The Chu mansion was lively again. General Chu's household bustled with activity, servants rushing about in preparation for their master's return from the capital.
Among them walked Lian, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of hidden iron bands. His steps were steady but slow, each movement deliberate. To the eyes of others, he was simply clumsy—an incompetent boy who could barely carry out his duties.
And that was exactly what he wanted them to believe.
"Lian!" a servant barked. "Hurry with the firewood. Are you daydreaming again?"
"Yes," Lian answered softly, bowing his head. He bent to gather the wood, his arms trembling under the double strain of weight and labor.
Several servants snickered nearby. One whispered, "Look at him. Can't even lift a bundle of sticks without shaking."
Another replied, "Pathetic. A disgrace even for a servant."
Their laughter echoed in his ears, but Lian's face remained calm, almost expressionless.
Inside, however, a cold fire burned.
Mock me. Spit on me. Kick me like a dog. The longer you believe I am weak, the easier it will be to bury you all beneath my strength when the time comes.
That afternoon, the sound of clashing wood filled the training yard. Chu Feng, clad in fine robes, practiced under the watchful eye of a family instructor. His sword cut the air with sharp precision, each strike followed by the instructor's loud praise.
"Excellent, Young Master! Your form improves by the day. Soon, you'll rival your father's might."
The servants gathered to watch, murmuring admiration. Some even clapped.
Lian approached quietly with a tray of water and towels. He knelt and presented them with lowered eyes.
Chu Feng snatched the towel without so much as a glance. "Step aside, trash."
The words cut deeper than the towel's rough cloth. Yet Lian only bowed lower. "Yes, Young Master."
Around him, the servants smirked. To them, it was the natural order of things—the heir shining in the spotlight, and the servant crawling in the shadows.
But behind lowered lashes, Lian's eyes flickered.
Enjoy your praise, Feng. Revel in it. For every drop of glory you bask in, I will turn it into the blade that cuts your future to pieces.
He turned, carrying the empty tray back to the servants' quarters, his steps slow, his posture submissive.
But beneath the mask of weakness, iron weighed down his limbs, Qi coursed steadily through his dantian, and an unyielding will carved itself deeper into his bones.
The world saw a servant.
But in truth, a predator was sharpening his fangs in silence.
End of Chapter 8.