Blood clung to the stone floor, thick and sticky. The torches spat weak light, smoke curling toward the beams, and the air tasted of iron and ash.
The great hall of the Chen clan was silent. Silent in the way a battlefield is silent after the screams die down—where only ghosts breathe.
Xuan Chen sat on the throne. His body was that of a youth, but the way his black hair fell across his pale forehead, the way his eyes glimmered with storms—no one dared call him a child.
The clan bent their heads. Not one voice dared to rise. They didn't bow to respect. Not to love. Only to fear.
From the ring on his finger, the old immortal's voice drifted, rough and amused.
"Boy. Fear alone rots quick. You'll need more. Kill a few. Raise a few. Silence all."
Xuan Chen's lips curled. He didn't bother whispering—just breathed out two words:
"Watch me."
The Elders' Selection
Three elders lived. Not because they were strong—they weren't. Not because they were clever—they weren't. They'd survived because they had no teeth. They'd stayed quiet when knives were drawn.
He called them forward. They shuffled, trembling, like condemned men dragged to the gallows.
"You lived not because of your strength," Xuan Chen said, each word like a blade across the throat, "but because you kept your mouths shut. I value that."
One of them dared to raise his voice, cracked with age. "Young master, we—"
The boy's aura surged. A wave of pressure slammed into the man, silencing him mid-breath. His chest seized. His mouth flapped like a fish drowning on dry land.
"From now on," Xuan Chen said, voice flat, eyes cutting, "you are not elders. You are guardians. You will obey me. You will hold this clan together until my father wakes. Fail me, and you will envy the dead."
The three exchanged one glance—panic, despair, resignation—and then pressed their foreheads to the ground.
"Yes, young master."
The hall exhaled. Relief tangled with dread. Survival always tastes bitter.
The Slave Mark
Chains clinked. His cousin was dragged in—the son of his uncle. The boy was pale, nose red from crying, streaks of snot across his face.
"Please, cousin, mercy—"
Xuan Chen rose. Slowly. Step by step down the stone stairs, until the torches themselves seemed to shrink from him.
"You mocked me when I was weak. Laughed when I bled. Do you remember?"
The boy sobbed, choking. "I-I didn't mean—"
"Silence."
His palm lifted. Golden-black light bloomed, crawling into the air like a living curse. The runes seared into flesh.
The smell of meat filled the hall. His cousin's scream ripped through the air, high and raw, until his voice snapped and broke.
Disciples gasped. Servants trembled. Even those who hated Xuan Chen once now stared with awe and terror.
The brand finished glowing, smoking on his cousin's chest.
Xuan Chen's voice was iron. "You are no longer son of this clan. You are nothing but merchandise. A slave."
He flicked his wrist. Guards dragged the broken youth away.
"Sell him. Let him taste the chains. Let him live as he once wished for me."
The hall didn't cheer. It didn't protest. It only bent lower. Silence wasn't peace. Silence was surrender.
The New Story
Xuan Chen raised a bundle of scrolls and jade slips, stained faint with blood. His voice cracked through the heavy air:
"Do you want to know why your elders died? Why my uncle fell? Why this hall is soaked in blood?"
No one answered. Heads stayed low.
"Here. Proof."
He let the scrolls fall to the floor. The sound was loud, louder than it should've been.
"They sold themselves to the Tai clan. Traitors. They planned to open our gates in the coming war. My father struck them down not as a butcher, but as protector. He cut the rot before it swallowed us."
Gasps. Murmurs. Wide eyes. The story slid into their hearts like poison disguised as honey. They wanted to believe it. Needed to. And so they did.
"Remember this!" Xuan Chen roared. His voice echoed from the rafters. "They were not victims. They were traitors. And their blood bought you peace."
The hall erupted. Tears, shouts, oaths. Not everyone believed. But no one dared doubt aloud. Fear had a banner now, and its name was Xuan Chen.
The Throne of Fear
Xuan Chen sat back, hair falling over his pale brow. His gaze was steady, unshaken.
The old immortal chuckled from the ring. "Ruthless. You silenced them with terror, then fed them a story sweet enough to choke down. I almost admire you."
The boy smirked, cold and quiet. "Mercy for the useful. Chains for the disobedient. A story for the blind. That is how you rule."
He leaned back into the throne, body of a teenager, aura of a predator.
"This clan is mine now. And when my father wakes… he'll see the empire I carved for him."
The Spies Outside
But the world had already seen.
Beyond the walls, in the night, shadows stirred. Merchant caravans camped along the roads, guards pretending to sleep while eyes fixed on the Chen estate.
Spies of the six great clans had come, hungry for weakness. They heard the scream. They saw the smoke.
One whispered, "Not a boy. A wolf in a boy's skin. Remember his name—Xuan Chen."
Another scribbled onto parchment: The boy declared his uncle a traitor. He displayed proof. The people believed. Fear turned to loyalty. He rules the Chen clan now.
The message burned into talisman fire. Carried away to distant clans.
The prefecture trembled.
---
Xuan Chen sat in the hall, the throne dripping with shadows. The clan bowed lower than before. His cousin's scream still hung in the rafters. His father still lay unconscious in the next room.
But the name of the black-haired heir had already left these walls.
And the world had started to turn.