Seven Years Later: Divine Bird City
In the center of a quiet courtyard, a figure stood motionless before a towering stone statue. At barely fourteen, his tall frame already bore the leanness of constant toil, clad in clothes frayed and worn thin by time. Short, untamed black hair framed his youthful face, but his azure eyes were heavy with melancholy. He kept looking up at the statue, as though searching for answers he feared he would never find.
The five-meter statue loomed over the courtyard, every detail carefully carved. It depicted a man remembered throughout the city for his strength and valor.
Clad in majestic armor, the stone warrior exuded a sense of absolute power and iron determination. Its hands rested heavily atop a massive sword, the tip of the blade seemingly rooted deep into the earth. From the statue's back, two magnificent phoenix wings unfurled; their sculpted feathers, sharp as blades, cast a long, protective shadow over the boy who stood below.
For Feng Luotian, the statue was more than a tribute. It was a legacy—a cold, towering reminder of the man his father had been.
He stared upward, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Beneath the rough bandages swathing his hands, his fingers curled into trembling fists.
I promised to protect them all, he thought, the words a bitter ache in his chest. But how can I protect anyone… when I can't even protect myself?
The Will to Protect had once given him a purpose. Now, the words rang hollow, a promise that felt harder to keep with each passing day.
Feng Luotian remained rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on the silent statue as the courtyard shadows lengthened around him.
"Brother Feng!"
The voice pierced the stillness, a sudden intrusion that made him flinch, though he didn't pull away.
The shout came again, louder this time, followed by a heavy palm slamming onto his shoulder. "Hey! Brother Feng! Wake up!"
Feng Luotian slowly came back to himself and turned toward the anxious boy beside him.
"You need to start moving," his friend hissed, his voice low and urgent. "Teacher Shu is looking this way. If he catches you daydreaming again, he's going to skin us both alive."
His attention returned to the dust and grunts of the training field. They stood among rows of students, all tasked with the grueling repetition of hand-to-hand combat. Today was a practical session—a day for sweat, bruised knuckles, and the sharp, watchful eye of their instructor.
"I know, Wuji," Feng Luotian replied. His voice was calm but distant, his attention still elsewhere.
What's the point? he thought bitterly, his gaze dropping to the rough linen wrapping his knuckles. No matter how much blood I pour into this dirt, it won't change the truth. I'm a cripple.
Sun Wuji, standing a head shorter with a mop of chestnut-brown hair, watched him with amber eyes that radiated a stubborn sort of worry. Despite his slight frame, Wuji possessed a resolve that usually kept them both out of trouble.
"What's the point of any of this if my body won't follow?" Luotian muttered, lifting his bandaged hands.
Wuji winced at the sight, but he forced a lopsided grin. "Just play along with Teacher Shu's drill for now. We can do it your way once he's gone, alright? Just... stay with me here."
Luotian let out a long, weary sigh and gave a stiff nod. "Fine."
He fell into a combat stance, squaring up against Wuji as the instructor had ordered. But as their fists began to blur in the opening movements of the spar, his mind remained trapped behind the stone eyes of the statue.
In just a few exchanges, Luotian's focus splintered.
A sudden sweep of legs, a rush of air—thud.
Wuji flipped him effortlessly, sending him sprawling into the dirt. The younger boy chuckled, extending a hand to pull him up. "What's gotten into you today, Brother Feng? Did you skip breakfast?"
Luotian ignored the offered hand. He remained on his back, staring blankly at the vast, uncaring sky. "No," he muttered. "It's not that. I just..."
He sighed, worn down by so many failed attempts. "Even if I train ten thousand times harder, it won't matter. Not until I overcome this... this condition. You know as well as I do, Wuji. I'm a cripple."
Wuji's smile faltered. He looked down at his friend, the playful spark in his eyes dying out, replaced by a helpless silence.
Why can't they understand? Luotian's thoughts turned like rusted gears. I'm not like them. I can't just sweat my way to greatness.
His words hung in the air. Feng Luotian could not draw on the elements or cultivate. The path everyone around him followed remained closed to him. To the "True Cultivators", he was little more than a commoner.
Though it was remarkable that Feng Luotian could defeat some cultivators in hand-to-hand combat, the feat only underscored his tragic reality: beyond his raw physicality, he had no way to rise above the ordinary.
The people of this realm were divided into two types: commoners and cultivators.
Cultivators possessed the ability to channel the energy within their bodies, wielding it as a weapon in battle and a tool in life. Commoners, by contrast, were bound to the mundane, powerless to manipulate the energy coursing through the world. Without that vital gift, Feng Luotian was simply another face in the crowd, a commoner adrift in a world where strength was the only law.
"Don't give me that crap again, Brother Feng!" Wuji's voice sliced through Luotian's spiraling thoughts. He furrowed his brows, catching his friend's hand and yanking him to his feet with a surge of stubborn strength. "We've talked about this. You will awaken your bloodline one day. I know it."
I have to believe that, Wuji thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. For all of our sakes.
Before Luotian could muster a reply, a drawling, scornful voice cut across the field.
"Right, right! Just as Little Sun says—you'll awaken and ascend to become a One Fang Fighter… in your next life, perhaps. Hah!"
The speaker was a tall, imposing youth who moved with the effortless arrogance of the high-born. Long, blood-red hair cascaded down his back like a river of flame, framing a face dominated by eyes so sharp they seemed capable of shearing through steel. His silken attire, crisp and spotless, stood in mocking contrast to Luotian's tattered rags.
Ying Lizhua's laughter rang out, cold and thin. "You're nothing but a walking reminder of what I refuse to be: a failure."
For a fleeting second, the cruel curve of Lizhua's lips twitched, and a shadow of something—not scorn, but a raw, hidden conflict—flickered in his gaze. But as quickly as it appeared, it was buried beneath a fresh layer of disdain.
Wuji's eyes flashed with fury, his small frame tensing as he prepared to bark back at the newcomer. But before he could draw breath, a sharp, melodic voice lashed out like a whip.
"Quiet, Ying Lizhua! No one will take you for a mute if you simply keep your mouth shut."
A girl strode toward them, her words cutting through Lizhua's arrogance like a blade through silk. Ignoring him entirely, she turned to Luotian, her sharp expression melting into one of visible concern.
"Are you alright, Luotian?" she asked, her voice softening into a gentle murmur.
She stood out in the crowded field. Emerald highlights shimmered at the ends of her dark brown hair, and her deep green eyes searched his face. Her jade and white silk dress swayed with her light, graceful movements.
With her clear complexion and delicate features, Mei Yue'er was known throughout Divine Bird City as Goddess Mei. Her beauty had made her the idol of an entire generation.
Mei Yue'er's arrival did nothing to stop Ying Lizhua's mockery. His smirk only widened as she turned her attention to Luotian.
Lizhua wasn't just another student at the pre-school—he was its undisputed peak.
His reputation was built on more than just high scores; he was celebrated as the youngest individual in the history of Divine Bird City to ever awaken his bloodline. While those with potential typically awakened around the age of twelve, Lizhua had shattered that standard by achieving the feat at the astonishing age of nine.
It was a feat that had earned him the singular title of:
[The Greatest Genius]
The irony was a bitter pill to swallow: these four—Luotian, Mei Yue'er, Sun Wuji, and Ying Lizhua—had once been inseparable. As sworn siblings, Feng Luotian had stood at their center, the confident "Big Brother" who led them through the adventures of their youth.
But their easy companionship had not lasted.
Since Ying Lizhua was crowned [The Greatest Genius], he had grown distant. His ambitions reached far beyond Divine Bird City, toward the pinnacle of the Ancestral Cloud Continent. The four no longer spent their days together as they once had.
At fourteen, with his bloodline still dormant, Luotian remained the only one unable to cultivate. Mei Yue'er had awakened at ten and Wuji at eleven. Beside them, his years of training had earned him only the name "cripple."
Lizhua had distanced himself to focus on his ascent, yet he couldn't seem to walk away entirely. For reasons known only to him, he returned again and again to taunt Luotian. Strangely, Luotian never struck back. He met every insult with a hollow indifference that frustrated his friends as much as his enemies.
Wuji and Mei Yue'er, however, refused to let the fire die. They remained rooted at Luotian's side, acting as a living shield whenever Lizhua's taunts turned from sharp to cruel.
Predictably, the familiar dance began once more.
"Ah, the babysitter arrives," Ying Lizhua sneered, his crimson gaze shifting to Mei Yue'er. "You know, if you spent half as much time cultivating as you do coddling him, you might have surpassed me by now. You'd be standing at the peak of this academy."
Despite his arrogance, Lizhua harbored a begrudging respect for the girl before him. Her potential was a mirror to his own, and though he would never breathe the words aloud, he craved the challenge she provided.
Seeing her spend so much time looking after Luotian seemed to annoy him even more.
"So, a word of advice," he continued, his voice turning icy. "Mind your own path, Yue'er, and stop playing maid to this TRASH."
"You—!" Yue'er's emerald eyes ignited with a cold fury. Her knuckles turned white, her entire frame trembling with the urge to strike. Anger replaced the concern on her face.
She surged forward, but before she could launch a strike, a hand came to rest gently upon her shoulder. The touch was light, yet it stopped her dead in her tracks.
"Yue'er, enough. It's fine," Feng Luotian said. His voice remained soft as he tried to calm her.
Instead of showing a shred of gratitude for the de-escalation, Ying Lizhua found fresh fuel for his fire.
"Right, right! Listen to the man, Little Mei!" Lizhua's voice dripped with a mocking, exaggerated reverence. "After all, we must show respect to the great... God's... Crippled... Son."
The air in the courtyard seemed to freeze. The name was a slur usually only whispered in the darkest corners of Divine Bird City. To hurl it directly at Luotian's face was a declaration of war.
A violent surge of emerald energy erupted from Mei Yue'er, the sheer pressure kicking up a cloud of dust around her boots. "Ying Lizhua, you bastard!" she screamed, her voice cracking with the force of her aura.
Wuji was no slower. His own energy flared—a stubborn, golden glow—as he stepped forward, fists white-knuckled and ready to pummel Lizhua's smirk into the dirt.
"Wuji! Yue'er!"
Luotian's voice wasn't loud, but it held a strange, immovable authority that cut through the roaring energy of his friends. His hand remained firm on Yue'er's shoulder, holding her in place. "It's fine. Truly. Let it go."
The two halted, their momentum dying with agonizing reluctance. They stood trembling, still furious despite his efforts to calm them.
The suffocating tension was broken not by a strike, but by a dry, paper-thin cough. Simultaneously, a heavy, invisible pressure settled over the group, pinning their shoulders down like leaden weights.
"Ahem. I take it you've all finished your drills early?"
The aged voice sent a collective shiver through the youths. Their bravado evaporated instantly, replaced by the cold realization that disaster had arrived. Turning toward the source, they found an old man leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick, his sharp, hawklike eyes boring into them with utter disapproval.
"Teacher Shu!" Ying Lizhua was the first to scramble for an excuse, his arrogance vanishing in the face of true authority. "We were merely… exchanging viewpoints on the finer points of hand-to-hand combat. We were just about to restart."
Teacher Shu's lips curled into a faint, sardonic sliver of a smile. "Heh. Too late."
Before a single one of them could blink, the walking stick blurred.
Each of them received a lightning-fast poke to the forehead. They staggered back, wincing in unison as small, angry welts rose—swelling into red lumps that looked absurdly like little meat buns. Tears of involuntary pain pricked at their eyes as they clutched their brows.
The surrounding students, who had been watching the drama with bated breath, suddenly erupted into a chorus of laughter that echoed across the dusty training field.