The morning sun cast its golden rays over the village square, where the annual Gathering of the Four Clans was already underway. Colorful banners representing each of the village's ancient bloodlines—the Li, Zhao, Chen, and Wu Clans—fluttered in the breeze. Elders stood on raised platforms, speaking solemnly of tradition, unity, and strength, while disciples from each family showcased their cultivation, formations, and martial prowess in a series of carefully arranged demonstrations.
Yet beneath the surface of celebration, tension lingered.
Whispers rippled through the crowds. The recent visit from the Iron Wind Sect's emissary had stirred more than just curiosity. Many had seen the sect's presence as an omen—an indication that change was coming to the village. The emissary, had left shortly after completing his evaluation rounds, departing the village with little ceremony. What he left behind, however, was a storm of rumors and speculation.
"Did he find what he came for?" some asked. "Why was he so interested in the younger generation's spiritual roots?"
The central pavilion of Greenleaf Village was abuzz with murmurs as the four clans gathered beneath its curved jade-tiled roof. Decorative lanterns flickered gently in the breeze, casting dancing shadows over the stone floor. At the head of the hall sat the patriarchs of the four great clans: Zhao, Han, Wei, and Li.
Li Wuqing sat in dignified silence, his posture straight, hands folded over his cane—not out of weakness, but as a symbol of restraint. His hair was silvered at the temples, and his eyes held the sharp clarity of a man who had seen too many seasons to be easily swayed. Dressed in simple but well-tailored robes of midnight blue embroidered with silver cloud patterns, he looked more like a scholar than a warrior—but no one in the village dared mistake him for soft.
Across from him, Zhao Ruijin, head of the Zhao Clan, leaned forward with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Patriarch Li, surely you've heard the rumors. Your grandson, the disgraced one—Li Xuan, wasn't it?—was sighted near the eastern forest. Dangerous times, are they not?"
A few heads turned toward Li Wuqing, waiting for a reaction.
The old patriarch did not blink. "Rumors are the currency of the weak," he replied, his voice calm but edged with iron. "Until proven, they are less than wind. My concern is for the well-being of the village and the future of our youth. Shall we return to matters of substance?"
Han Qian, head of the Han Clan, chuckled, breaking the tension. "Wuqing has always had a tongue as sharp as his blade. Zhao Ruijin, let's not provoke ghosts that may not exist."
Zhao's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more.
Li Wuqing continued, "The disciple from the Iron Wind Sect has left, taking their evaluation of our young cultivators with them. I expect we'll hear more in the coming weeks. As for other things —my clan's affairs are our own."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression then, so brief it was easy to miss. He knew Li Xioran had been considering accessing the ancestral vault—but whether she had made her move, he had not yet confirmed.
Wei Lan, matriarch of the Wei Clan, nodded politely. "We too have heard whispers. But for now, the youth are safe, and the sect's eyes have turned away. Let us hope it stays that way."
Li Wuqing inclined his head. "Hope is not a strategy. Preparation is."
Amid the festivities, one figure stood quietly at the edge of the crowd—Li Xioran.
Draped in a pale-blue robe embroidered with cranes and moons, she watched the gathering with calm eyes that missed little. Her presence was understated but powerful. Several clan elders had already noted how she had matured in recent months—her poise, her quiet determination. Some said she reminded them of her father, Li Zheng, before the troubles began.
But few knew that Li Xioran's heart was heavy with a decision.
She had been visiting the ancestral vaults in secret, drawn to them by more than curiosity. She had discovered scrolls left by her brother—carefully hidden, wrapped in cloth, and protected by a spiritual seal only she could open. In them, Li Xuan had written of ancient techniques and hidden truths he had uncovered before his exile. He was not a traitor of the clan—he had been betrayed.
Now, standing at the edge of the square, Li Xioran looked toward the path that led toward the mountains. She had made her decision.
She would enter the vault. She would uncover the truth of her brother's legacy and train in secret. If the Iron Wind Sect ever returned, or if her brother ever resurfaced, she would be ready.
As the crowd applauded a dazzling sword display from the Zhao Clan's top disciple, Li Xioran slipped away unnoticed. The Gathering would continue without her.
Her true journey was just beginning.
The passage to the vault lay hidden behind the statue of the first patriarch, a long-forgotten mechanism activated only by bloodline qi. As Li Xioran pressed her palm against the weathered stone, the carvings shimmered faintly before sliding open with a low rumble.
A wave of stale, ancient air met her, carrying with it the scent of dust, old talismans, and something older—power sealed away through generations.
She stepped into the darkness, her spiritual lantern flaring to life in her hand. The walls were lined with stone shelves, jade boxes, and scroll tubes. Most were inert, sealed behind family wards. But she wasn't here for them.
Her fingers brushed a particular alcove, and a gentle warmth pulsed in response—her brother's seal. It unraveled like water when she channeled a thread of her qi into it. The cloth-wrapped bundle within was untouched, just as she had left it. She unrolled the scrolls with reverence.
Li Xuan's handwriting was neat, steady. The first scroll spoke of foundational philosophy—the Nine Heavens Moon Sect, their moon-based cultivation principles, and a theory of dual-path cultivation that fused internal strength with spiritual resonance. The next outlined incomplete techniques and warnings: enemies within the clan, signs of sabotage in his records, and a final, chilling note:
> "Xioran, if you are reading this… I may not return. But the truth is here, and so is a path—one that they will never offer you. Train in silence. Rise in shadow. The Moon watches us both."
Her eyes burned with emotion, but her voice was steady as she whispered to the darkness, "I will honor you, Brother."
She sat cross-legged before the vault's altar, closed her eyes, and began the first breathing technique—Silent Moon Breathing, drawn from Li Xuan's fragments and her own intuition. It resonated with her perfectly. The qi stirred, coiled, then flowed through her meridians like liquid silver.
Hours passed unnoticed.
Outside, the gathering celebrated false peace. Inside the vault, a new cultivator was being born—not for glory, but for justice.
Li Xioran's journey had begun not with a spark of talent, but with the weight of memory and the fire of truth.
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