The next day, Fu Yang rose early and began his physical training before heading to eat.
The sun had already climbed high enough to cast sharp shadows across the village, and the inn buzzed with the chatter of morning patrons. Voices clanged together in a chaotic symphony of daily life, but Fu Yang paid none of it heed. His eyes were sharp, calculating, as he observed every movement, every flicker of expression, every hint of advantage.
At the next table, several villagers spoke with excitement, their voices loud enough to carry across the room.
"Did you hear? The four powerhouse families of our village are joining hands. They're planning to establish a clan where everyone with talent will be taught cultivation!"
"Hahaha, yes, yes, I heard the same thing."
"And there are even rumors that the village head will be chosen as the clan leader, while the four house heads will serve as elders."
"With this, our village will finally be united! Hahahaha!"
Fu Yang's eyes glinted faintly. He listened without moving, his mind racing.
(So, they've already begun. Whatever excuses they use, it's all just a cover for maximizing their own benefits. United? Hmph…)
He chuckled quietly under his breath, lips twitching with bitter amusement, then murmured low enough that no one could hear clearly:
"When I tried to fly, they burned my wings and stole my freedom.
When I tried to sing, they laughed at me—until I laughed at myself.
When I tried to end my life, they saved me.
When I tried to save myself, they killed me.
I became what they wanted me to be… but today, I will become what I choose to be."
A few nearby villagers heard his words and whispered among themselves, startled.
"Wow! Did you hear that boy just now? Such words…"
"Heh, are you saying he wrote that? Look at him, look at his clothes!"
"Bah, whatever. Now, where were we? Ah, yes—the caravan and those important guests we mentioned…"
Fu Yang ignored them entirely, waiting for his food. When it finally arrived, he ate quietly, savoring the warmth, the nourishment. Relief passed over him in a subtle wave.
(So, Shin Tian is in the meeting… Good. That means I can eat in peace.)
Once he finished, he walked into the market. The streets were alive with activity, but Fu Yang's movements were careful, precise. He began his search for materials, taking only what he could afford—or what he could earn through careful begging. Today, his innocent childlike face drew pity from many, and his performance was flawless.
"Please… help me, please take pity on me… Uaaa… Uaaa…"
"Mother? Is that you? Ah… sorry. You looked like my late mother—but you're far too beautiful to be her."
The villagers were charmed, deceived, and heaped small gifts into his hands—spiritual grasses, fruits, even scraps of cloth he could use or sell. By evening, his small pouch was heavier than when he had started.
Fu Yang returned to his dormitory as the sun dipped low behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the village. He sat on his bed, carefully counting his gains, storing away spiritual sand and other materials in separate compartments.
(Mmm… being a child has its advantages. People pity you, and you can fool them easily. But being a child also means weakness—you always need help from others. Every step must be calculated. Every weakness hidden.)
Six days passed in this rhythm: training, careful observation, begging, gathering, and storing. Each day Fu Yang refined not only his body but his understanding of the village and its people. Every glance, every interaction, every gesture was another lesson in survival.
---
Meanwhile, in the Tian household…
Wosss… wosss…
A soldier clad in black armor appeared silently before a middle-aged man who sat cross-legged in a private garden, cultivating. The air around the man shimmered faintly, the subtle aura of power brushing against the edges of perception. Slowly, he opened his eyes, sharp and calculating.
"Mmm… so, what is that bastard doing?"
The soldier dropped to one knee. "Sir, Fu Yang has been seen begging in the market for the past six days. I believe he has gone mad."
A flash of killing intent glimmered in the man's eyes. "Mad, you say? Hmph. A child is still a weed. And weeds… must be removed before they choke the field."
He waved a hand dismissively, the air trembling slightly around him. "But forget about that bastard for now. We have far more important matters at hand."
"Yes, sir," the soldier replied, bowing deeply before retreating.
---
(Author's Note: These poems are my own original work, not taken from anywhere. Every word, every line, flows from Fu Yang's world and perspective.)