In the span of a single year, the name Vaughn had become impossible to ignore.
Murim was a world that revered lineage, not bloodlines inherited through noble birth, but legacies forged through strength, honor, and the bodies left behind in one's wake. Sect histories were written in decades. Legends took generations to solidify. Yet somehow, in barely twelve months, a foreign name had risen to a level that forced even the most entrenched powers to pause.
Vaughn.
It began, as most upheavals did, with Aldous.
The Lightning Blade.
Bearer of the Lightning Physique. Sword Tiger. Idol of the Great.
He did not simply rise through Murim. He crashed through it.
Aldous challenged sects openly, not with arrogance, but with certainty. He walked into territories guarded for centuries and asked for duels, not conquest. And when they accepted, he defeated their champions cleanly, decisively, and without cruelty. He did not cripple his opponents unless they forced his hand. He did not humiliate them. He proved his superiority and moved on.
Within months, whispers became proclamations.
Within months, challenges turned into invitations.
By the time Aldous crossed the threshold of one hundred thousand internal energy, a feat only ten Masters across Murim had ever achieved, his position was no longer debatable. He was not merely a rising star. He was a pillar.
And wherever Aldous went, the Vaughn name followed.
What startled Murim far more than Aldous's meteoric rise was the realization that he was not alone.
The Vaughn family, every single one of them transmigrators from another world, adapted to Murim with frightening efficiency. Mothers learned internal breathing techniques that would take locals years to comprehend. Cousins mastered weapon forms within weeks. Even those with no apparent talent gained respectable standing through relentless discipline and superior comprehension.
But among them all, two figures stood apart.
Aldous Vaughn.
And Alfred Vaughn.
Alfred Vaughn had arrived in Murim without titles, without prophecy, without divine proclamations announcing his potential. He was a father. A man past his prime by Murim standards. Someone who should have faded into the background while his son blazed across the world.
Instead, Alfred became something else entirely.
While Aldous conquered battlefields, Alfred studied bodies.
Not just technique. Not just forms.
Structure.
Flow.
Limit.
From the moment he first circulated internal energy, Alfred understood something fundamental that most martial artists never grasped. The body was not a vessel for power. It was the source of it. Muscles were not merely tools. They were conduits. Bones were not limits. They were anchors.
He abandoned weapons entirely.
Unarmed martial arts became his domain.
Within three months, Alfred had surpassed inner sect disciples who had trained their entire lives. Within six, he stood on equal footing with sect leaders who had ruled for decades. His movements were simple, almost crude to the untrained eye, but every strike carried crushing inevitability.
Observers noted something unsettling.
Alfred did not fight like a martial artist.
He fought like a force of nature.
His punches shattered defensive techniques through sheer kinetic mastery. His grapples ignored cultivation hierarchies entirely, pinning Masters who could shatter stone with a thought. He took blows that should have crippled him and continued forward, his body adapting mid combat, muscles thickening, circulation accelerating.
The whispers began quietly.
That Aldous's Lightning God's Body did not originate solely from divine favor.
That the Vaughn bloodline itself carried something unnatural.
Something old.
Something terrifying.
When Alfred finally accepted a formal duel against a recognized sect leader, Murim held its breath.
The fight lasted three minutes.
The sect leader yielded with both arms broken and his pride shattered, kneeling in the dirt not from humiliation, but awe.
"I understand now," the man had said afterward. "Why the heavens favor his son."
From that day forward, Alfred Vaughn was treated not as Aldous's shadow, but as his equal.
The Orthodox Alliance took notice.
An alliance that had governed Murim's balance for generations did not move lightly. They did not extend respect based on rumors or isolated victories. Yet when Aldous and Alfred appeared together at an alliance summit, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
Seats were offered.
Voices softened.
Even the Azure Sword Sect's elders, men who bowed to no one, inclined their heads.
The Vaughns were no longer outsiders.
They were power.
The Murim Capital followed soon after.
The Royal Family, which governed the surrounding regions and often positioned itself above sect squabbles, issued a formal decree. The Vaughn family was granted Noble Blood status.
It was unprecedented.
Noble Blood was not given to families without centuries of roots. It was not bestowed lightly, nor easily revoked. To grant it to a group of transmigrators within a year was nothing short of an admission.
Murim had accepted them.
More than that, Murim feared what would happen if it did not.
Within the Vaughn estate, a sprawling compound constructed near the capital, the family gathered for the first time in months. The atmosphere was warm, filled with laughter, shared meals, and the subtle hum of circulating internal energy.
Aldous sat at the head of the table, relaxed but attentive, his presence commanding without effort. Across from him sat Alfred, calm as ever, sipping tea as if he had not recently defeated one of Murim's strongest unarmed Masters.
"You've gone too far," Alfred said mildly. "You're scaring them."
Aldous laughed. "They challenged me."
"They always will," Alfred replied. "Power invites friction."
Aldous's smile faded slightly.
"I just wish he were here," he said quietly.
The table fell silent.
No one needed to ask who he meant.
Aldrin.
Despite everything Aldous had achieved, despite the titles, the reverence, the fear, there remained a space beside him that no victory could fill. He remembered his brother's smile before the world ended. The way Aldrin had chosen a different path, a different continent, without resentment.
"I will find him," Aldous said, voice firm. "No matter where he is."
Alfred looked at his son for a long moment, then nodded.
"When you do," he said, "make sure you're strong enough to stand beside him. Not above. Not below."
Aldous met his father's gaze and smiled.
"I will."
Beyond the walls of the Vaughn estate, Murim continued to shift.
Alliances recalculated.
Sects trained harder.
Masters watched the horizon.
Because the Vaughns were no longer rising.
They had arrived.
And the world would never treat them as ordinary again.