Shen Lianqing, courtesy name Yiran, in conclusion, for his clan: Ling Yiran. Fifteen years old, water element user, with low-medium cultivation.

Of course, that would be the problem.

Today was not a good day for Shen Lianqing, not at all. The air still carried the metallic tang of blood from his injuries. Stubborn as always, he'd gone on a spirit-cleansing mission alone despite the隐隐 ache in his spiritual core. Now he sat on a hard wooden bench in the infirmary, bandages wrapping his torso and left arm, while the sharp scent of medicinal herbs stung his nostrils.

He'd been forced to send for help after spirits overwhelmed him—a humiliating admission of weakness. His spiritual core pulsed weakly beneath his ribs, a constant reminder of his inadequacy. Barely useful, the senior disciples would whisper when they thought he couldn't hear.

He was not worthy of being a Ling. Perhaps that's why his father's surname, Shen Wei, remained part of his birth name, while he hadn't received the prestigious Ling surname of his mother's family, Ling Yueqing.

As badly injured as he was, he couldn't bring himself to sob while Bai Yunqing, disciple of his uncle Ling Yuang, carefully cleaned the gash on his cheek. The younger boy's fingers were warm against his skin, making him flinch not from pain but from embarrassment.

"Let me go," Shen Lianqing muttered, though he made no effort to push Yunqing away, not wanting to risk reopening his wounds. The shame burned hotter than any physical injury.

He turned his gaze toward the window, watching rain streak down the glass as Yunqing continued his careful work in silence.