Snow fell that morning.
It wasn't a storm, not even a proper flurry—just thin flakes drifting lazily across the rooftops, soft enough to melt on contact, but constant enough to whisper of a coming winter none could ignore. The Jin Clan's outer compound looked strangely tranquil under the gray sky, as though it had forgotten, for a moment, how much venom its halls contained.
Jin Wu-ren stood alone at the edge of the meditation yard, his breath misting before him in quiet puffs. His fingers were clasped behind his back, his posture deceptively calm. But inside, his spiritual core pulsed in a slow rhythm. Patient. Focused.
He had advanced again the night before.
Another thin layer of spiritual energy wrapped around the broken foundation of his soul—barely perceptible, but undeniably there. Even his weakened soul core, marred by betrayal and death, seemed to quiver faintly now with dormant power. A cracked vessel, but no longer empty.
And still, he told no one.
Not even his mother.
Not yet.
Even after everything she had suffered, Mu Qinglan's concern for him had only deepened. He could see it in the way her eyes flicked toward him during meals, in the way her hand lingered over his shoulder before she turned away. Her silence was her greatest kindness: she did not ask him what he was doing in the storerooms, or why he sometimes vanished after dusk.
But Wu-ren knew her patience wouldn't last forever.
Sooner or later, she would see what he was becoming.
And if not her, then someone else would.
Already, he had seen the shift in a few of the servants' eyes—one too many overheard rumors, perhaps, or the odd bruise on the practice stumps behind the laundry well. No one had said anything aloud yet, but eyes lingered longer than they used to. Whispers turned quieter when he passed.
He would need to be careful.
That afternoon, the message came.
A rolled scroll, carried by a young servant bearing the livery of the inner compound. The boy bowed stiffly and placed the scroll in Mu Qinglan's hands without meeting her eyes.
"A summons," he said. "From Elder Jin Rou."
Mu Qinglan's face tightened.
Jin Wu-ren saw the change immediately. His mother never frowned in front of servants—never gave them the satisfaction of seeing her crack. But this time, her fingers curled slightly around the scroll.
The moment the boy was gone, she unrolled the message.
Her lips moved as she read, then stilled.
"What is it?" Wu-ren asked, feigning the innocence of a child. His voice was soft, curious. Just a boy wondering why his mother looked as though she'd been struck.
She hesitated before answering. "An invitation."
"To what?"
"A banquet. An official one." She let out a breath, long and low. "The Patriarch's seasonal feast for the elders and their households. It's being held earlier this year. Preparations are already underway."
Wu-ren narrowed his eyes.
A banquet meant many things. Public appearances. Power plays. Reputation warfare beneath silver platters and poetry recitations. But for someone like Mu Qinglan—a woman with no political backers and a son dismissed as weak—it meant exposure.
He understood instantly what this was.
A test.
Someone—likely Jin Rou—wanted to see what they would wear, how they would carry themselves. If Mu Qinglan stumbled, even in a small way, it would confirm her weakness. Give cause to further strip her influence.
"I won't go," Mu Qinglan said quietly. "There's no need. We weren't invited last year. No one expects us."
"But we were invited this year," Wu-ren said evenly.
She looked at him. Her mouth opened, then shut.
He stepped forward, and for a moment, the child was gone from his face. Just a shadow, a flicker, but enough for Mu Qinglan to blink in confusion. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something about her son was… changing.
"There's no shame in going," he said gently. "Only in going unprepared."
The Jin Clan's tailors refused her, of course.
Mu Qinglan returned from the inner courtyard the next day with pinched cheeks and a stiff smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"They were busy," she said.
Busy. Of course they were.
The moment Wu-ren heard, he returned to the Archive Cavern and retrieved one of the clan's ledgers—an old record of tributes paid during his grandfather's time. Buried in the margins was the name of a small weaver's house in the western quarter, long since fallen out of favor.
He brought it to his mother the next morning.
"They still owe the Jin Clan three commissions," he said mildly. "Uncollected debt. Why not make use of it?"
Mu Qinglan stared at him for a long time.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
By week's end, a pale violet gown was delivered—nothing too grand, but clean, well-fitted, and laced with understated embroidery. When Mu Qinglan put it on, she looked, for the first time in years, like someone who had not given up.
Even her attendants stared.
The banquet hall was vast, a sprawling expanse of rich, dark wood paneling, carved stone columns, and delicate silk lanterns that bathed the room in a warm, amber glow. The air was thick with incense, a scent meant to soothe and distract, to veil any hint of scheming or ill will. Musicians plucked at stringed instruments, filling the space with light, ethereal notes, while waiters in spotless robes scurried between tables, offering delicate morsels of food and wine to the gathered guests.
At first glance, the Jin Clan's seasonal feast appeared to be a celebration—a display of power, wealth, and influence. But underneath the polite chatter, the clinking of cups, and the flurry of silk, there was tension. The elders, seated at the head of the hall, exchanged glances over their wines. Their eyes flickered from the newest guests to the old, searching for any hint of weakness.
Mu Qinglan stood at the far side of the hall, near the edge of the crowd, her posture carefully composed. Beside her, Jin Wu-ren stood in silence, his youthful face a mask of innocence, though his sharp eyes missed nothing.
The banquet's true purpose was far from innocent.
Jin Rou flanked by her trusted subordinates, including Elder Liang Zhi. They were the ones with the true power here, the ones who could dictate the future of the clan. And they had invited Mu Qinglan, the unremarkable woman who had once been cast aside by them. The invitation was an act of power, a gesture meant to remind her of her place—nothing more, nothing less.
But Wu-ren saw it differently.
The game was subtle, layered with carefully crafted moves meant to test who would crack first. He could feel the pressure mounting in the air, just beneath the surface. It was a game of dignity, of perception, and Mu Qinglan was now a pawn on this grand chessboard.
However, Wu-ren had never been the type to let someone else dictate the terms of the game. He had learned that much in his past life, where every small gesture could be twisted and used to either save or destroy. In this new life, as fragile and weak as his body might be, he would find a way to flip the table on them all.
"Do you see?" he asked quietly, leaning toward his mother. His voice was a gentle murmur, barely audible over the soft notes of the music and the murmur of conversation around them.
Mu Qinglan turned her head, her eyes sharp despite her calm appearance. "What do you mean?"
Wu-ren nodded subtly in the direction of the matriarch, his gaze flicking to Jin Rou and her entourage. "They think they've already won, don't they?"
Mu Qinglan followed his gaze and let out a soft sigh. "It is not a game, Wu-ren. These people do not play by the same rules you and I do."
He smiled softly. "Perhaps. But they forget something. In every game, there are rules. And even when the game is rigged, one can still find ways to play." He took a step back, his fingers brushing the delicate silk of his robe as he straightened himself.
Wu-ren had seen how the elders watched him—sizing him up like a weakling ready to break, just as they'd always assumed he would. But what they didn't know was that his years of cultivation had taught him one fundamental truth: those who underestimated the weak were the ones most vulnerable to being overturned.
Soon, the room fell silent. A hush passed over the guests, and all eyes turned to Jin Rou, who had risen to her feet with the calm grace of someone who knew she controlled the very air in the room.
"Welcome, everyone," she began, her voice rich and commanding, as always. "Tonight, we celebrate our successes, and we welcome those who have done well for the clan. May tonight remind us of the future we all strive for."
Her words were expected. Rehearsed, even. A polite prelude before the games of power and influence began.
Wu-ren's gaze flicked across the room, observing the shifting glances of the other elders. Elder Liang Zhi, his face framed by a trim beard, sat with his eyes half-lidded, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest of his chair. There was no smile on his face as he looked toward Jin Rou, only a steady calculation. Jin Renshu, was seated to his left—glaring at Wu-ren with the same arrogant, disdainful eyes that had marked the boy's every glance since he humiliated him back then.
Wu-ren held the boy's gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. It was a game, after all. Jin Renshu, like the others, was underestimating him. They all thought of him as weak, a leftover from a past nobody cared about. But soon—perhaps even tonight—that arrogance would be shown for what it truly was: a facade. A fragile thing, crumbling under the weight of his hidden power.
---
The courtyard was still, the wind suspended like the breath of a nervous audience. Jin Renshu stood at the center of it, flanked by two outer sect teens dressed in higher-grade linen—proof of their status as disciples rather than servants. The boy's smugness was a fire lit by privilege and unearned pride.
Jin Wu-ren, still small, barefoot, and holding a chipped wooden ladle, looked the part of a half-starved whelp. But his eyes—those unreadable black eyes—met Renshu's without fear.
"You think you're clever, don't you?" Renshu sneered, voice louder now. "Acting all innocent. Hiding behind your mother's tears. Pathetic."
Wu-ren didn't blink. "And yet, here you are, the Third Young Master of the Jin Clan, wasting his morning taunting a beggar."
Gasps fluttered among the gathered onlookers. A few younger servants even giggled before hastily clamping their mouths shut.
The smile on Renshu's face curdled.
"You little bastard," he snarled. "Beat him. Break a few bones. No one cares what happens to trash."
At his signal, the two boys stepped forward, one cracking his knuckles, the other drawing a short wooden rod from his belt.
Wu-ren's breath slowed.
His body was still that of a five-year-old—fragile, light, underdeveloped. But inside, the soul core had stirred. The chaotic essence that once answered to the will of the Immortal Tyrant trembled in its slumber, waiting for the right call.
The older boy lunged first.
Sloppy footwork.
Wu-ren slid to the left—not fast, not flashy, but precise. The blow missed by a hair, sailing through air where Wu-ren's head had just been.
One step. Pivot. Watch the hips. He remembered a lesson he'd given to a disciple centuries ago. Power lives in the waist, not the hands.
The second attacker swung the rod horizontally, trying to catch him in the ribs.
Wu-ren ducked.
In that moment, he reached deep—not into his body, which was meager, but into the fading embers of his immortal soul. He pulled, just enough, and felt a ripple of qi snake down his spine.
His fingers twitched into a seal.
Shadow Coil Step. A basic footwork technique he'd created centuries ago—not flashy, not destructive, but perfect for close combat and evasion.
The boy's rod struck only air again. The older teen stumbled forward, overextended.
Wu-ren struck back.
It was a simple strike—a finger jab to the pressure point beneath the armpit. But his precision was deadly. The attacker crumpled with a yelp, dropping to one knee, arm hanging limp.
Before the other could react, Wu-ren was behind him, sliding between the boy's legs like water through stone. He swept a foot behind the attacker's knee and kicked forward, sending him sprawling with a pained grunt.
Dust swirled. Silence reigned.
Jin Renshu's jaw dropped open.
"You…" he hissed. "How dare you—!"
Wu-ren stepped forward slowly, chest heaving from effort. The techniques had drained him—more than he cared to admit. His qi pool was shallow, like a cracked teacup barely holding water. But the movements had been sharp, calculated, and far beyond what anyone his age should be capable of.
"I'd advise you to leave, cousin," Wu-ren said, voice soft but razor-sharp. "You've embarrassed yourself enough for one morning."
Renshu's face twisted in humiliation. He looked to the servants, hoping for support—but none met his gaze. They'd seen everything. Their eyes were wide, not with scorn—but awe.
He stepped back, then turned in a furious swirl of robes.
"This isn't over," he spat. "You'll regret this."
Wu-ren watched him storm off, then knelt to the ground and exhaled. Sweat glistened on his brow. His hands trembled slightly from overexertion. Every joint ached.
But inside, a grin curled on his lips.
He'd measured himself against real opponents—limited, yes, but trained. And he'd won.
This body… still weak. But not helpless.
I can build on this. Quietly. Meticulously.
From the veranda, his mother, Mu Qinglan, had seen it all. She stood with both hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wet not with shame—but something between disbelief and pride.
Wu-ren glanced up, caught her gaze, and inclined his head respectfully.
Then, before anyone else could rush over with questions, he turned and limped away—toward the cracked path that led deeper into the outer compound.
Toward the Archive Cavern.
He had just enough strength left to meditate for an hour. And perhaps—if the heavens willed it—to awaken the second thread of qi from his core.