The great hall of the Xuanyuan Clan felt colder than usual.
Torches flickered along the stone pillars, casting long shadows that danced like silent judges upon the walls. The corpse of the Iron Scaled Tiger lay sprawled across the polished floor, its iron-gray scales cracked and shattered, its massive head destroyed beyond recognition.
At the center of it all stood Xuanyuan Zhen. Torn white robes. Scratches lining his skin. Back straight.
The first elder to rise did so with open hostility in his eyes.
"Xuanyuan Zhen," he said sharply, "you dare cripple fellow clansmen and then stride into the main hall as though you've accomplished something great. How can you be so vicious?."
Another elder leaned forward. "Your conduct is cruel. You attack your own kin and show no respect for the clan hierarchy. If such behavior is tolerated, what becomes of discipline?"
Murmurs spread like ripples across still water.
But not every voice was condemning.
An older elder with calm eyes spoke thoughtfully, "Before judgment is passed, should we not hear his side? Xuanyuan Han has not exactly been a model of restraint within the clan."
That single statement shifted the atmosphere.
At the head of the hall, Xuanyuan Bei remained seated, his expression carved from stone. As father of Xuanyuan Hao and Xuanyuan Han, and younger brother of Xuanyuan Wudi, he carried both authority and pride heavily.
His gaze settled on Xuanyuan Zhen.
Then—
The pressure descended.
It was not visible, yet everyone felt it.
An aura belonging to a Nascent Soul cultivator swept across the hall like a collapsing sky. The torches flickered violently. Several weaker disciples stumbled backward, faces paling.
The air itself seemed to thicken.
The weight bore down directly upon Xuanyuan Zhen.
His torn robes snapped in the invisible storm. The stone beneath his feet fractured with thin spiderweb cracks.
For a moment, his breathing deepened.
His body trembled.
This was a realm far beyond his own.
But within him, something ancient stirred.
The will of the Battle Saint Body awakened first—radiant, sacred, immovable. It reinforced his flesh and meridians, stabilizing him under the crushing force.
Then the Firmament Tyrant Body responded.
A domineering current surged silently through his bones, refusing submission. It did not explode outward. It did not challenge openly.
It simply would not kneel.
The pressure remained immense.
Yet Xuanyuan Zhen stood straight.
Across the hall, Xuanyuan Han's lips had curled into a smile moments earlier.
Then his smile faltered.
Why wasn't he kneeling?
Why wasn't he gasping in humiliation?
Even some elders shifted uneasily.
Xuanyuan Bei's voice echoed through the suffocating air.
"Explain your vicious actions toward your fellow clan members."
The words were heavy, each syllable carrying the force of his cultivation.
Xuanyuan Zhen's eyes lifted slowly, facing everyone before him.
"Five years ago," he said, voice calm despite the mountain pressing upon him, "no one cared whether I lived or died."
The hall quieted.
"And now," he continued, a faint edge of mockery threading through his tone, "you surround me with accusations, as though I would care about your opinions."
His gaze swept across the elders.
"What exactly is this disturbance about?"
The sarcasm cut cleanly through the tension.
Xuanyuan Bei's eyes darkened.
"Answer the question."
Xuanyuan Zhen's lips curved slightly.
"They had it coming."
A pause.
"And anyone who chooses to do the same foolish thing will end worse than them."
The murmurs exploded into outrage.
"This is insolence!"
"He shows no remorse!"
"He must be punished!"
Xuanyuan Han's face twisted in fury.
But Xuanyuan Zhen had already begun walking.
Each step forward caused the cracked stone beneath him to splinter further. The oppressive aura still weighed on him, yet he did not slow.
He did not bow.
He did not ask permission.
"Stop," Xuanyuan Bei commanded.
Xuanyuan Zhen did not.
In that instant, the Patriarch's expression hardened. A concentrated surge of spiritual Qi lashed forward, intent on suppressing him where he stood.
Before it could reach him—
Another presence intervened.
The collision of invisible forces rippled through the hall like distant thunder.
Grand Elder Xuanyuan Ming had stepped forward.
"That is enough," Ming said quietly, though the authority in his voice filled the chamber.
Xuanyuan Bei's gaze turned sharp. "You would oppose me?"
"You have already applied the pressure of a higher realm upon a junior," Ming replied evenly. "That alone exceeds fairness. And given Xuanyuan Han's reputation within the clan, this matter is not so clear."
Silence followed.
Xuanyuan Ming's eyes rested briefly on Xuanyuan Zhen's back.
In that unyielding posture, he saw a reflection of Xuanyuan Wudi.
The same spine.
The same refusal to bend.
Xuanyuan Zhen reached the doors of the hall.
He did not look back.
He simply left.
---
The corridor outside felt strangely quiet after the suffocating atmosphere within.
Servants and disciples scattered aside as he walked past, whispering in hushed tones. The torn white robes, the lingering aura, the tiger corpse carried earlier—none of it aligned with the "cripple" they remembered.
He returned to his courtyard.
The door creaked open.
Inside, the room was no longer dusty or desolate.
Yin Mei had worked quickly. The floor was swept clean. The bedding arranged neatly. A small oil lamp burned softly in the corner, casting warm light across the walls.
She froze when she saw him, relief flooding her expression.
"Master… you're back."
Xuanyuan Zhen nodded.
He set down the portion of beast meat he had prepared from the tiger before coming to the hall.
"Dinner," he said simply.
Her eyes widened slightly.
They sat together at the small table. Steam rose faintly from the cooked meat. For the first time in years, their meal was earned not through scraps or humiliation—but through strength.
Yin Mei ate quietly, glancing at him occasionally.
Xuanyuan Zhen appeared calm.
Composed.
As though the confrontation in the hall meant nothing.
But within him—
Rage simmered.
Not loud.
Cold.
Five years of neglect, mockery, silence.
Today they gathered not to protect him—but to judge him.
His fingers tightened slightly around his cup.
He would become so powerful that their accusations would turn into fear. They will regret it.
A week passed quietly. No one disturbed Xuanyuan Zhen's courtyard. At dawn each day, when the horizon was still painted in violet and gold, he would sit beneath the open sky, spine straight, breath steady.
He inhaled slowly.
From the edge of the rising sun, strands of heavenly purple Qi descended like faint imperial threads. It was subtle, nearly invisible to ordinary cultivators, but to him it was clear—Dao-infused essence, carrying the authority of Heaven itself. He drew it in through measured breaths, refining it according to the Nine Heavens Tyrant Art.
The heavenly purple Qi entered his meridians like flowing mist, heavy and majestic. When it reached his purple-golden Qi sea, it did not remain unchanged. The fused sea trembled slightly, then refined it—blending it into something deeper, heavier, uniquely his.
At the same time. His body moved.
While breathing in heavenly purple Qi, he practiced the combat postures of the Battle Saint Dao Method. Each stance grounded his feet like ancient pillars. Each rotation of his shoulders circulated golden holy Qi through his limbs.
Breath and movement synchronized.
Heavenly purple Qi entered.
Golden holy Qi circulated.
His purple-golden Qi sea churned in harmony. Two supreme inheritances cultivated at the same time on the same person. The courtyard stones had long since cracked beneath the pressure of his daily refinement.
By the seventh dawn—
The breakthrough came.