Ye Qian returned to his dilapidated shack, but the heavy silence of the room offered no comfort. The roar of the Patriarch, the icy, judgmental glares of the elders, and the mocking laughter of the First House disciples hung over him like a suffocating shroud. In the Ye Clan, the status of an illegitimate son was a brand—a mark of shame that no amount of effort seemed able to erase. Even after he had held his ground against the clan's "geniuses" with nothing but a rusted blade, the only reward he received was the sting of the whip and a lecture on "knowing his place."
He sat on the edge of his hard wooden bed, staring at the Tang blade resting against the wall. His fingers traced the cold, pitted metal of the spine. Inside his chest, a storm was brewing. There was a searing, raw anger that threatened to boil over, but he didn't let it out. He didn't scream, and he didn't break his furniture. Instead, he took that white-hot rage and shoved it deep into his dantian, using the emotional turbulence as fuel to ignite his internal Qi.
"Let their prejudice be my whetstone," Ye Qian whispered into the darkness, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "The more they try to crush me, the harder I will become."
The following few days were a test of patience. His back was a map of angry red welts from the Iron Whip, and every movement sent a jolt of pain through his nervous system. He knew he couldn't return to the high-intensity hunts in the wilderness immediately; he needed to heal. However, healing didn't mean resting. It meant refinement. He turned his entire focus toward a cycle of medicinal baths, internal meditation, and the deep comprehension of the Basic Blade Scripture.
Every morning, before the sun had even kissed the horizon, the smell of bitter herbs filled the shack. Ye Qian ground the roots and leaves provided by the steward into a fine, potent powder, brewing them into a dark, steaming decoction. When he lowered his bruised body into the wooden tub, the heat felt like a thousand needles pricking his skin.
The medicinal essence seeped into his open wounds and through his pores, stimulating his blood flow. It was an agonizing process—the herbs were meant to provoke the body's natural defenses, forcing the muscles and tendons to knit back together stronger than before. Ye Qian grit his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the tub. He channeled his Qi along his meridians, guiding the healing energy to the bruised tissues of his back.
In this state of meditative pain, the boundaries of his body seemed to blur. He could feel every muscle fiber, every ligament, and the solid density of his bones. The injustice of the clan, the weight of his mother's memory, and the physical agony of the bath all swirled together, being distilled into a singular, focused power.
By the third day, the transformation was evident. The welts on his back had faded into faint silver scars, and his skin had a healthy, vibrant glow. More importantly, the internal Qi that had been turbulent and angry was now steady and vast, like a deep lake.
Unable to stay confined any longer, Ye Qian strapped his Tang blade to his waist and headed back to the wilderness of the back mountain. The air was crisp, and the dew on the grass reflected the rising sun. He moved through the brush not as a boy, but as a silent shadow. His coordination was now terrifyingly precise; every step was calculated, every breath synchronized with the swaying of the trees.
He reached a familiar clearing and drew his blade. The steel felt lighter than before, almost weightless. As he began his forms, a low growl erupted from the shadows. A grey wolf, larger and more scarred than the ones before, stepped into the light. It was a veteran of the wild, and it sensed that the human before it was a threat that needed to be eliminated.
Ye Qian didn't wait for the beast to pounce. He lowered his center of gravity, the rusted blade held in a relaxed but lethal guard. When the wolf finally lunged, it was a blur of teeth and fur. Ye Qian didn't panic. He saw the trajectory of the attack with crystalline clarity.
He slid half a step to the left, the wolf's claws grazing his tunic but missing his flesh. In the same motion, his Tang blade hummed through the air in a perfect horizontal arc. The sound wasn't a clumsy swing; it was a sharp, piercing shing as the steel divided the air. The blade bit into the wolf's flank, sending the beast tumbling into the dirt.
As the wolf scrambled to regain its footing, Ye Qian felt a sudden, violent surge in his meridians. The accumulated energy from the medicinal baths, the suppressed anger, and the focus of the fight finally hit a critical mass.
BOOM.
A sound like a muffled thunderclap echoed within his mind. The barrier of the Fifth Stage shattered effortlessly, and his energy expanded outward like a floodgate being opened. His spirit and his blade reached a state of perfect resonance.
Stage Six of Body Tempering: The Harmonized Breath Stage.
His movements suddenly became twice as fast. He didn't even seem to be trying as he parried the wolf's desperate lunges. With a final, decisive strike, he sent the beast retreating into the forest, its whimpers echoing through the trees.
Ye Qian stood alone in the silence, his blade pointed toward the earth. He felt incredible. His body was light, yet he felt as if he could crush a boulder with his bare hands. The Qi in his body was no longer just flowing; it was vibrating in harmony with his every thought. He had reached the Sixth Stage, a level that many "geniuses" in the main branch didn't reach until years later.
He looked back toward the direction of the Ye Clan manor. The opulent towers and high walls no longer seemed like an impassable fortress. They looked like a cage that he was slowly outgrowing.
"You can whip my back, and you can mock my name," Ye Qian said, his voice cold and steady. "But you cannot stop the sun from rising, and you cannot stop me from reaching the top."
The night began to fall, and the scent of the wilderness mixed with the fading smell of the medicinal herbs on his skin. Ye Qian sheathed his blade and began his walk back. He knew the road ahead was filled with even greater dangers—the clan's elders would eventually see him as a threat that needed to be removed, not just punished.
But as he walked, his heart was as firm as a mountain. He had found his path. It was a path built on his own blood and sweat, far away from the pampered lives of the main branch. And on this path, he would continue to break every chain they tried to put on him.
The trash was gone. The warrior had arrived.