The banquet hall shimmered with grandeur and deceit.
Golden lanterns swung above like inverted suns, their light spilling across silk banners embroidered with the sigil of the Zhou clan — a radiant flame, symbol of legacy and power. Servants moved in precise formation, carrying jade trays stacked with rare wines and dishes, each more extravagant than the last. Laughter swelled like tides, and the sound of flutes twined with the low hum of conversation.
To the untrained eye, it was a festival of triumph. But to those with sharper instincts, the air tasted faintly of iron — the metallic tang of rivalry and hidden malice.
Zhou Tian sat at the head of the grand table, his presence calm yet commanding. His black robe, threaded with gold, shimmered faintly as if light itself bent to his will. Tier-A Ranker — the title alone had crushed all doubts surrounding his family. To rise from obscurity to supremacy in a world governed by strength was no small feat.
Yet even in this height of celebration, he remained vigilant. He understood well — the higher one stood, the clearer the knives gleamed below.
The great doors of the hall opened once again, and the herald's voice rose above the din:
"The Nine Great Families of the Empire arrive!"
One by one, they entered — Yang, Lau, Nian, Lu, Dong, Morong, and Shen. Each family head wore the same crafted smile, each pair of eyes glimmered with ambition concealed behind courtesy.
Politeness was their weapon; hypocrisy, their armor.
Zhou Tian greeted them with serene dignity, his calm bearing like a wall none could pierce.
And still, amid the polite laughter and shallow words, one question hung in the air, unspoken yet palpable — the mystery of Zhou Fang, the so-called son of a legend, yet one devoid of power.
---
"Where is the young master of the Zhou family?" someone finally asked, their tone light but edged. "This banquet is meant to celebrate him, yet he has not appeared."
As if on cue, the doors parted.
Zhou Fang entered.
The silver threads of moonlight followed him like shadows. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, yet his gaze carried a stillness that unnerved many who met it.
He was neither tall nor imposing, yet every movement was deliberate, each step measured — like a man who walked amidst unseen currents, aware of every shift in air and intent.
His plain black robe bore no sigil, no embellishment. Only his eyes spoke of something beyond the mortal — eyes deep, steady, unfathomable, as if reflecting an invisible chessboard laid across the heavens.
As he crossed the threshold, silence rolled through the hall, quiet but heavy.
To Zhou Fang, this hall was not celebration — it was theater. Every smile was a lie, every toast a transaction, every kind word a test.
He bowed to each patriarch with grace, speaking little. Words were cheap; silence had weight.
---
"The young master has grown," said an elder of the Lu family, laughter creasing his face. "Truly, a fine young man. Your father must be proud."
Zhou Fang smiled faintly. "Pride is a fleeting thing, Senior Lu. What endures is understanding."
A few chuckles followed, uncertain and awkward. The elder shifted, unsure if he had just been praised or dismissed.
The music resumed. Dancers whirled. The sound of laughter filled the space again, but beneath it all lingered a tension that none could name.
Zhou Fang sat beside his father, his gaze sweeping across the gathered clans.
Every face was a mask. Every motion, calculated.
The Yang family — merchants turned nobles, now whispering to the Shen clan.
The Morong patriarch — his eyes darting toward the Zhou retainers with predatory intent.
And the Shen family… quiet, observant, unreadable.
Zhou Fang's eyes lingered there. Not because of interest, but because of intuition.
He felt it — a thread of fate connecting him to that name. Shen.
The faintest tremor of déjà vu passed through him, but he said nothing. He simply took another sip of wine, his reflection rippling in the liquid surface.
---
An old man, the patriarch of the Dong family, leaned forward with a smile too smooth to trust.
"Young Master Fang," he said, "they say genius blooms in youth. Your father rose to Tier-A through sheer perseverance and fortune. Tell us, will you one day surpass him?"
The words, soft and playful, struck like a blade sheathed in honey.
Laughter rippled through the crowd — low, careful, but laced with mockery.
Everyone knew. Zhou Fang had no inner world. He could not be a Ranker.
He was a cripple in a realm of power.
The young master of the Zhou family — a name built upon inheritance, not merit.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Zhou Fang placed his cup upon the table, the faint click echoing through the chamber. His eyes met the elder's, calm as an undisturbed lake.
"Surpass?" he said softly. "No one surpasses another. Every man walks his own path. My father's strength belongs to his era. Mine… will belong to mine. What is there to compare?"
The elder's smile froze, the laughter died, and for a heartbeat, the entire hall seemed to still.
Zhou Fang leaned back, his tone light — but the air had shifted.
Those with keen perception could feel it: a pressure, faint yet undeniable, like a predator brushing past unseen.
Comparison — that was the noose people offered to fools. Accept it, and you hang by your own pride. Refuse, and they lose their power to judge you.
Zhou Fang had learned that early.
His father had always told him strength meant dominion, but his mother's memory whispered something else — that strength without understanding was just another form of blindness.
---
The night deepened.
The music softened into a melancholic rhythm. Servants moved like shadows, refilling cups, replacing dishes.
Then, Zhou Tian rose.
His voice rolled through the hall like a bell, deep and resonant.
"Today," he declared, "marks my son's eighteenth year — the coming of age of the Zhou family's heir."
Applause followed — some genuine, most forced.
Zhou Tian raised his cup, his expression solemn.
"And on this day, I will make an announcement."
He paused, letting silence grip the hall.
"Years ago," he said, "an alliance was forged between our Zhou family and the Shen family — through an engagement arranged between my son, Zhou Fang, and the second daughter of the Shen family, Shen Yue."
The hall erupted in murmurs.
Shock spread like wildfire.
Whispers, disbelief, suppressed laughter — all mingled beneath the golden lights.
"Shen Yue? The Dimming Beauty?"
"The prodigy of the Shen clan… with him?"
"Impossible. She would never—"
The words slithered like serpents through the air, hidden but sharp.
Zhou Fang did not move. His expression remained unreadable, carved in tranquil disdain.
Inside, his thoughts flowed cold and clear.
So it was her… Shen Yue.
A name from the political games of his family, buried in his father's generation. A pawn born of alliance and necessity.
To others, it was shocking news. To him, it was simply another reminder — that destiny, for most people, was written by others before they could even speak.
---
His father's voice carried above the whispers.
"This agreement was made before either of them were born," Zhou Tian continued. "It was a bond of trust, of mutual strength — to unite two great houses under one will."
The patriarch of the Shen family smiled faintly, not denying, not confirming.
His silence was more dangerous than any refusal.
To him, this was no reunion of old promises. It was a test — of Zhou Tian's ambition, of Zhou Fang's worth, and of how far the Zhou family would go to claim what was once only ink on paper.
Zhou Fang remained still, his mind observing, dissecting, calculating.
He could sense it — the shifting of tides, the change in temperature, the unspoken calculations blooming in every gaze turned toward him.
They no longer saw a boy without power. They saw an opening — a future to exploit, an alliance to manipulate, a chance to test the will of the Zhou patriarch.
Politics dressed as destiny.
---
A man's voice broke through the murmurs.
"Patriarch Zhou," he said lightly, "is this alliance still valid, after all these years?"
Zhou Tian's gaze sharpened. "A promise made between families is bound by honor."
The man chuckled. "Ah, honor. Such a noble word. But in the empire's current age, isn't power the only truth?"
Laughter followed.
But Zhou Tian's silence cut through it like a blade. The weight of a Tier-A Ranker pressed down upon the room, invisible yet suffocating.
The laughter died instantly.
Zhou Fang watched quietly, eyes half-lidded, mind detached.
Power — how easily it silenced truth. Yet how fragile it was, built upon the perception of others.
He sipped his wine again, and in the shimmer of the golden liquid, he saw the reflection of his father's back — proud, strong, yet lonely.
Zhou Fang understood. This marriage, this alliance, this banquet — it was not for him. It was for the survival of their family's name.
And still, beneath that understanding, something deeper stirred — a whisper at the edge of thought, like a voice calling from within a dream.
You are not bound by their design.
---
The banquet lingered into the late hours. The moon hung high above, pale and distant, its light washing the hall in quiet silver.
One by one, the guests departed, their words honeyed, their smiles sharp.
And as the laughter faded, the whispers grew.
"An arranged bond between Zhou and Shen? The audacity!"
"The Shen clan won't agree. Not to a cripple."
"Unless… unless there's something we don't know."
Rumors took wing like crows, scattering into the night.
Zhou Tian watched them leave, his expression unreadable. His hand tightened around his wine cup, knuckles whitening.
He knew the storm this announcement would bring — and yet, he had chosen to make it.
Because in politics, silence was death, and provocation was survival.
Zhou Fang remained seated long after all others had gone. The hall was empty now, save for the faint echo of footsteps and the dying scent of wine.
He looked up at the ceiling, the lanternlight flickering across his eyes, and whispered softly — words meant for no one but the night itself:
---
"People judge a game by its pieces, not its rules.
They laugh at the weak because they cannot see the board beneath the table.
But the wise do not move first — they wait for others to reveal which god they worship.
Every alliance, every insult, every smile — all are moves in a design far greater than pride or love.
Let them gossip. Let them laugh.
When the time comes, their words will be the noose that strangles them —
and I will be the one tightening the rope."