The morning sky was iron-gray, and Lin Tianhai sat on the worn steps of their courtyard, staring at the cracked tiles beneath his feet. The world seemed small there—just the broken gate, the faded walls, and the quiet sound of his mother's broom brushing dust away.
Once, this courtyard had been full of life. Servants had hurried to and fro, bringing scrolls, medicine, weapons, and gifts. His father's name—Lin Yulong—had been enough to command respect from elders and awe from juniors.
But that was before the funeral fires, before whispers turned to open contempt.
Now, the echoes of wealth and honor had been picked clean like meat from a carcass.
The ancestral sword that had hung in the main hall, symbol of his father's authority, was taken by the elders "for safekeeping." His father's cultivation notes and manuals had been locked in the clan's library, forbidden to all but the chosen. Even the small businesses that once sent coin to this courtyard had been quietly folded into the accounts of other branches.
Lin Tianhai remembered standing in the hall as a boy, watching it all disappear. His mother's protests had been silenced by cold voices:
"Yulong is dead. His legacy belongs to the clan."
And worst of all, the man who had spoken loudest, who had signed his name to every decree, was his uncle—Lin Yulong's own younger brother.
Lin Haiyuan
The same uncle who, when Tianhai was still a child, had once lifted him onto his shoulders during festivals. The same uncle who had sworn to support Yulong's family if ever disaster struck. But promises meant nothing before profit.
Lin Haiyuan had stepped into the void Yulong left behind, seizing titles, land, and allies. And with each passing year, his influence grew while Tianhai and his mother shrank into shadows.
"Mother," Tianhai whispered now, as she swept, her sleeves damp from dew. "Why does Uncle… why does he hate us so much?"
She paused, her back stiffening. Her hands tightened around the broom. For a moment, her face was unreadable.
"It is not hate, Tianhai," she said at last, voice bitter but steady. "It is envy. Envy that your father was brighter, stronger, and more beloved than him. When Yulong died, envy turned to opportunity. The elders let him take what he wanted, because to them, blood without power is only water."
Her words struck hard, and Tianhai lowered his gaze. Blood without power is only water.
It was the truth he lived each day. Their father's treasures had been scattered, his honor devoured by the very clan he had served. And no one—no elder, no cousin, no so-called kin—raised a voice in protest.
Because the world was not merciful to the weak.
Later that day, Tianhai and his mother went to the ancestral hall once more, seeking the smallest scrap of aid. The marble steps felt steeper than mountains. Inside, elders sat on carved chairs, their robes heavy with embroidered dragons.
Among them was Lin Haiyuan, his uncle. His hair was bound high, his eyes sharp with satisfaction that had grown fat with power. When Tianhai and his mother bowed, he did not even incline his head.
"You come again," he said, tone flat as stone. "Have you not yet understood? Yulong is gone. His line has withered. The clan cannot waste resources on those who bring no returns."
Tianhai's mother lifted her head. Her eyes glistened, but her voice did not break. "All I ask is that my son be allowed to remain. He will prove himself. Give him time."
Murmurs rose among the elders—snickers, dismissive hums.
Lin Haiyuan leaned forward, fingers tapping the armrest of his chair. "Prove himself? He is seventeen and still cannot awaken qi. The Selection showed nothing. To keep him is charity enough." His lips curved faintly. "If you wish to stay, then lower your pride and accept the place given to you. Otherwise, there are villages outside the city where the weak may scrape a living."
Shame burned Tianhai's face. His fists clenched, nails biting into his skin. He wanted to roar, to shout that he had felt qi, that his blood was not empty. But the words stuck in his throat like stones. He knew what would follow if he revealed the Sutra—the elders would seize it as they had seized everything else.
His mother bowed deeply, forehead to the cold floor. "Then I beg, for the sake of my late husband's bloodline. Spare us this one mercy."
Her voice cracked, and Tianhai felt the sound like a knife to the chest. To see her kneel before the man who had stolen everything—it was unbearable.
Lin Haiyuan's smirk widened, satisfied with her humiliation. He waved his hand. "Enough. Let them remain for now. But resources? No. Servants? No. If the boy cannot awaken by next year, they will be expelled. That is final."
The decree fell like a coffin lid.
Tianhai helped his mother rise, her shoulders trembling beneath his touch. As they left the hall, the laughter of his cousins followed them, each note a reminder of how far they had fallen.
Outside, the sun blazed hot, but Tianhai felt only cold. Father… if you were alive, would you have protected us from this?
He closed his eyes, and the Sutra's words came again, whispering in his blood.
Blood is the root. Resonance the bridge.
They had taken his father's sword, his notes, his wealth, his name. They had left him nothing but scorn.
And yet, that nothing was enough.
Because from nothing, he would rise.