Chapter 2 : Blood in Hand
The corpse lay cooling at Lin Feng's feet. The stench of iron filled the air, mingling with smoke and ash. His hands shook violently as he gripped the assassin's sword, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The broken shard of his father's spear had been stained with his first kill, and though the assassin was dead, the echo of his strike lingered within Lin Feng's bones.
It wasn't just fear. It was something else. A rhythm. A pulse. A whisper hidden in the depths of his blood.
His father had often told him that the Lin bloodline carried the echoes of ancient beasts—untamed, unyielding, unstoppable. Lin Feng had never believed it. Not fully. Until now.
He wiped his trembling hands on his torn robe, smearing more blood than he cleaned. He looked toward the horizon. Dawn had already burned away the last veil of night, casting the ruins of the Lin Clan in cruel light. Everything lay bare—bones, fire, and memories.
His throat tightened. If he stayed here, more assassins would come. He knew the Mo Clan, the Heavenly Star Sect, and the other scavengers would not leave until his corpse was displayed as proof of the Lin's extinction.
He had no choice but to leave.
But where?
Lin Feng glanced around the ruins, forcing himself to focus. His body screamed for rest, his wounds burned, and his hunger gnawed like a beast inside him. Yet survival demanded clarity.
The assassin's corpse carried a small pouch at his waist. With trembling fingers, Lin Feng pulled it free. It jingled faintly with the weight of spirit stones and medicinal herbs. Inside he found:
Five low-grade spirit stones—currency of cultivators, each containing condensed spiritual energy.
Two Blood-Recovery Pills, crimson and bitter-scented.
A map fragment, tattered and incomplete, with faded markings that hinted at mountains to the north.
Lin Feng's eyes lingered on the pills. His throat felt like fire, his body weak. He swallowed one, gagging on the metallic taste, but warmth spread through his body almost instantly. His wounds stopped bleeding, his breath steadied. It wasn't much, but it bought him time.
For a boy who had lost everything, even crumbs of hope were treasures.
---
By noon, Lin Feng had left the ruins behind. He did not dare bury his family—not yet. To remain was death. He vowed silently that he would return, but only when he had strength enough to protect the graves from desecration.
The wilderness beyond the Lin estate stretched vast and unforgiving. Trees loomed overhead, shadows curling between trunks, and the cries of beasts echoed from deep within the forest.
The Tianyu Continent was merciless to the weak.
Lin Feng had been trained in the basics of survival—every noble child of a great clan was taught—but now, alone, those lessons became lifelines. He fashioned a crude bandage for his arm from torn cloth, sharpened a stick into a spear, and kept the assassin's sword strapped across his back.
Each sound in the forest made his body tense. Rustling leaves. Distant roars. The flap of wings. He moved carefully, never lingering in open paths, always crouching low.
Hunger struck again by evening. His stomach cramped, twisting painfully. He searched the undergrowth for edible roots, recalling his clan tutor's lectures: avoid red leaves, avoid milky sap, chew only what the forest spirits do not shun. He found bitter roots and a handful of sour berries. It was not enough, but it dulled the pain.
As night fell, he lit no fire. The flames would only invite death. Instead, he climbed into the branches of a sturdy tree, clutching his makeshift spear, his back pressed against the trunk. He shivered, body sore, but exhaustion pulled at him until sleep claimed his mind.
---
Dreams came.
He stood once more in the ancestral hall of the Lin Clan, whole and unbroken. His father stood before him, spear blazing with light, his eyes burning with pride.
"Feng'er," his father's voice thundered. "The Lin blood is not meant to bow. Even if Heaven decrees your death, even if the earth rejects your step, you will carve a path with your own hands!"
Lightning split the dream, and Lin Feng jolted awake.
His heart pounded, sweat coating his body. But in his chest, the strange pulse stirred again, stronger this time. His wounds tingled, not with pain, but with faint warmth. He could feel something moving within him—his qi channels, sluggish from youth, seemed to stir like rivers breaking through ice.
Was this… his awakening?
Lin Feng closed his eyes, focusing. He remembered the breathing method his father had forced him to practice since childhood: the Nine Vein Circulation Art, the foundation of the Lin Clan's cultivation. He had never succeeded before, his qi scattered and weak.
But tonight, something was different.
Each breath drew faint traces of spiritual energy from the world. The trees, the soil, even the faint starlight overhead seemed to hum with essence. Lin Feng inhaled, guiding it into his dantian, feeling his body drink it like parched earth absorbing rain.
The process was crude, painful. His meridians ached as if tearing apart. His bones throbbed. Yet he endured, gritting his teeth until blood seeped from his lip.
Hours passed.
When dawn broke again, Lin Feng opened his eyes. His vision was sharper, his breath steadier, his body lighter. His first step into Qi Condensation—the threshold of cultivation—had begun.
A shaky smile crept across his lips. He was still weak, weaker than even a common outer disciple of any sect. But he had survived. And more than that—he had begun to cultivate.
For the first time since his clan's destruction, Lin Feng felt a spark of hope.
He looked toward the horizon, toward the mountains hinted at in the assassin's map fragment. Somewhere out there, he would find food, safety, and perhaps answers.
But most importantly, he would find strength.
Strength to survive. Strength to avenge. Strength to defy Heaven itself.
Gripping the assassin's sword tighter, Lin Feng whispered into the wind:
"Father, Mother, Ancestors… I will not die as prey. I will rise. And one day, all who raised their hands against us will drown in regret."