"Ma Jie, did you see what I saw?" A boy around eleven whispered, catching his breath from the climb as he scrambled up the tree. He settled beside his friend, brushing the bark dust from his hands before sitting on the branch.
"Chen Bo, what did you see?" Ma Jie asked. He was already relaxed, swinging his legs back and forth. He stared at Chen Bo, eager for an answer.
"I saw Old Fu following Pang Ling into the washing room. Do you think they're picking soap?" Chen Bo joked, his wide grin showing his excitement, proud to use the odd phrase he had just learned.
"Ah, shut up!. Do you know what you just said" Ma Jie hissed. He lightly tapped Chen Bo on the head and glanced around nervously. The rustling leaves below suddenly felt louder. "If someone hears and tells Sir Pang, we'll be in big trouble." His tone sharpened, then dropped to a whisper. "Anyway, I heard it's because Sir Pang and the Mu Clan are at war. Some Mu disciples have gone missing. They might be planning to assassinate Pang Ling for revenge. That's why Old Fu guards him—even when he bathes." His voice grew softer, as if the trees could overhear.
Neither boy noticed the figure standing quietly at the base of the tree. Another child, about their age, stared upward, lips pressed together. He wanted to join in, but they never included him in their games. So he simply listened. Confusion crossed his face, but one phrase stuck in his mind. He wanted continue listening but he was determined to understand, so he decided to ask someone who would know.
Later, he entered his father's office. The faint scent of ink and polished wood filled the air, combined with the earthy smell of dried parchment. Scrolls and books lined the tall shelves on both sides, towering over the room.
Pang De sat at his desk, brush in hand, his posture straight as glance at his son once before continuing writing. His strokes across the parchment were deliberate, each character steady and sharp.
The boy slipped into the only other chair, his small legs dangling above the polished floor. He sat quietly, waiting, though his eyes darted restlessly between his father and the stacks of books.
"Pang Ling, I'm busy," Pang De said without looking up. His voice was firm, but not unkind. "If it's urgent, ask Old Fu."
"Okay, Father," Pang Ling murmured. He hesitated, then turned toward the door, his voice timid. "I just wanted to ask… what does it mean to 'pick soap'? I'll ask Old Fu instead."
The brush paused mid-stroke. A tiny drop of ink bled into the parchment. Pang De lowered the brush with controlled precision, but his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Where did you hear that?" His voice sliced through the silence, though his face remained calm.
Pang Ling didn't catch the warning in his father's tone. Excited to have his father's interest, he explained eagerly what he had overheard, who had said it, and why he was curious. He thought he'd finally caught his father's attention, maybe even an explanation. Instead, his heart sank at what came next.
Pang De's face darkened, his composure cracking. Anger erupted as he slammed his palm against the desk, threatening to eject Chen Bo's and Ma Jie's families from the clan. The impact of his rage made the shelves tremble slightly.
"Father, please!" Pang Ling groaned, clutching his father's sleeve with urgency. His voice shook, and his young body quaked at the sudden outburst. He begged repeatedly until Pang De finally relented—but punishment followed. Chen Bo was sentenced to five hundred paddle strikes. Ma Jie, though less guilty, still faced two hundred for not reporting the comment, marked as an accomplice.
But the damage was already done. In his fury, Pang De had fanned the flames he wanted to put out.
News spread quickly. What started as a careless, childish remark morphed into whispers, and whispers into rumors.
"There must be some truth to it."
"If it wasn't true, they wouldn't react so harshly."
"Do you think they really…?"
As these words circled back to Pang De's ears, his anger doubled. What he tried to bury was now spreading like wildfire. Worse still, the Mu Clan wouldn't waste such an opportunity. What began as a physical clash was now political—and he'd just handed his enemies the upper hand.
Wherever Pang Ling went, stares followed. While some villagers turned away, avoiding his gaze as though he carried a plague. Others whispered, their expressions filled with suspicion, curiosity, or disdain. He didn't fully understand, but he knew it traced back to that day in his father's office.
Troubled, he sought out Old Fu.
At first, Old Fu deflected, his weathered face stern, his tone vague. But Pang Ling's persistence wore him down. With a heavy sigh, the old retainer relented, finally explaining.
The boy's face twisted, his young heart struggling to understand. His voice trembled as he murmured to himself repeatedly.
"We would never…"
"Where did they even get that idea?"
"It doesn't make sense."
"I would never!"
"I would never!"
---
"I would never!" Pang Ling's chest burned as rage consumed him. The man before him had touched a sensitive spot. For nearly a decade, no one had dared mention it. Yet this man, with his mocking smile, had the nerve to bring it up again? Did he want the whispers to return—the stares, the avoidance, the shame? No. Never again.
Releasing his aura, late-stage Spirit Realm, Pang Ling clenched his fist. His killing intent surged, focused into a single blow. One punch. One strike to end it all.
"Wow! Young Master Ling has broken through to late-stage Spirit Realm!" one boy shouted, his voice high with flattery.
"Already? Didn't he just break through six months ago?" another chimed in quickly, eager not to be outdone.
Two girls clasped their hands together, showering him with praise. But Pang Ling heard none of it. His entire focus was on crushing the fat man before him.
The punch carried terrifying power. A twenty-centimeter radius of raw force around his fist strong enough to kill beginner cultivators outright, even cripple some intermediates.
Yet before the strike landed, a hand moved. No one even saw it. A casual backhand struck Pang Ling's chest.
There was no roar, no shattering explosion—just a simple motion, more like a pat.
But the result was devastating. Pang Ling flew backward, crashing into his friends. Blood sprayed from his mouth as his body convulsed, his life hanging by a thread.
"Young Master Ling!" the boys cried, panic in their voices.
Old Fu arrived in a blur, the air cracking from his speed. He raised Pang Ling head up as he slips a pill between his lips, and forced him to swallow. His eyes burned with killing intent as he glared at the fat man.
"Old Fu, will he be okay?" one boy asked, tears welling up, fear for himself and his family evident.
"He'll live—as long as you take him back to the Pang estate immediately," Old Fu replied grimly. Already, some color returned to the boy's face, as the pill took effect.
"What about you?" another boy asked nervously.
"I'll deal with this trash. Go!" Old Fu barked. His aura flared, raw and menacing.
The group scrambled to lift Pang Ling, carrying him out as fast as they could, their steps clumsy with fear at the consequences if anything happened to the young master.
But before Old Fu could unleash his fury, a man stepped calmly from the back of the inn. His scholar's hanfu was crisp and spotless, his posture refined. A badge gleamed on his chest, marking his position as the manager.
He released his aura. Early-stage Grandmaster. The pressure alone made Old Fu tense.
"No fighting in the inn," the manager said evenly. "If you must fight, take it outside."
The fat man seized his chance. "What do you mean no fighting? I was attacked in your inn as a paying guest! I could have died!"
The manager's gaze remained steady, unmoved. "I highly doubt that. But,... Mei Yun, upgrade our guest to a premium suite as compensation." With that, he turned and walked away without looking back.
Grinding his teeth, Old Fu forced himself to back down. He joined the group as he lifted Pang Ling into his own arms and carried him personally toward the Pang estate, leaving one boy behind to keep watch of the fat man.
---
A few hours later…
Cling!
The bell above the inn's door chimed as it swung open. Two figures stepped inside—a man and a woman, dressed in the striking red-and-black robes of the Azure Guard.
"We're looking for a fat man with a cat," the woman said smoothly, her eyes scanning the room. "Could you point us in the right direction?"