The rhythm of wheels crushing gravel still echoed in his ears, and the candlelight in the carriage flickered. Lin Yuan leaned against the side rail, eyes closed, letting his thoughts slip through the cracks back to the Yun family. The scene of parting was still fresh, but older memories, like the rings of an old tree, overlapped one by one—the days of being mocked, looked down upon, treated as an outsider—like a thin mist that refused to disperse, clinging to every morning he awoke.
He remembered the first time, as a child, when he stumbled while learning to walk. The laughter he heard was not encouragement from companions, but the mocking of a direct-born young master: "Children of the Yun family aren't this clumsy." Back then, Lin Yuan didn't understand the weight of those words; he only felt something push him away, leaving a hollow in his heart. It wasn't until later that he realized that laugh was not a moment's slip, but a default ranking—outsiders were always one level lower.
In the Yun family, rank decided everything. The smiles of the direct line carried a halo; even the passing of cups could draw the elders' attention. An adopted orphan, however, served food, swept floors, tended the stove—no matter how neatly dressed, he could never take a seat at the main table. The unspoken rules outside of etiquette pressed his presence thinner each day: in the idle chats of his peers, he was often used as a punchline, long stories shortened into "the adopted child is rather amusing." Every word was like a knife, grinding against the heart.
He remembered that Mid-Autumn Festival when the Yun family held a grand offering, the banquet filling the entire hall. The table was laden with luxurious dishes, lanterns shone like daylight, and everyone raised their cups in merriment. Lin Yuan was arranged in a corner of the lower hall. Just as he raised a bowl of soup, he heard someone whisper not far away: "I heard that orphan is only here because the family head had a moment of kindness—how could he ever compare to my family's sons?" The tone was full of contempt, the laughter like icy needles piercing his eardrums. Heat rose to his face; he wished to smash the bowl, yet could only swallow that mouthful of soup and place the bowl back on the table without changing expression. Beside him, Su Yan glanced at him, something indescribably pained in her eyes. She did not speak up for him in public, but when she turned back, she quietly held his hand. That touch was firmer than a thousand words.
Under the family's admonitions, he learned to suppress anger and hide his pride. The elders of the Yun family often taught him, "Be low-key in conduct, keep your cultivation restrained." These were good words in theory, but in the insincere gazes he met, kindness to him was just a mask: "Don't let them see your weakness." So he buried his face under the cold lamp of the training room, practicing one more round of forms at night than others, rising one incense-stick earlier than others at dawn, repeating those tedious yet necessary movements. Sweat ground his pride bit by bit into something harder—part blade, part armor.
Mockery did not come only from peers; sometimes it came from an elder's careless joke. Among the Yun family was a young master named Yun Zhuo—clever in talent, arrogant in nature—who often used cutting ridicule to torment others in public. Lin Yuan remembered once when Yun Zhuo brought several friends to his training yard. Seeing him practice on a worn-out sandbag, Yun Zhuo deliberately mimicked his movements—exaggerated, crude, ridiculous. The onlookers burst into laughter, and even some elders pulled at the corners of their mouths. In that moment, Lin Yuan's chest felt gripped tight, but he held back his tears. He didn't argue; he only lowered his head and trained harder. Blisters rose on his fingers, blood seeped into his nails. He knew that if he struck back, they would call him overreaching; silence, at least then, was the best rebuttal.
Even if met with cold ridicule, he had no path of retreat. Though the Yun family regarded him as an outsider, they still kept a bottom line of protection: they gave him a title, a place to live, a chance to study. More often, he was treated as a symbol of the family's "charity"—bright on the surface, shadowed by endless whispers behind his back. In that thin world, the presence of a beautiful face became his softest refuge. Su Yan was unlike the others who mocked him. When he was hurt, she quietly passed him a cup of water or left a warm meal waiting. She spoke little, but each time their eyes met, he could see an unshakable conviction within hers: When you become strong, I will be here.
Over the years, he had grown accustomed to treating pain as a whetstone for his sword, persistent without pause. In the still of the night, when only the wind and the occasional bark of a distant dog filled the Yun family's courtyards, he would sit cross-legged on the wooden platform beside the old well, pushing every drop of spiritual energy he could muster. His spiritual energy was not abundant—when he began, he wavered only between the first and third stages of Qi Refining—and each failed attempt at condensation was as cold as autumn dew, chilling him to the bone. Yet he bore no resentment toward heaven or others, only repeated motions and an unyielding will to climb upward: to grow stronger, for no other reason than to give peace to the one whose gaze once held pity for him.
Sometimes, he would strike back in small ways—not with violence, but with wit that made his taunters feel shame. Once, Yun Zhuo boasted in the family academy about the superiority of the Soaring Step secret technique, his tone laced with mockery and scorn. Lin Yuan did not challenge him openly. Instead, he spent nights secretly reading ancient scrolls in the library, studying without rest. In the end, during a family demonstration, he paired a self-created footwork with his fists to meet and counter a small test Yun Zhuo had set for him. The moment he stood firm, the entire hall fell silent, followed by low murmurs. Though he did not celebrate openly, that small victory was like a fire, warming him and adding a trace of thoughtfulness to the eyes that had once mocked him.
The days of being the family's laughingstock forged his composure and meticulousness. He learned to turn hatred into power for his training, and humiliation into motivation for studying scriptures. More important was the ever-clearer belief that formed within him: protection. Not merely for revenge, but to ensure that those he loved would never be hurt. Every mockery hammered this belief harder, making it steel.
He also saw that behind the halo of others lay unspoken hardships. The Yun family's direct descendants were not entirely lofty; many bore the weight and shackles of family expectations. Because of this, Lin Yuan learned sympathy and understanding—learned when to extend a hand rather than respond with coldness. He understood that a true strong man did not rise by stepping on others' shoulders, but by leaving his own shoulders for others to lean on.
These were his memories of the Su family. These fragmented recollections were like stars scattered in the night sky—small, yet guiding the traveler through darkness. Sitting quietly in the carriage, Lin Yuan felt a complex weight in his chest: a mix of tender pain from youth and the steel resolve forged by hardship. His hands clenched unconsciously, the black jade beneath his robe faintly warming, as if answering these old wounds: The you of the past endured all this, and because of it, you are more worthy of bearing the future.
Outside, the moonlight was like flowing water. A breeze swept past his ear, like a distant horn call. The mountain road wind was cool, but it could not take away the heat in his heart. Deep inside, Lin Yuan once more recited his vow: When I return stronger, no one will dare look down on me again; when I have the strength, I will turn past humiliation into a shield to protect everyone.
The carriage and horses continued onward under the moonlight. Far away, the Tianxuan Sect loomed faintly beyond the mountain silhouettes. There awaited new contests, new mockery, and new trials. But Lin Yuan knew the true battle was not against the gaze of others—it was against the scar within his own heart. He would treat the marks of the past as the whetstone within the scabbard, sharpening himself bit by bit until his sword could reflect the smile of the one he sought to protect.