The night was supposed to be one of joy.
Inside the sprawling Liang estate, lanterns burned bright, their crimson glow chasing away the shadows. Servants hurried to and fro, their faces shining with excitement, for tonight, the wife of Liang Zhao—the third branch patriarch—was giving birth.
The Liang Clan was not the greatest of the noble families, yet it was far from insignificant. Generations of cultivators and mages had risen from its ranks, thanks to the clan's most prized possession: their bloodline.
A lineage blessed by the heavens.
Every child born within the clan carried fragments of this legacy—either the flow of spiritual qi for cultivation, or the affinity with elemental mana for spellcraft. Some, if fortune favored them, inherited both.
And yet, tonight would prove that not all legacies are blessings.
A cry split the air, high-pitched and fragile.
The midwives beamed as they swaddled the newborn and placed him into the arms of his mother, Lady Ying Yue. Her face was pale from labor, but her eyes shone with warmth as she gazed at her child.
"He's beautiful…" she whispered, brushing a trembling hand across his tiny cheek.
Lord Liang Zhao stood tall beside the bed, his eyes sharp and expectant. Unlike his wife, there was no softness in his gaze—only anticipation. "Test him."
The midwives obeyed without hesitation.
From a lacquered box, they retrieved two jade stones. One pulsed with a faint silver glow—the **Stone of Qi**. The other shimmered with faint blue light—the **Stone of Mana**.
Every newborn of the clan was tested at birth. A touch was enough to reveal the spark of inheritance.
The first midwife pressed the infant's hand against the silver jade.
Silence.
The stone remained dull, its glow unchanged.
A frown creased Liang Zhao's brow. The midwives exchanged uneasy glances.
The second jade was brought forward. The infant's hand brushed its surface.
Again, nothing.
No glow. No resonance. No reaction at all.
A silence heavier than iron fell upon the chamber.
Lady Ying Yue's eyes widened, panic flooding her features. "Test again! It must be a mistake—he is still weak from birth!"
The midwives, trembling, tested a second time. Then a third. But the result never changed.
No qi.
No mana.
Nothing.
Lord Liang Zhao's face darkened, his jaw clenched so tight it seemed his teeth might crack.
"A cripple…" he muttered, his voice dripping with venom.
The words struck Ying Yue like a blade. She clutched her child protectively, tears welling in her eyes. "No! He is still our son—"
"He is no son of mine!" Zhao's shout thundered through the room, silencing her. His eyes burned with fury and humiliation. "The Liang Clan does not produce trash! To be born without qi or mana… he is cursed!"
The newborn whimpered in his mother's arms, as if sensing the hatred in his father's voice.
News spread quickly. By dawn, the entire Liang estate was buzzing with whispers. "A child without qi or mana? Truly cursed."
"The heavens have forsaken him." "What use is a bloodline if it breeds such waste?"
When the Patriarch of the clan arrived, his expression was cold, his gaze as sharp as a blade. He examined the child briefly, then turned to Liang Zhao.
"Dispose of him."
Lady Ying Yue fell to her knees, clutching her child to her breast. "Patriarch, please! He may yet find a path—"
"There is no path for the useless," the old man snapped. "Our resources are not for cripples. If word spreads that the Liang Clan harbors a cursed child, it will shame us in the eyes of our rivals. End this stain before it festers."
"No!" Ying Yue cried, tears streaming. "He is my son!"
Liang Zhao's face was like stone. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a voice colder than winter, he declared:
"From this day forward, this child is no longer of the Liang Clan. Strip his name from the family rolls. Let him fend for himself as the heavens decreed."
The decree was final. The infant was cast out before he could even walk. Though Lady Ying Yue begged, though she wept until her voice broke, she could not sway her husband, nor the patriarch, nor the elders.
By the time the boy could form memories, he had no mother's warmth, no father's guidance, no clan's protection. Only whispers and cruelty.
The servants sneered when he passed. Cousins jeered and hurled stones. "Cursed child," they called him. "Heaven's mistake."
Even the name he bore, "Liang Shen", was spoken with disdain, as if it were filth upon the tongue.
Shen learned young what it meant to be despised.
While other children trained with swords, or practiced spells beneath their masters, he was ordered to sweep the training grounds. When they sparred and laughed, he carried water, bruised and filthy.
His body was weak. His hands blistered. His stomach often ached from hunger, for the kitchens gave him only scraps.
And yet, he endured.
Every insult, every kick, every lash of the whip from overseers who treated him as less than a servant—he swallowed them all.
Because what choice did he have?
The years blurred.
By his tenth year, Liang Shen was little more than a shadow in the clan. He had no friends, no allies, no future.
And yet, sometimes, late at night when he lay bruised upon his straw mat, he felt it—an odd pulse deep within his chest. A faint, fleeting thrum beneath his skin.
It was not qi. It was not mana.
It was something else.
But Shen, too beaten and too broken, told no one.
Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was just another cruel joke the heavens played upon him.
On his twelfth birthday, the final cruelty came.
Before the entire clan, Liang Zhao himself announced:
"As of this day, Liang Shen is disowned. He bears no ties to the Liang bloodline, no claim to the Liang name. From this moment, he is nothing."
The decree echoed across the courtyard, met with jeers and laughter. Cousins smirked, elders nodded coldly, and servants whispered with glee.
Shen stood alone, thin and ragged, his fists trembling at his sides. His mother was not there. His father would not meet his eyes.
The world had declared him worthless.
But deep within his chest, the faint pulse stirred again.
And though his lips remained sealed, a thought took root in his heart—a thought dark and heavy as iron:
"If I ever gain strength, I will tear down every one of you."