Night cloaked Shang City in a quiet chill, but inside the Zhen Clan residence, the warmth of family was nowhere to be found.
Zhen Zenin returned late from the academy, his robe dusty from sparring, his knuckles bloodied. The other disciples now looked at him with caution—some with admiration, most with suspicion. He had moved too quickly for them to comprehend. Too quickly for his own mother's comfort.
In the main hall, Zhen Mei sipped tea in silence. Opposite her sat Elder Zhen Mo, her distant cousin and a man with questionable loyalty. His fingers tapped the wooden table slowly.
"You've heard the news?" she asked.
Elder Zhen Mo nodded. "The boy's name is everywhere now. Qi Gathering at his age, with no prior signs of talent? Strange."
"Strange things must be crushed before they become dangerous," Zhen Mei whispered, her tone devoid of any maternal warmth.
"Are you asking for a silent end?" Mo inquired, lifting an eyebrow.
She didn't answer directly. Instead, she pushed a red envelope across the table. It was thick—brimming with spirit stones.
"This is not yet for his death," she said coldly. "Just... to clip his wings before he tries to fly."
Zenin, oblivious to the plotting, sat cross-legged in his courtyard, absorbing Qi under the silver moonlight. Each breath deepened his control. He could feel the limit of the Qi Gathering Realm inching closer. His body, once frail, was now a weapon being forged through intent and pain.
Suddenly, a shadow flitted past the wall.
He didn't move.
The assassin was light-footed—skilled. But Zenin had once taught kings of killers in the Thirteen Hells. This was nothing.
As the blade flashed toward his back, Zenin ducked, twisted, and struck with brutal precision. The assassin's arm cracked, and with a gasp, he fell.
Zenin pressed his foot to the man's throat. "Who sent you?"
The assassin only trembled.
Zenin didn't wait for answers. He knocked the man unconscious and tossed his body in the koi pond.
"First warning," Zenin muttered.
Then, he stared toward the clan estate's main building. His eyes were like blades.
> "The deeper the roots of betrayal, the quieter its beginning."
He would let them come. He would let them believe he was still vulnerable.
Then—he would break them all.
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