see what lay beyond the Eastern Region. The more useful the eldest son became, the tighter that door was shut. Every bit of merit he earned became another stake binding him in place.

Pain seeped from between his bones. He clenched the old cord on his sword and swallowed it down, then continued counting the next day: which furnace, what day, how many breaths left.

They said he was slow. Slow meant steady.