"Bastard! Mo Hu is still unconscious even now!"
The booming voice echoed through the Ancestral Hall.
Mo Zhi, Mo Long's uncle—one of the clan elders, a tall, gaunt man—stood with his face flushed crimson, veins bulging at his temple. His gaze was a knife, aimed straight at Mo Long as if ready to pounce.
Mo Long remained planted in the center of the hall. His frame was thin, yet his shoulders did not bend. His face was calm—cold even. The blankness of his expression only made the atmosphere more tense, more intimidating.
From his throne, Patriarch Mo Han raised a single hand and motioned for silence. That single gesture was enough to still the room.
"Your defense?" Mo Han asked, his voice low but resolute.
Mo Long met his father's eyes without flinching. "They attempted to attack me with qi, Patriarch."
A hiss of anger rose from the right side of the hall. A woman, her makeup heavy, rose from her seat. Her black hair was pinned neatly; the red of her robes accentuated her graceful curves, though now her brow was furrowed and her eyes bulged with fury.
"They were only joking and you flew into a rage, leaving them badly injured! You're nothing but a troublemaker!" she cried out.
This was Mei Du, Mo Long's stepmother and the mother of Mo Fei and Mo Shou. She stepped forward a few paces, her trembling finger pointing straight at him.
"Look at yourself—clean, without a single wound. My sons held back because you have no qi. And yet you took advantage of them to injure them!"
Mo Long remained silent. The hall fell into a heavy hush.
'This atmosphere… it's familiar.'
A tightness gripped him. The oppressive stares, the accusatory voices—each sharp as a blade—felt like the shadow of that night he had once died as Guang Lian. The night his old body had been betrayed, stabbed from behind.
Cold, merciless gazes formed in his memory, surrounding him, grinning before erupting into laughter.
Mo Long's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.
At that moment, Min Mao's gentle voice surfaced in his mind: 'If you truly did nothing wrong… stay calm, and explain everything slowly.'
He drew a short breath, pushing down the red-hot thirst for blood that flickered within him.
From the left side of the hall, a burly, bald man with a thick mustache rose to his feet. This was Hu Dong, Head of Security for the Shadow Dragon Clan—known to be the Patriarch's loyal right hand.
"Young Master, speak the truth. If you are honest, perhaps the punishment you receive will be lighter."
Mo Long's gaze locked on Hu Dong, sharp and piercing like a drawn blade.
"I've already told the truth," he said coldly. "I only defended myself. They attacked me with qi—what was I supposed to do? Stand still and die?"
The hall fell silent once more.
Hu Dong didn't respond. He merely stroked his thick mustache, eyes lowered. In his heart, he knew the boy spoke truth. But to defend a motherless, powerless child like Mo Long meant standing against the elders—and against the Patriarch's own wife.
"If this had happened to you—no," Mo Long's voice cut through the silence like steel, "if it happened to your own son, would you stay silent? Just because they were the sons of an elder and the Patriarch's wife?"
Hu Dong's jaw clenched, but no words came.
"Still—your response was excessive, boy!" Mo Zhi's voice thundered again, trembling with anger. "Mo Hu was a good, intelligent child! Now he can't even stand! His leg is broken, his nose shattered, his face ruined beyond recognition! You call that self-defense?!"
"Mo Fei and Mo Shou as well—their arms twisted, their hands crushed!" Mei Du spat out venomously, her voice rising with every word. "They are your own kin!"
The air thickened, heavy as iron. The angry voices rang in Mo Long's ears, but beneath their fury, something else began to stir. A strange pressure pressed against his skull, his temples throbbing violently as if some hidden force were clawing its way into his mind.
From the shadows of his consciousness, another surge of memories burst forth—
fragments that didn't belong to Guang Lian, but to the body he now inhabited.
Memories of Mo Long's past—bitter and raw.
"Is that all you've got, Long?"
The mocking voice rang clear.
In the training yard of the Shadow Dragon Clan, a thin boy around twelve years old fell hard to the ground. His wooden sword rolled several feet away. His lips were split, his face bruised.
That boy was Mo Long, before Guang Lian's soul entered him.
Before him stood his three cousins—Mo Fei, Mo Shou, and Mo Hu—each older, stronger, and brimming with arrogance. They towered over him like predators circling prey.
"Hahaha! Pathetic!" Mo Fei sneered, laughing harshly. "And to think you claim to be a direct descendant of the Shadow Dragon Clan? Don't make me laugh!"
He kicked the boy in the stomach, the impact forcing blood from Mo Long's mouth.
"Trash like you only disgraces the clan's name," Mo Shou added with disgust, his eyes filled with contempt.
"You said this was just practice—no qi allowed! You're cheating!" Mo Long shouted weakly, glaring up at them, his young voice trembling between fear and defiance.
"Idiot!" Mo Fei barked, his grin widening. "In Jianghu, you must be ready for anything!"
"Do you think an enemy will go easy on you just because you can't use qi?!" Mo Shou bent down, his face inches from Mo Long's, his words dripping with mockery.
Mo Long's face flushed red, his body trembling with suppressed fury. His hand reached out toward the fallen wooden sword—but before his fingers could touch it, Mo Hu's boot came down hard, pinning his hand to the dirt.
"You don't deserve to wield a weapon," Mo Hu snarled. "Even a stable boy is worth more than you."
Their laughter rang cruelly in his ears—harsh, mocking, deafening. Around them, other clan youths stood watching, and instead of helping, they joined in the laughter. No one stepped forward.
No one defended him.
The young Mo Long could only endure—his hand crushed underfoot, his pride shattered.
His eyes filled with unshed tears, staring at the dirt that now seemed to swallow his every ounce of dignity.
The memory dissolved.
Mo Long stood once again in the dimly lit Ancestral Hall, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The echo of that laughter still reverberated in his skull, merging with the present accusations swirling around him.
The fusion of memories—the boy's pain and Guang Lian's hardened soul—shook something deep within him. He clicked his tongue softly, almost amused, as the elders and Mei Du continued their tiresome scolding.
Then, unexpectedly, he bowed his head slightly, as if about to apologize.
Even Hu Dong sighed, his tone weary.
"I… I apologize, Elders. This incident should have never—"
But before he could finish, a strange sound escaped Mo Long's lips—
A quiet chuckle.
It grew. Louder. Until it became a full, unrestrained laugh that filled the hall—sharp, chilling, echoing off the marble walls like the laughter of a demon.
Mo Long pressed one hand to his forehead, laughing as if he had just heard the most absurd joke in the world. All eyes turned toward him, their faces pale in disbelief.
"He's lost his mind!" Mo Zhi shouted, pointing a trembling finger.
But Mo Long only turned his head slowly, his gaze sweeping across them—cold and judging, like a magistrate passing sentence.
"Excessive response?" he repeated, his voice deep and cutting. "Brothers?" His tone dripped with contempt. "Instead of blaming me, perhaps you should blame your weak, spoiled sons. I didn't even use a single drop of qi."
"Impudent!" Mei Du shouted, half-rising from her seat, fury twisting her features.
Before the tension could escalate further, Mo Han finally spoke—his tone calm but laced with steel.
"Are there any witnesses to this event?"
"No." Mo Long's reply was firm and simple.
Then, without hesitation, he began unfastening his robe.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Beneath the loose fabric, his body was lean and wiry—but covered in old scars. Bruises that had long faded to blue and yellow. Marks from whips and rods crossing his back in pale, permanent lines.
"But as you can see," he said evenly, his voice echoing across the chamber, "my body itself is the proof. Every wound here came from those very 'brothers' who claim to care for me. Everyone in this clan knows it."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Even Mei Du and Mo Zhi froze, their outrage swallowed by shock. No one had ever truly looked at him before—never noticed the quiet suffering written on his flesh.
Mo Long turned his gaze toward Hu Dong, his voice now calm but cutting.
"And you, Hu Dong—how many times have I reported this to you? Yet you did nothing. You stood there like a puppet."
He dropped his robe and the old book onto the cold marble floor.
"If you wish to verify my claim," he said, "the robe still carries traces of their black qi. Check it for yourself."
Mo Han's expression darkened, his voice rumbling low. "Hu Dong. Inspect it."
The command echoed through the hall like a tolling bell.
Hu Dong stepped forward, kneeling to lift the discarded robe. He brushed his middle finger along the fabric and tapped it lightly with a hardened nail.
A faint black sheen shimmered for a brief second—an echo of energy lingering like smoke.
"There are traces of Shadow Qi, Patriarch," he reported.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Mei Du's eyes, however, had already shifted elsewhere—to the book lying on the floor.
Her lips curved into a sly, venomous grin.
"That book!" she hissed, pointing sharply. "Mo Fei said you've been hiding a forbidden manual!"
Mo Long turned his gaze toward her, his tone calm but laced with frost. "That book was found in the clan library. How could something from our own library be considered forbidden?"
"It's a cultivation manual, isn't it?" Mo Zhi snapped, desperation creeping into his voice. "What if you've been cultivating in secret—using qi to torment my nephews?!"
"I haven't practiced a single technique from that book," Mo Long replied evenly. "They found me first—and they attacked first."
Mei Du's voice rose again, sharp as a whip. "Then how do you explain the candles and the circle of blood?!"
"That was cat's blood. Nothing more," Mo Long said flatly. "I hadn't even finished reading the incantations written in it."
He sighed, his expression composed despite the tension thickening around him.
"And besides—you can all sense it yourselves. I possess no qi whatsoever."
The next instant, Mo Han stood.
A light movement—swift as shadow.
In a blink, he appeared before Mo Long, his fingers pressed firmly against his son's chest.
Time seemed to halt.
The hall held its breath.
Mo Han closed his eyes briefly, then nodded once. "It's true. The boy has no qi."
He began circling Mo Long slowly, his sharp eyes inspecting every inch—the front, the back, the hardened muscles that belied years of physical training. The faint tension in his brow softened slightly.
'These scars… they're not just from beatings, he thought. Some of them were earned through discipline. Through effort.'
'A body like this isn't weak. No wonder he managed to overpower three qi practitioners from the Initiate Realm.'
Mo Zhi, unwilling to yield, burst out again.
"But what if he's concealing it through a technique—"
"That kind of concealment can only be done by someone in the Transcendent Realm," Mo Han cut him off, his voice booming like thunder. "Stop your nonsense, Mo Zhi!"
The force behind his words rippled through the air, silencing the hall. Even Mei Du lowered her head, trembling, unable to meet her husband's gaze.
Desperate, Mo Zhi tried one last time, sending a discreet Qi Transmission toward Hu Dong:
'Do something. Now.'
Hu Dong stiffened as the command entered his mind. But when Mo Han's cold eyes shifted briefly toward him, he turned away, shaking his head in refusal.
The Patriarch bent down, picking up the book from the floor. He flipped through the aged pages one by one, his expression tightening as he read.
"Where did you find this?"
"In the clan library," Mo Long answered. "I noticed one of the shelves was uneven, and this book was wedged beneath it. I… thought the title was interesting."
He smiled faintly, though deep down relief flickered beneath the surface—'Good. The page with the Demon Summoning Technique was torn out neatly. He won't find it.'
Mo Han snapped the book shut. "I'll be keeping this. Meet me tonight in my pavilion."
"Yes, Patriarch," Mo Long replied, bowing slightly.
As his father turned away, Mo Long's thoughts darkened. 'This will drag on longer than I expected. Damn it—if he inspects it too closely, he'll notice what's missing.'
Mo Han turned his gaze across the hall, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.
"This matter is settled. Mo Long acted in self-defense. The three of them will be punished—once they recover."
"But—"
"Silence!"
His foot slammed against the marble floor, the sound reverberating like thunder. "My decision is final! And you, Hu Dong… stay here. The rest of you, leave."
The elders' faces flushed red with restrained anger, but none dared to protest. One by one, they bowed and withdrew, the echoes of their footsteps fading into the cold expanse of the hall.
Mo Long clasped his hands before his chest in a formal gongshou bow, then turned on his heel to leave.
At the doorway, he crossed paths with a woman of refined beauty. Her hair was elegantly pinned, her delicate face untouched by time—yet her eyes gleamed with mockery.
"Ah, the troublemaker himself," she said with a sweet, poisonous smile. "Tell me, how does it feel to beat your own brothers bloody?"
Mo Long stopped, turning his head slightly. His lips curved into a razor-thin smile.
"Not bad," he said softly. "Though… it feels like one is still missing."
Lady Mo Hua, the Patriarch's second wife, frowned, confusion flashing across her features—
and then, realization. Her face stiffened.
But by then, Mo Long had already turned away, his steps calm and deliberate as he walked down the corridor.
A heartbeat later—
"Hey! How dare you!" Lady Mo Hua's shrill voice echoed from behind.
Mo Long didn't even glance back.
His smile widened—cold, dangerous.
The smile of a demon who had just set fire to the altar of the gods.