The sun, unseen, had begun its descent, veiled behind a curtain of slate-gray clouds. A thin mist clung to the damp soil around the arena’s edge, and a few tentative raindrops had fallen earlier, dotting the dust with dark circles. The sky above pulsed dimly, as though holding back a storm just to witness what was unfolding below.

  Opposite him stood Veylan, silent.

  His white tunic hung slightly askew—creased from movement, a sign of the earlier match, but not yet torn or bloodied. He was ten. Slighter than Xuanlan, but not by much. His arms hung loose by his sides, his posture straight but without tension.

  He didn’t understand why this was happening.

  Back on Earth, the rich stayed far above the poor—looked down, but rarely bothered to stoop. Why, then, would someone like this descend just to pick a fight?

  Xuanlan gave a cold chuckle, his voice slicing the quiet. “What’s wrong, little prodigy? Used up all your tricks on nobodies?”

  No answer.

  Veylan didn’t look away. He thought of the dramas he used to watch on Earth, half-remembered from late-night reruns. Always, the rich kid would provoke the poor one. The hero would endure. He’d clench his fists. He’d stay silent. And when he finally retaliated, the villain’s father would arrive, and hell would follow.

  So he waited.

  But Xuanlan wasn’t waiting.

  “Tch,” Xuanlan clicked his tongue. “How boring.”

  And then he moved.

  A flicker—his feet barely touched the ground before his body blurred forward. The first strike came fast: a feint with his right shoulder, followed by a sharp hook aimed for Veylan’s ribs.

  Veylan’s eyes widened just slightly. Instinct flared.

  He ducked.

  The punch cut through the air where his chest had been, missing by a hair’s breadth. Veylan pivoted to the side, his feet sliding smoothly against the damp wood.

  Another strike came—this time a knee aimed high. Veylan twisted his torso, letting the blow graze past him. A whisper of air brushed his face.

  He was fast.

  But so was Xuanlan.

  His footwork was tight, aggressive, relentless. Every strike followed another without pause, as if he were dancing to a rhythm only he could hear. A twist, a spin, an elbow to the neck—missed by inches.

  The audience held its breath. Even the elders leaned forward slightly.

  Xuanlan’s sneer grew with each failed blow. “Is this how your branch clan fights? Just running away? Maybe I should break a leg. See how long you dodge then.”

  Elder Ming exhaled through his nose. He’d expected this to be over in seconds. Xuanlan wasn’t a genius—but with the best pills, herbs, and instructors the main clan could buy, he should’ve flattened a branch brat. Yet he hadn’t landed a single blow. “Ninth stage of Mortal Vein… and just ten? What a waste.”

  The crowd gasped as the flurry of strikes returned—swift elbows, snapping knees, punches that cracked the air. Veylan swayed under them like a sapling in wind. Twice he slipped under the arcs of Xuanlan’s kicks, once ducked beneath a fist that passed so close he felt the wind part against his cheek.

  But he wasn’t fast enough forever.

  A sharp heel slammed into his ribs.

  There was a sharp exhale, then silence, and then the sound of fabric scraping wood as Veylan staggered back, his foot dragging. He dropped to one knee.

  A thin thread of blood traced his chin before falling. His hand pressed to his side, fingers splayed where the strike had landed. His breath hitched once.

  He remembered the old dramas—the hero always clenched his fists and rose again. The audience always cheered.

  But here, there was no swelling music. No justice at the end.

  And then—he rose.

  Not defiantly, not dramatically.

  Simply, he stood.

  The crowd, which had begun to murmur, fell still again. Even Elder Ming narrowed his eyes.

  “He got hit,” someone whispered.

  “Yes, but…” another said, “he’s still calm.”

  Xuanlan scowled. “Still pretending you’re calm? I’ll rip that act off your face.”

  He moved again with unrelenting rhythm—fist, elbow, knee. Each blow struck with increasing satisfaction, not urgency. And Veylan? He no longer avoided everything. Not entirely. His dodges had slowed—barely perceptibly, just enough to look accidental to the untrained eye.

  But the elders saw. His parents saw. The ones who mattered understood.

  He was throwing the fight—with heartbreaking precision.

  To the younger disciples watching, it was baffling. Why wasn’t he retaliating? He had danced like a ghost before, made Xuanlan miss again and again. Why now, when he could have at least tried?

  But the adults… they saw the trap he was caught in.

  Whatever he did—win, lose, resist—it would all taste the same in the mouths of those with power.

  If Veylan fought back—truly fought back—and won, then it wouldn’t be a win. Not against someone like Xuanlan. A boy who bore not only the colours of the main clan but the favour of a powerful grandfather who could destroy an entire branch family with a word.

  But if he endured, if he lost while showing respect—then maybe, just maybe, he’d walk away with only bruises.

  Rhen stood nearby, fists white-knuckled. A tremor ticked in his cheek. Next to him, Liora’s hands fluttered helplessly. She had laughed earlier, proud and bright. Now, her eyes shimmered, red-rimmed and brimming. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing.

  Across the platform, Lei Shenrou turned his head away. He couldn’t meet his son’s eyes.

  Varian, standing beside him, smirked faintly.

  Veylan stumbled back from another strike. A knee slammed into his shoulder, and he twisted, falling hard onto the wooden floor. Blood stained his white tunic, blooming like crimson ink in water.

  From the audience, Meng Tieshou surged forward. “Father—! We have to stop this!”

  But Chief Meng’s thick arm barred his path. His voice was quiet. “This is Lei Clan’s matter. We do not interfere.”

  Tieshou’s jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his side. His nails bit into his palm, but he said no more.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Somewhere near, Lei Zhennan and Lei Fenhai exchanged glances—grim, silent. Neither spoke. Only Lei Shuyan leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, face unreadable, but eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

  Back on stage, Veylan dragged himself upright.

  His breath trembled. Blood marked his chin. He swallowed down the anger. The shame. Just survive. But his voice came clear, soft and without pride.

  “Young Master Xuanlan,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I… am just a rat who didn’t know his place. I admit defeat.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t shock. It was acknowledgment. No one cheered. No one clapped.

  Everyone knew exactly what had just happened.

  Director Lian, seated near the Stonegold elders, felt a quiet sense of approval. His expression remained composed, but he nodded slightly. He’s smart, he thought. Knows how to stay alive.

  Veylan exhaled softly. This was the right path. He hated it—but it was the path that kept him safe, kept Rhen and Liora untouched. It was enough.

  Or so he thought.

  Xuanlan let out a bark of laughter, eyes flashing with derision.

  “You think it’s that easy?” he said, stepping forward. “You admit defeat? You think grovelling erases your Elder’s words? Your clan’s arrogance?”

  He raised his foot slowly, threateningly.

  Elder Ming stood. “Xuanlan,” he said, his voice low and firm, “it’s already enough. What more do you want?”

  Xuanlan didn’t answer immediately.

  He smiled.

  Above, the clouds finally broke. Just one drop at first. Then another.

  But the storm still held back. Watching.

  Xuanlan stood tall, arms behind his back, expression serene—but the smile curved wrong, twisted by quiet cruelty. To many youths, he was regal. Composed. Righteous even. But to those who had seen the world—there was poison under the calm.

  “If the older generation of this branch is so careless in what they say,” he spoke smoothly, his voice deceptively light, “then it’s only a matter of time before they bring calamity upon the entire clan. Such recklessness must be… addressed.”

  A few gasps broke the silence.

  He let the words hang, heavy like storm clouds.

  “I, of course, am from the younger generation, and should not be the one to offer this lesson… but it seems no other choice remains.”

  He looked around, slow and deliberate, allowing his gaze to sweep over the elders of the Lei Branch as if appraising livestock.

  Elder Fenhai’s chair scraped loudly against stone as he stood. His face was solemn, ashen with the weight of what was coming. “Young Master Xuanlan,” he began, “I truly regret—”

  But a voice cut in from the elder rows—sharp, practiced, and laced with calculated urgency.

  “Young Master Xuanlan is just and righteous,” Varian said, rising with a deep bow. “One can only admire your discernment.”

  The tension in the crowd shifted, confused.

  Xuanlan’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “Chief Varian,” he said, his tone neutral, “I hope you are not wasting my time.”

  “I dare not,” Varian bowed deeper, a mask of humility on his face—yet his fingers twitched, and his heart thundered. The talent showed by Veylan had truly scared him, even if Veylan didn’t leave for the main clan after today’s incident, someday he’d eclipse everything Varian was. What if that boy one day threatened everything he’d built—his influence, his position? This might be the only chance, he thought. If I don’t strike now, I’ll regret it forever.

  He forced himself to smile.

  “Though Elder Fenhai’s words were indeed careless, I believe the root of this offense lies not with him—but with my own foolish nephew. That boy dared to request an all-vs-one match… in your presence. Such arrogance! It surely poisoned Elder Fenhai’s judgment and led to his misstep.”

  The silence deepened.

  Even Elder Fenhai turned sharply toward Varian, eyes wide with shock.

  Varian didn’t look back.

  “In truth, the responsibility lies not just with Veylan,” he continued smoothly, “but with his parents, who failed to teach him restraint.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some turned away. Others clenched fists beneath their robes. But no one spoke. To speak now would be to speak against Xuanlan.

  And Xuanlan… smiled.

  He nodded slowly. “Yes. You are right, Chief Varian. The roots must be trimmed, not just the leaves.” This wasn’t punishment. This was performance—and the humiliation of Veylan’s bloodline was the centrepiece.

  He turned his head, letting the silence stretch until it almost cracked.

  “Then let it be so. The boy’s mother… should offer her apology.”

  Veylan’s eyes widened, his breath caught. The words hit, but meaning didn’t follow—not yet. He opened his mouth to plead—anything, anything to stop this—

  But no sound came out.

  Because what came next had him gasping for words.

  Xuanlan’s smile grew colder. “Not with words. She must kneel before this young master. Kowtow. Then—and only then—will I let this insult rest.”

  A collective intake of breath swept through the arena like wind through dry leaves.

  Liora let out a strangled gasp, one hand flying to her mouth. Rhen stepped forward instinctively—but soon was surrounded by the guards brought by Xuanlan.

  Lei Shenrou stood frozen, his face pale. Elder Ming shook his head but he knew the character of Xuanlan too well.

  And Veylan—bloodied, bruised, half-standing on the stage—felt the world tilt sideways. He couldn’t breathe for a moment. Couldn’t think.

  The arena watched, breathless, as the silence grew monstrous, unbearable.

  And from behind, soft footsteps began to approach. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… quiet. Like someone walking through the aftermath of a funeral.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Each step struck Veylan like a hammer. His neck twisted with effort, his battered muscles screaming, until his eyes found her—Liora, ascending the platform.

  Her robe was neat, her hands clenched at her sides, but her eyes—red-rimmed and swollen—spoke of everything she had tried to keep hidden. When her gaze met Veylan’s, she offered him a small, brittle smile.

  That smile shattered him.

  “No… no—stop!” His voice cracked. The calm he had clung to, the fragile armour he’d forged across years of suffering, fractured into dust. “I’ll do it!” he cried, staggering forward on all fours. “It was my fault—mine—mine!”

  He dropped his head—hard. A crack, a bloom of red. And again, until the world blurred.

  Blood from reopened cuts and fresh wounds mingled, trailing down his face, dotting the polished wood with crimson moons.

  Elder Ming’s expression didn’t change—but his nails dug into the sleeve of his robe. A storm brewed behind his quiet eyes.

  Xuanlan’s smile deepened, almost indulgent. With a slight gesture, he ordered the guards around Rhen, “Hold him down,” he said softly. “Let him enjoy the view.”

  The eight men looked at one another. Even as cultivators hardened by war and discipline, their jaws clenched. There were lines that shouldn’t be crossed—lines that made men into beasts.

  But Elder Ming did not move.

  Didn’t blink.

  Inside, though, he was cursing Xuanlan—cursing himself.

  This wasn’t supposed to go so far.

  Had he known it, he would have stopped Xuanlan ahead.

  But now…

  Now, the arrow was loosed. There was no calling it back.

  Two guards stepped forward reluctantly, murmuring curses under their breath. They seized Veylan, lifting him by the arms as he struggled, flailed, kicked with every ounce of strength left in his bruised frame. Blood smeared from his forehead, his nose, his mouth.

  “Let me go—let me GO!”

  His body writhed, but his knees couldn’t find the floor again.

  On the opposite side, Liora walked closer to Xuanlan.

  Each step echoed like a drumbeat. Her robe brushed across the platform’s edge, trailing slightly. She moved with grace, but her limbs seemed carved from ice, trembling from within.

  Rhen couldn't take it anymore. He surged forward, voice hoarse with desperation.

  “Father—Brother—please!” he cried, eyes flicking between Lei Shouren , Varian and Elder Ming. “I’ll leave! We’ll leave the clan! Me, my wife, my son—we’ll disappear. Just let us go!”

  Six guards surrounded him. As a Foundation Establishment cultivator, Rhen could flatten them all in seconds—but he didn’t move. To attack would mean turning his back on the Lei Clan forever. It would mean dragging Liora and Veylan into exile or worse...

  And so, he stood frozen—cracked not by fear, but by helplessness.

  “Brother,” said Varian, stepping beside him with mock sorrow, “you should’ve thought of this earlier. A father who can’t raise a proper son—how pitiful.”

  Lei Shouren turned toward Elder Ming and whispered, “Please… help them.”

  But Ming’s eyes remained locked forward. Cold. Distant.

  He knew it already: this enmity was irreversible. If Veylan lived with only physical wounds, he’d return someday with vengeance in his bones. It was better, safer, to scar the boy now—deeply. Break him so thoroughly he forgets how to rise again.

  Silence is mercy. He convinced himself it was wisdom. That this, too, was for the Lei Clan.

  Liora reached the centre of the stage and stopped in front of Xuanlan.

  Veylan's body convulsed again, a final desperate thrash. He almost slipped the guards’ grasp, almost tore free—

  But they pinned him back, forcing him to kneel, his arms pulled taut like a prisoner awaiting execution.

  Xuanlan looked down at him with a smile that wasn’t a smile.

  Then—Liora turned her head. Their eyes met.

  Tears glistened down her cheeks.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Everything will be fine.”

  Those words.

  The same words.

  The last thing she had ever said—in that life—before her hand fell limp onto his and her breath left her.

  No—not again. Not again.

  BOOM.

  Something inside Veylan snapped.

  His head dropped.

  Then—

  “AAARRGGHHHHHHHH!”

  A howl of anguish erupted from him, raw, unfiltered, inhuman. It tore through the air like a beast breaking its chains.

  “ARRRRGGGGHHHHHH!”

  And then—silence.

  One breath.

  Then—laughter. Jagged, cracked, rising like splinters from his throat.

  “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

  It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t rage. It was the only thing left when everything else broke.

  Everyone froze. Xuanlan’s expression faltered, ever so slightly. Rhen stared, mouth ajar. One of the guards looked away as he pinned the boy down, jaw clenched. Even storm held back—just long enough to watch a child fall apart.

  Liora turned sharply.

  And there—held by two guards, face bruised and barely human—Veylan raised his head.

  His face was soaked in blood, but beneath the crimson veil, his eyes shone.

  Twin trails of blood streamed down from them like tears.

  Bloody tears.

  Too much pressure. Or maybe... something had shattered. Not in his body—but in whatever had kept him human.

  Favourite button, drop a rating, write a review, and leave a comment—I read them all (even the unhinged ones). Your support fuels my writing, and hey… maybe the protagonist will suffer slightly less if you do. No guarantees though! ??

  [Click here to head to the main page!]

  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.