Han Lei spoke without hesitation, recounting the details of his time in the sect. Missions against rival factions, bloody duels with other sect disciples, even the dangerous task assigned to him only months prior—to eliminate a nest of demonic cultivators. His tone was steady, but the fire in his eyes revealed the pride he held for succeeding where so many others would have failed.
Lu Zhenhai listened with the patience of a seasoned warrior. Every so often he interjected, correcting a flaw in Han Lei's tactics, or pointing out a lesson hidden within the boy's experience. When Han Lei finally finished, the elder nodded, satisfied.
"You've grown well, Lei. Stronger than most your age. Your father would have been proud. That will do for the day. Go—check on your mother and sister. We can continue this another time."
But Han Lei did not move. He sat there, unmoving, his eyes fixed on the floor for a long moment before lifting them toward his uncle.
"Uncle Lu," he said quietly, though there was iron in his voice, "you know that Father took me in when I was around five… and taught me himself. I want to know why. Did he do it because of my talent… or because he truly saw something in me?"
The air in the room grew heavy. Lu Zhenhai did not answer immediately. Instead, silence stretched, thick and suffocating. His gaze lingered on Han Lei, the boy's sharp green eyes so much like his father's, yet so different in their softness.
He sighed deeply. "I knew this question would come one day. And I suppose… I can no longer avoid it."
Han Lei's brow furrowed, confusion sparking in his eyes.
"No, Lei. Your father did not take you in because of your talent. If all he wanted was a prodigy, he could have given that attention to your sister. Han Yi's talent mirrors yours—equal in every way. So, no. That was never the reason. But…" He paused, his voice heavy. "…even saying he 'took you in' is wrong. What he did was… return you to where you were supposed to be."
Han Lei's confusion deepened. "What do you mean?"
Lu Zhenhai's gaze hardened, as though bracing himself against something old and painful.
"Your father… was a complicated man. I was his sworn brother, fought beside him, nearly died with him more times than I can count. Yet even I could never fully grasp him. He struggled with emotions—he never knew how to heal wounds of the heart, never knew how to show warmth. And because of that, he carried regrets."
Han Lei stayed silent, his fists tightening in his lap.
"The best example was your deceased brother, Han Yu," Zhenhai continued, his voice low. "Zhennan was too harsh with him, too cold. Perhaps he thought it would make the boy stronger, more self-reliant, because he knew Han Yu's life would be hard with such limited talent. But in truth… I think it was one of his greatest regrets. He could not save Han Yu from that path, no matter how hard he tried. And when death finally took him, I saw something in Zhennan I'd rarely seen before—grief. True, unrestrained grief."
Zhenhai's eyes softened as he looked back at Han Lei. "But even that was not the deepest I had seen him crack. The moment I saw the most emotion on his face—the moment he became almost human again—was the last time he spoke with you. Rage, sorrow, guilt, regret… all tangled in his eyes that moment was when every guilt of his every regret replayed on his mind. And the second most regret I ever saw him bear…"
Zhenhai's words faltered. He closed his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself before revealing something long buried. "…was when we found you."
Han Lei froze. His pulse quickened, though he didn't understand why.
"What… do you mean, found me?"
Zhenhai exhaled slowly. The weight of decades seemed to press against his shoulders.
"For this to make sense… I must tell you of the past. Of a time before you were brought back by your father… before you were even born."
Lu Zhenhai's voice carried the weight of memory, his laughter fading into something softer as he leaned back, eyes narrowing as if he could still see the past.
Lu Zhenhai's voice carried a weight of memory, his laughter fading into something softer, something Lei had never heard from the dean before.
"I met your father when we were around the age of eleven or twelve in an institute run by a man who stood as an equal to both my father and Han Zhennan's. His name was He Jian, and his daughter, He Ruying, studied alongside us. Zhennan quickly rose in fame because of his skill and intelligence. He was a fast learner, one who polished everything he touched until it gleamed. I, on the other hand, was more laid back, but I wasn't any weaker than your father.
"Our battle styles couldn't have been more different. I always preferred to keep my distance, weaving my strikes from afar, while your father thrived in the storm of close combat. Naturally, that made us rivals. And from what I came to understand later… your father used me as a training puppet to sharpen his ability against long-range cultivators."
Lu Zhenhai chuckled again, shaking his head. For the first time, Lei saw the man smile without restraint, as though time had stripped away his stern exterior and left only the boy he once was.
"But rivalry is a strange thing. It pushes you, tests you, but if it doesn't break you, it binds you. Slowly, we grew closer. He became casual with me, told me things about his life that he never shared with anyone else. And it was then I understood what kind of world had shaped Han Zhennan."
The dean's voice trailed, his eyes distant.
And as Lei listened, the world blurred into another time.
---
The courtyard was dim even under daylight, for the tall, weathered walls of the Han estate allowed only narrow shafts of sun to strike the stone floor. A boy no older than ten stood in the center, his small hands gripping a wooden sword slick with sweat.
His arms trembled, his breath came ragged, but his eyes—dark and cold—never wavered.
Across from him loomed a man clad in a plain yet imposing robe, his presence more suffocating than the heat of noon. Han Zhenwu, patriarch of the Han family, stared at his son without a shred of warmth.
"Again," he commanded.
The boy raised his sword and slashed. His movements were precise, but there was no strength left in his frail limbs. The wooden blade quivered mid-swing, faltering before it even completed its arc.
"Pathetic," Han Zhenwu's voice cut like a blade. "You are a son of the Han family, and this is all you can muster?"
Zhennan clenched his teeth, forcing his body upright. His chest heaved as he lifted the sword again, every muscle screaming, every bone begging for rest. Yet still he moved.
"Again."
The boy slashed. Once. Twice. Ten times. Thirty. His vision blurred, his breath tore at his lungs, but he continued, his small body trembling like a bowstring stretched to breaking.
At last, the blade slipped from his hand, clattering against the stone. His knees buckled, and he collapsed, his palms scraping raw against the ground.
His father's footsteps echoed as he approached. Not hurried, not angry—measured, unyielding. Han Zhenwu looked down upon his son with eyes like iron.
"You will not live as other children live," he said coldly. "No games. No idle days. You were born with a mind sharper than most, with talent that shames your elders. That talent is not yours to squander. It belongs to this family."
Zhennan lifted his gaze. His young face was streaked with sweat and dust, but there was no rebellion in his expression—only that same, unyielding apathy, as though he had already learned the futility of tears.
"Do you understand, Zhennan?"
"Yes, Father," the boy whispered, his voice hoarse.
Han Zhenwu crouched, his shadow falling over the boy like a mantle. His hand, heavy and calloused, pressed against his son's thin shoulder.
"This pain you feel is nothing. I am forging you for the future. One day, the burden of the Han family will rest upon you, and weakness will not be forgiven—not by the world, not by fate, not even by your own kin. You will carry us forward, or you will die trying same i am carrying us and the same way i am willing to die while to achieve our goal,we will get our prestige and our dominance back remember that son."
He straightened, his hand leaving as abruptly as it came.
"Now stand. Pick up the sword. Again."
Zhennan forced his trembling body upright. He staggered to the blade, lifted it with both hands, and once more began to swing. His eyes, even then, reflected no light—only a still, cold emptiness that mirrored his father's command: endure, or break.
---
Lu Zhenhai's voice returned, pulling Lei out of the vision of the past.
"That was his life," he said quietly. "Day after day, nothing but eat, train, and sleep. He was forged like steel, beaten until there was no softness left in him. When we met at the institute, he already carried that cold look in his eyes—the look of someone who had been denied a childhood. But even then, beneath all that harshness, I sometimes wondered if he longed for something else. Something freer. Something warmer."
The dean sighed, his smile fading into something almost bittersweet.
"And perhaps… that is why he allowed me to become his rival, and later, his friend."