Zhao Ming's earliest memory was not of cultivation.
It was of color.
He remembered sitting on the stone steps behind his family's courtyard, legs dangling in the air, holding a thin bamboo brush far too large for his hands. Ink dripped clumsily onto the parchment before him, staining it unevenly. He had frowned in concentration, tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth, trying to copy the mountains he saw beyond the outer walls.
They were crude. Misshapen. The perspective was wrong.
Yet when he looked at them, his chest had filled with a warmth he could never describe.
Creation.
That was what he loved.
Not qi.
Not power.
Not the endless hierarchy of cultivation.
Just the quiet act of bringing something into the world that did not exist before.
"Useless."
The word had cut through the memory like a blade.
Zhao Ming could still hear it clearly, even now.
"Useless."
Elder Zhao stood behind him, hands clasped behind his back, his shadow stretching long across the courtyard stones. His robes were immaculate, his cultivation aura heavy even when suppressed. He looked down at the parchment as though it were filth.
"This is how you spend your time?" the elder asked. "Drawing?"
Zhao Ming had stiffened.
"I… I like it," he said quietly.
His father had laughed nervously, standing to the side. "Brother Elder Zhao, it is just a child's—"
"A child?" Elder Zhao interrupted coldly. "This child is the only hope your branch has."
Zhao Ming remembered his mother's hands tightening in her sleeves.
"You expect him to restore your standing," Elder Zhao continued, eyes sharp. "To return you to the main Zhao branch. And you let him waste his time like this?"
The brush had slipped from Zhao Ming's fingers.
Ink splattered across the page.
The elder's gaze hardened.
From that day on, the brush was taken away.
In its place came pain.
Zhao Ming was a prodigy.
That much was undeniable.
At six, he sensed qi without guidance.
At eight, he refined it faster than his peers.
At ten, he could circulate it for hours without fatigue.
Each breakthrough earned praise.
But the praise never came from where he wanted it.
His parents looked at him with something dangerous in their eyes.
Hope.
A suffocating, desperate hope.
"Endure a little more," his mother would whisper as she applied salve to his bruises.
"This is for our family," his father would say, voice tight.
"You are special," they told him again and again. "You are different."
Zhao Ming began to hate those words.
Special meant no escape.
Elder Zhao trained him personally.
There was no gentleness in the old man's methods.
"Cultivation is not a choice," he would say. "It is a weapon. If you cannot wield it, you will be crushed."
He broke Zhao Ming's stance repeatedly, striking his legs with a rod until he learned balance.
He forced qi circulation until Zhao Ming vomited blood.
He isolated him from other children, claiming distractions bred weakness.
"You exist to restore this branch," Elder Zhao told him one night, standing over Zhao Ming's kneeling form. "Nothing more."
Zhao Ming clenched his fists.
"I don't want this," he said, voice trembling. "I want to paint. I want to—"
The slap came without warning.
The taste of blood filled his mouth.
"You want?" Elder Zhao sneered. "Your wants are meaningless."
Something broke that day.
Not his body.
Something quieter.
Something deeper.
At fourteen, Zhao Ming ran away.
He did not plan it carefully.
He simply left.
He stole a few coins, hid his cultivation aura, and vanished beyond the city walls. For the first time in his life, the world felt wide.
He found work copying texts, painting signs, sketching portraits for travelers. His talent blossomed without pressure, without pain.
People smiled at him.
They praised his art.
They did not ask him to save anyone.
At night, he slept under the stars and felt—if not happy—then at least light.
He thought, foolishly, that he could stay gone forever.
When he returned, the house was silent.
Too silent.
The courtyard gate hung open, splintered.
The smell hit him first.
Blood.
Zhao Ming ran.
He stumbled into the main hall.
His father lay slumped against the table, eyes open, lifeless.
His mother lay beside him, throat cut cleanly.
No struggle.
No mercy.
Zhao Ming screamed.
The sound tore his throat raw.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Slow.
Measured.
Elder Zhao entered the hall, gaze passing over the bodies with mild disinterest.
"They failed," he said. "Debt unpaid. Promises unkept."
Zhao Ming turned, shaking. "You— you did this?"
Elder Zhao looked at him then.
Truly looked.
"You abandoned your duty," the elder said calmly. "They paid the price."
Zhao Ming fell to his knees.
Something inside him collapsed entirely.
"From today onward," Elder Zhao continued, "you belong to me."
He leaned closer.
"And if you disobey again—your death will be slower than theirs."
Zhao Ming never ran again.
Years passed.
Zhao Ming became exactly what Elder Zhao wanted.
Talented.
Arrogant.
Cruel.
He bullied weaker disciples not because he enjoyed it—but because he was ordered to. One of those orders burned itself into his memory.
"The Chen family has defaulted on their obligations," Elder Zhao said. "Their child attends the outer grounds."
Zhao Ming understood immediately.
He found the boy easily.
A quiet child. Thin. Always reading.
Zhao Ming struck him.
Again.
And again.
Each blow felt like another nail driven into his own coffin.
But he smiled while he did it.
He learned how to wear the mask well.
And now—
Now he stood at the edge of Arena One.
The past pressed against his chest like a crushing weight.
Across from him stood Chen Yuan.
The same family name.
Not the same boy.
This one was calm. Adaptable. Dangerous.
Zhao Ming's hands trembled.
If I lose…
He did not need to finish the thought.
Elder Zhao sat high in the stands, eyes cold.
Watching.
Waiting.
The jade screen flashed.
Final Match — Duos Tourney
Chen Yuan & Gu Wen
vs
Zhao Ming & Han Li
The formation activated.
Zhao Ming moved first.
He attacked with ferocity, qi flaring violently as he drove toward Chen Yuan. His strikes were sharp, honed by years of brutal training.
Chen Yuan blocked.
Adapted.
Redirected.
Every exchange felt wrong.
Zhao Ming's techniques were perfect—but static.
Chen Yuan changed.
Gu Wen clashed with Han Li, their battle fierce but secondary. The real tension lay between Zhao Ming and Chen Yuan.
"You think you're better than me?" Zhao Ming snarled, unleashing a flurry of strikes.
Chen Yuan said nothing.
He absorbed.
He learned.
He countered.
Each movement cut closer to Zhao Ming's core.
The system in Chen Yuan hummed, refining him with every heartbeat.
Zhao Ming felt it.
Felt himself falling behind.
"No—!" he roared, forcing more qi into his meridians, ignoring the tearing pain. "I can't lose!"
Elder Zhao's gaze burned into his back.
Zhao Ming attacked wildly now.
And that was his mistake.
Chen Yuan stepped inside his guard.
One strike.
Perfectly placed.
Zhao Ming's qi shattered.
The impact lifted him from the ground and slammed him into the arena floor.
Stone exploded.
Silence followed.
Zhao Ming — Defeated
Zhao Ming lay staring at the sky.
For the first time in his life, there was no expectation pressing down on him.
No hope.
No orders.
Only emptiness.
Footsteps approached.
Chen Yuan stood over him.
Not triumphant.
Not cruel.
Just… human.
Zhao Ming laughed weakly.
"So that's it," he whispered. "I was never special, was I?"
Chen Yuan looked at him for a long moment.
"No," he said. "You were just trapped."
Zhao Ming closed his eyes.
Somewhere in the stands, Elder Zhao stood abruptly.
But before he could act, the Inner Court elders intervened.
The match was over.
The tourney was decided.
Volume I — Mutation
End
Chen Yuan walked away from the arena, stronger than before.
Behind him, Zhao Ming lay broken—not by defeat alone, but by a life finally laid bare.
And for the first time, the world began to change.