The morning air in the Silver-Iron Clan was usually filled with the sounds of training—shouts of exertion, the clashing of wooden swords, and the rhythmic thumping of feet. But in the desolate North Courtyard, where the forgotten and the unwanted lived, there was only a chilling silence.
It was the silence of a storm about to break.
Steward Pang's face, which had been twisted in a cruel, mocking grin just moments ago, was now freezing into a mask of confusion. He tried to pull his hand back. He tugged once. He tugged twice.
His arm didn't move.
Kaelen's hand was wrapped around Pang's thick wrist. It didn't look like a strong grip. Kaelen's fingers were long, pale, and artistic—the fingers of a fallen noble, not a warrior. But to Steward Pang, it felt as if an iron shackle had just snapped shut around his bone.
"You..." Pang sputtered, his face flushing red with a mix of anger and sudden, inexplicable fear. "Let go! Have you lost your mind? I am the Head Steward of the Outer Court!"
Kaelen didn't answer immediately. He didn't shout. He didn't rage.
He simply looked at Pang.
It was a look that stripped away the world around them. For a brief second, Pang felt like he wasn't standing in a muddy courtyard, but kneeling before a throne made of bones and starlight. The eyes staring back at him were not the eyes of a sixteen-year-old boy. They were ancient. They were tired. And they were bottomless.
"Head Steward," Kaelen repeated the title softly, tasting the words as if they were rotten fruit. "A title given to serve the family. Yet, you use it to starve the elderly and rob the weak."
Kaelen stepped closer. He was shorter than the obese steward, yet he seemed to tower over him.
"Tell me, Pang," Kaelen whispered, his voice like dry leaves scraping against stone. "When you ate the rice meant for this old man... did it taste like power? Or did it taste like shame?"
Pang's eyes widened. The insult was sharp, but the pressure on his wrist was getting worse. It was burning.
"Guards!" Pang shrieked, panic finally cracking his voice. "Kill him! He has gone mad! Kill this cripple!"
Behind Pang, the two family guards hesitated for a split second. They were used to bullying Kaelen, pushing him into the mud or stealing his food. But they had never seen him like this.
However, orders were orders.
"Release him!" the guard on the left shouted, drawing a heavy wooden baton. He swung it viciously toward Kaelen's head.
"Young Master, run!" Uncle Hwan screamed.
The old servant threw himself forward. He had no martial arts. He had no strength. He was just a frail old man with bad knees. But he threw his body between the guard and Kaelen, squeezing his eyes shut, prepared to take the blow that would surely crack his skull.
Time seemed to slow down.
Kaelen saw Hwan's back. He saw the patches on the old man's robe—patches that Hwan had sewn by candlelight so Kaelen wouldn't have to wear rags. He saw the grey hair, thinned by years of malnutrition and worry.
In his past life, Emperor Valerius had generals who would destroy worlds for him. But they did it for glory. They did it for rewards.
Uncle Hwan did it for nothing but love.
Something inside Kaelen broke. And then, something else ignited.
'In my past life, I allowed my brother to kill me. In this life, I will not allow even a god to touch a hair on this old man's head.'
Kaelen moved.
He didn't let go of Pang. Instead, he yanked the fat steward violently toward him, using Pang's massive body as a human shield.
THWACK!
The guard's baton slammed into Steward Pang's shoulder with a sickening crunch.
"ARGHHH!" Pang screamed, a sound like a slaughtered pig. The bone in his shoulder shattered under the force of his own guard's blow.
Kaelen didn't stop.
While the guard was stunned by hitting his own boss, Kaelen released Pang and spun. His movement was fluid, like water flowing over rocks. He channeled the Dragon Blood energy into his leg.
A low sweep.
It wasn't a fancy technique. It was simple. But the timing was perfect. Kaelen's leg hooked behind the guard's knee at the exact moment the guard shifted his weight.
The guard collapsed backward. Before he hit the ground, Kaelen's fist was already moving.
Bam!
A precise punch to the solar plexus. The guard's eyes bulged. All the air left his lungs in a wheezing gasp. He curled up on the wet ground, unable to breathe, unable to stand.
The second guard, seeing his partner drop in seconds, froze. He held his baton with trembling hands. "You... you used a demonic art! You have no cultivation! How are you doing this?"
Kaelen stood over the fallen guard. He slowly adjusted his sleeves, brushing off invisible dust.
"Demonic art?" Kaelen looked at the terrified guard. "No. This is simply the difference between a dog who barks and a dragon who sleeps."
He took one step forward.
The second guard dropped his baton and ran. He didn't look back. He ran out of the courtyard as if a ghost were chasing him.
Silence returned to the courtyard. But this time, it wasn't the silence of oppression. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of awe.
Steward Pang was on his knees, clutching his shattered shoulder, tears and snot streaming down his face. He looked up at Kaelen, his arrogance completely replaced by terror.
"Young Master... Kaelen... please..." Pang sobbed. "I was wrong. I was blind. Don't kill me. The Clan Rules... you can't kill a steward..."
Kaelen looked down at him. The killing intent in his heart was surging. The Abyssal Dragon Scripture was hungry. It wanted him to kill. It wanted him to devour Pang's blood energy.
'Kill him,' a dark voice whispered in his mind. 'He is trash. He is food.'
Kaelen closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, fighting the urge. He was the master of the scripture, not its slave.
"Get out," Kaelen said softly.
Pang blinked. "What?"
"Leave," Kaelen opened his eyes. They were clear again. "Tell the Elders what happened here if you wish. Tell them the cripple fought back. But remember one thing..."
Kaelen leaned down, his lips close to Pang's ear.
"From today onward, if Uncle Hwan's rice bowl is even one grain short... I will not break your shoulder. I will bury you in the garden as fertilizer for my herbs."
Pang nodded frantically, scrambling to his feet. He stumbled, fell, got up again, and limped away as fast as his fat legs could carry him, dragging his injured arm.
Kaelen stood alone in the mud. The adrenaline began to fade, and the exhaustion from the previous night's poison and healing the fox crashed over him. His knees felt weak.
"Young Master..."
A trembling hand touched his arm.
Kaelen turned. Uncle Hwan was staring at him. The old man wasn't looking at the defeated enemies. He was looking at Kaelen's face, searching for the boy he had raised.
"You are hurt," Hwan whispered, pointing to a scratch on Kaelen's cheek. He ignored the fact that Kaelen had just defeated three men. To Hwan, Kaelen was just a child who had gotten into a scrap.
Kaelen smiled. It was a tired, genuine smile that reached his eyes.
"It is just a scratch, Uncle."
Hwan's lip quivered. He suddenly hugged Kaelen. It was a tight, desperate hug. The old man smelled of old soap and rain.
"I was so scared," Hwan sobbed into Kaelen's shoulder. "I thought I lost you. Don't scare me like that again. I don't care if you are strong. I don't care if you are a genius. Just... just stay alive. You are all I have left of the Master and Mistress."
Kaelen stood stiffly for a moment. He hadn't been hugged in five hundred years. The physical contact felt strange, alien.
But then, slowly, the Dragon Sovereign raised his arms and hugged the old servant back.
He realized then that power was cold. The Golden Throne was cold. The Void Cauldron was cold.
This—this trembling, crying old man—was warm.
"I promise, Uncle," Kaelen whispered into the grey hair. "I am not going anywhere. And neither are you. We are going to take back everything they stole from us. Every single coin. Every single shred of dignity."
Hwan pulled back, wiping his face with his rough hands, trying to be brave. "Okay. Okay. I believe you. But first... first you must eat. The steamed bun is cold, but I will warm it up."
Kaelen watched the old man limp toward the small, smoky kitchen. Hwan's back was bent, burdened by years of servitude.
'Wait for me, Uncle,' Kaelen vowed silently, his fist clenching by his side. 'I will straighten your back. I will make it so that even Kings have to bow when you walk by.'
Just as Kaelen turned to enter his room, he stopped. He sensed something.
On the roof of the opposite building, far away, a shadow moved. It was faint, almost invisible.
Someone had been watching.
Kaelen didn't look up. He didn't show that he noticed. He simply opened his door and stepped inside.
"Let them watch," he murmured to the empty room. "The show has only just begun."