but with that undercurrent of history and tension.
The Tai Clan's Stronghold
The Tai Clan's mountain stronghold rose like a jagged tooth in the clouds. White banners flapped from the stone walls, each marked with a soaring crane—their symbol of justice and purity.
But inside the great hall, that purity was stained with anger.
On the jade throne sat Tai Longhai, Patriarch of the clan. His shoulders were broad but heavy with age. His hair was more gray than black now, though his aura still carried the weight of an Immortal. His eyes burned—not calm, but sharp and furious.
"The Chen clan dares to slander us?!" His voice cracked across the chamber like a storm. "They say we are traitors, that we poisoned their halls. We who carried their sins for centuries?!"
The elders knelt low. The air was heavy enough to choke.
The Old Wound
One old man rose—Tai Mingyuan, his back bent with years, his voice trembling not from fear, but memory.
"Patriarch… the young ones don't remember. Let me remind them."
His words echoed against marble pillars. Above them hung the portraits of ancestors, staring down like silent judges.
"Three hundred years ago, a bond was promised. The Chen heir and our Tai daughter were to be wed. Love tied them together. Their union was meant to end strife forever."
The hall was still. Even the youngest disciples knew the story.
"But she vanished," Mingyuan went on, his voice low. "On the night before the wedding, she disappeared. The Chen boy swore innocence. But whispers spread—he betrayed her, or worse. Rage filled both clans. War followed."
He closed his eyes. "Two immortals from each clan died. Whole branches of families were erased. No side won. Only blood remained."
The silence after his words pressed hard on every chest. It was not just an old story—it was the wound carved into the bone of the clan.
Judgment
Patriarch Longhai slammed his palm against the jade throne. The armrest cracked loud and sharp.
"And now Chen dares to paint us as villains? They twist history into lies. They call us traitors while they sit fat on their gold."
A younger elder, Tai Wusheng, slammed his fist against the floor. "Then let us march, Patriarch! Tear down their gates, burn their halls, kill their brat of a leader and remind the prefecture who we are!"
But Longhai shook his head. His voice was cold, iron under the fire.
"No. The Chen are weak, yes… but not unguarded."
The hall stilled again. Longhai's gaze swept across them, sharp as blades.
"They are rich beyond measure. Their lands stretch across provinces. Their markets feed soldiers, their gold builds walls. Even if we destroy their bodies, their silver will rise again as knives in our backs."
He leaned forward. His voice dropped lower, darker.
"And worse—the Zhong Clan still shields them."
The Name of Zhong
At that name, murmurs spread. Some elders shifted uncomfortably.
The Zhong Clan—third among the great seven. Known not for loyalty, but for their oaths. Oaths carved in blood and secrets. They were shields sold by destiny itself.
Mingyuan bowed his head. "Our records show… during the last war, Zhong's patriarch swore to protect the Chen line. We don't know the reason. Some say their ancestors were sworn brothers."
Another elder spoke quietly, "And now… the Zhong daughter has been seen near Chen lands. Rumors say she looks kindly upon Xuan Chen himself."
The hall broke into whispers at once.
Patriarch Longhai's brow furrowed. His voice cut through like thunder. "So not only does that brat insult us, he dares catch the eye of Zhong's heiress? If this rumor is true… Chen's rise may be greater than we feared."
The Merchants' Gossip
A servant rushed in, kneeling with a sealed scroll.
"News from the markets, Patriarch."
Longhai tore it open, his eyes scanning the words. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding.
"The slander spreads," the servant whispered. "Already six clans whisper that Tai sought to poison Chen from within. That we are hypocrites hiding behind the crane banner."
Longhai's hand clenched the scroll until it crumpled.
"Let them whisper," he spat, though veins pulsed in his neck. "We are the righteous clan. Let them test our honor if they dare."
But every elder in the hall knew: gossip was poison. Merchants loved rumor more than coin. Once a tale took root, it grew like wildfire, burning truth to ash.
Longhai's Doubt
When the council ended and the elders left, Tai Longhai stayed behind. Alone on the cracked jade throne, his fury cooled to something heavier.
He whispered to the empty hall, "Chen clan… your wealth makes you bold. Your lies make you cunning. But what troubles me most… is that boy. Xuan Chen."
He remembered the spy reports—stories of a youth who crippled his cousin, cut down elders, branded traitors, and spoke with the voice of a ruler though barely grown.
"Such ruthlessness in one so young… not natural. Not ordinary."
His voice lowered to a whisper. "Perhaps not even human."
For a moment, he thought of the Zhong daughter. If she truly leaned toward Xuan Chen, if she stood at his side, then fate itself might be weaving the boy's path.
Zhong's Pavilion
Far away, in the Zhong Clan's misty gardens, the heiress sat in her pavilion. In her hand was a letter with no seal, only a name scratched in rough ink: Xuan Chen.
Her lips curved.
"Bold," she murmured. "Bold enough to stand against the heavens themselves."
The candlelight flickered across her smile. "Perhaps bold enough… to stand with me."
Rumors Ignite
By week's end, the prefecture roared with stories.
The Chen clan had purged traitors.
The Tai clan had been unmasked as infiltrators.
Xuan Chen ruled with an iron hand.
And whispers—growing, spreading—that Zhong's heiress might one day bind herself to him.
From taverns to merchant courts, from beggars to Immortals, the truth was clear: the balance of the seven clans was shifting.
In the Tai halls, Patriarch Longhai's voice rolled like thunder.
"Prepare yourselves. War has not yet come—but the seeds are in the earth. The Chen boy has chosen his game. We will answer in kind."
But deep inside, even he knew. This war was no longer about swords. It was about stories, about perception, about history itself.
And in that battlefield… Xuan Chen had already struck the first blow