The Lin estate was a city unto itself, sprawling with courtyards, training grounds, and halls that echoed with the voices of a thousand clan members. Yet within its grandeur, there was a corner where silence reigned: a narrow courtyard on the western edge, half-forgotten, half-abandoned.
It was here that Lin Tianhai lived with his mother.
Once, this courtyard had bustled with servants. Once, its gates had stood tall, a symbol of honor. For Tianhai's father, Lin Yulong—the clan's most promising son—had commanded respect that even elders grudgingly acknowledged. But after his sudden death in a distant war, envy turned to scorn, and respect curdled into cruelty.
The family that had once been courted was now despised.
Tianhai returned from the Selection that morning, his mother waiting by the courtyard gate. She wore plain robes, the fabric carefully mended again and again. Though her face still carried traces of beauty, her back was slightly bent from years of silent endurance.
He forced a smile, but she had already seen his trembling fists and downcast gaze.
"They humiliated you again," she whispered, her voice tight with bitterness. "Just like they humiliate me."
Before Tianhai could answer, laughter sounded from the street outside. Two clan women walked past, their voices deliberately loud.
"Look at her—once the wife of the great Lin Yulong, now left with nothing but scraps."
"And her son? A cripple. Even the heavens don't favor that line anymore."
The words struck like daggers. His mother's face remained calm, but her hands twisted the fabric of her robe. She had grown used to it—but Tianhai saw the pain beneath her silence.
Later that day, Tianhai accompanied her to the clan storehouse. They were allotted rice and herbs, though less than others, always of poorer quality. At the counter, a steward sneered as he handed over their share.
"You should be grateful you receive even this," he said. "Without Elder Yulong alive, what claim do you two really have? Dead branches don't draw water."
The insult was open, deliberate. Others in line chuckled, enjoying the spectacle.
Tianhai's jaw ached from clenching, his nails digging into his palms until blood welled. But his mother touched his sleeve lightly, her eyes begging restraint. He swallowed the rage, took the meager bundle, and followed her out.
That night, as they ate their thin porridge in silence, Tianhai finally spoke.
"Mother… if Father were here, would they dare treat us like this?"
Her spoon stilled. For a long time she said nothing. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, bitter.
"Your father was admired, but also envied. When he lived, no one dared touch us. But after he died, envy became justification. The elders closed their eyes, and the rest of the clan saw us as prey."
Tianhai's chest burned. He remembered faint images of his father—a tall figure, a warm voice, a hand that once ruffled his hair. Now that hand was gone, and what remained was scorn.
"They think we are finished," his mother said. "They think the blood of Yulong has no more worth."
Tianhai looked down at his hands. Thin, trembling, blistered from his secret training. To everyone else, they were worthless hands. But he knew the truth: last night, those hands had carried qi.
"Mother," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "One day… they will choke on their laughter."
She looked at him then, truly looked, and for a moment her eyes widened. In the boy who had always been silent under scorn, she now saw something different—something burning.
Outside, the estate thrummed with life, none of it for them. Servants hurried past their broken gate without bowing. Cousins strutted in fine robes while mocking laughter drifted into their courtyard.
But within the darkness of that forgotten corner, Lin Tianhai clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. The Sutra's words echoed in his mind
Blood is the root. Resonance the bridge.
If the world wished to bury him, then he would rise from the grave.
And when he rose, the bloodline they scorned would shake the heavens.