In the vast Eastern Plains, fifty lesser kingdoms lingered in the shadow of empires and ancient sects—small, forgettable places where true monsters sometimes quietly took root.
Qingyun Kingdom was one of them. The Lu Family had survived here for generations. Not through overwhelming power or celebrated geniuses, but through cold, patient endurance. They bent when others broke, they waited when others rushed.
Lu Haotian was part of the Lu clan, his parents, Father was the 12th master of the Lu clan and his mother a loose cultivator —both early stage foundation establishment cultivators—died when he was five, on a routine clan mission to suppress a demonic beast outbreak in the border mountains. The beast was slain. The mission was declared a success.
The Lu Family sent compensation spirit stones and a single sentence of condolence.
Just funeral, no investigation, just another line crossed out in the family register.
Haotian was taken in as an orphan of the main branch, raised alongside the other children of the clan. He was fed, clothed, taught basic manners, but he was never truly claimed.
At six, like every Lu child, he began mandatory Body Tempering, daily stances until legs shook, bone-strengthening herbal baths that tasted like rust, breathing drills that burned the lungs.
Every child in the clan endured this phase before age ten. It was tradition, It was expected. Most children showed early promise: denser bones, quicker reflexes, the faint glow of future qi sensitivity. Haotian showed nothing.
He completed the Body Tempering phase quietly, his body stronger than appearances suggested, but never enough to draw praise. The elders simply nodded and moved on.
At ten, the spiritual roots test arrived. The crystal sphere glowed dimly beneath the elders' hands. No dominant element, muddy, mixed roots. The verdict was short and final:
"Ordinary spiritual roots. No sect potential. Suitable for outer branch duties." The family sighed in relief, another ordinary child meant one less threat to internal balance.
That same night, everything changed forever. In the darkness of the small side courtyard he had been assigned, Lu Haotian's heart stopped. Three full breaths, no pain, no warning.
Only the sensation of being dragged—something ancient and vast reaching into his core and pulling, when his heart stuttered back to life, he did not cry from fear. He screamed because the world had suddenly become transparent. He could feel the thoughts of others, not words, but intent.
Disdain from the elder who had tested him.
Hidden pity from the servant who brought his meals. Quiet calculation from distant cousins who saw him as expendable, something inside him had awakened, something wrong, something that did not belong.
Two years later, at twelve, Lu Haotian sat cross-legged on the thin mat in his sparse room. Three rhythms existed inside him.
His body—forged through six years of mandatory tempering and two more years of secret, relentless training—was dense, resilient, far beyond what any casual inspection would reveal. He had never stopped the childhood drills. He simply did them harder. Longer. Alone.
His qi—deliberately thin, cultivated through the most common family method—flowed without ripple. To any elder or inspector, he remained stuck at early Qi Condensation level 3, slow cultivation pace compared to his mates, barely worth a second glance.
And beneath it all…
His soul, it did not remain confined like everyone else's. It spread outward, silent and invisible, brushing against the world like roots seeking water. He focused, a servant passing outside the courtyard stumbled mid-step, sudden irrational terror blooming in his chest for no reason he could name.
Lu Haotian withdrew his awareness calmly.
"Still imperfect," he whispered.
This was something he had stumbled into.
Two years ago, that afternoon, he had been sent on a routine errand by one of the outer elders—retrieve a forgotten ledger from the old storage room beneath the west wing.
The room was rarely used, its entrance half-hidden behind a collapsed shelf in the unused armory corridor. Most disciples avoided it; the place smelled of rust, mildew, and forgotten time.
Lu Haotian pushed the creaking door open.
Inside, dim spirit lamps flickered weakly, casting long shadows over rows of dusty racks. Weapons lay everywhere—not the polished blades of the main armory, but relics from older eras: cracked spears, rusted sabers, curved daggers with faded runes, even a few strange polearms whose purpose he couldn't guess.
His eyes widened, for once, the dismissed orphan forgot his errand, he stepped deeper.
A short sword with a blackened blade caught his attention first. He lifted it carefully, the weight felt perfect in his hand, he swung it once, twice—slow forms he had practiced in secret. The blade sang through the air, faint sparks of residual qi dancing along the edge.
Next, a pair of throwing knives with serrated edges, he spun one between his fingers, marveling at the balance.
Then a heavy warhammer, its head etched with faint earth runes. He lifted it—too heavy for his twelve-year-old frame—and nearly dropped it. The hammer slipped, the shaft slamming against his shin, pain flared.
He hissed, stumbling backward, gasping.
His right hand shot out instinctively to catch himself, his palm tore open on the jagged, rusted edge of a broken blade construct half-buried under a pile of shattered spear shafts.
A long, ugly gash split the meat of his hand from base of thumb to wrist.
Blood welled instantly, he hissed through clenched teeth, cradling the injured hand.
The pain throbbed, he needed to steady himself. Without thinking, he reached out with his bleeding left hand to brace against the nearest solid surface—a cracked stone slab leaning crookedly against the wall, half-hidden beneath dust and broken weapon fragments. The contact lasted only a heartbeat, but that was enough. A jolt—like lightning made of silence—shot up his arm.
His vision whited out, no pain, no sound.
Only the sensation of being pulled inward.
Something vast and ancient reached into his chest, past flesh, past meridians, past qi, and touched his soul, it did not speak, it imprinted.
Words carved themselves into his sea of consciousness, sharp and unyielding:
"The loyal need no chains, The disloyal need no freedom." Then came the knowledge, not a technique at first, a foundation.
Soul cultivation—raw, unfiltered, dangerous.
The ability to extend perception beyond the body, to see intent before it became action, to feel the fluctuations of loyalty and betrayal in another's soul like ripples on water.
And deeper still—sealed behind the foundation—a second layer, a forbidden imprint. Heavenly Soul Mandate.
A brand that could realign direction, enforce obedience, collapse betrayal from the root of will, but the price was etched alongside the gift: Permanent soul essence consumed with every use. Overuse would erode the self. Domination mistaken for growth would lead to ruin.
The vision ended as abruptly as it began, Lu Haotian staggered away from the slab, his palm was no longer bleeding. The wound had closed—sealed by a faint silver thread of residual qi from the stone itself. He looked down at his hand. Then up at the cracked slab. The words were still visible, barely legible in the dim light: "The loyal need no chains, the disloyal need no freedom." When his fingers touched the stone, his soul nearly shattered. Instead, it adapted, it grew, it learned.
Since that moment, Lu Haotian understood the impossible: He walked three paths at once.
Martial Body Tempering — to anchor flesh to reality. Qi Condensation — to exist within heaven's rules. Soul Cultivation — to step beyond them
Any single path was ordinary. Together, they made him a contradiction the cultivation world had never accounted for. Outside, the clan training grounds buzzed with rumors.
The royal talent assessment would arrive in three years. Sect envoys might descend, Opportunity, Glory, Fate.
Lu Haotian stood among his peers, ignored.
His cultivation reading remained early Qi Condensation, perfect.He memorized every face, the loyal, he greedy.
The ones who would sell their own blood for a single spirit stone. Control did not begin with strength. It began with knowing who would betray you. High above, the clan's ancient protective formations trembled faintly, disturbed by something they could not name.
Deep underground, a forgotten array silently recorded an anomaly. A soul that should not exist. In the darkness of his small room, the orphan boy who had lost everything smiled faintly. He would not announce his existence. He would not raise banners. He would cultivate people. Quietly, patiently, until loyalty was the only path left.