Morning came with the clang of wooden swords and shouting in the Zhen Clan's training courtyard. Dozens of outer disciples lined up, performing drills under the eyes of the clan elders.
Zhen Zenin stood at the far end, dressed in tattered robes. His place was always at the edge—ignored, ridiculed, forgotten.
"Why is he even here?" one disciple sneered. "He doesn't even have qi."
Zenin said nothing.
He tightened his grip on the wooden sword. The weight felt light. Too light. Ever since opening his first meridian, his senses were sharper. His grip steadier. Strength flowed through his limbs in a way he hadn't felt in this life before.
Today was sparring day. Normally, he was skipped.
Not today.
"Zhen Bo! Step forward!" an elder called. "Face Zhen Zenin."
The crowd snickered. Zhen Bo—the same boy Zenin had slapped—grinned with satisfaction.
"I'll break your legs in front of everyone," Bo whispered as they took their places.
Zenin's eyes didn't blink. "Try."
The elder called out: "Begin!"
Bo lunged, fast and wild, using flashy moves with no control. He swung his blade downward—
Zenin sidestepped effortlessly.
One strike. Swift. Silent.
His wooden sword smacked Bo's ribs, sending him sprawling across the courtyard.
Gasps echoed.
Bo rose, red-faced, charging again with a roar.
Zenin met his blade with a sidestep, twisted, and slammed his fist into Bo's gut, then his shoulder, then flipped him flat on his back.
Thud.
Silence.
The elder blinked. "Winner… Zhen Zenin."
Everyone stared in disbelief.
The clan had called him trash for years—now, he had dismantled a stronger outer disciple with clean, precise blows.
Zenin bowed calmly. Inside, he was smiling.
"This is only the beginning," he thought. "I was once a god of war. This world has no idea what's coming."
From the side, an elder in black robes narrowed his eyes, watching Zenin with newfound interest.
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