The broom was heavier than it looked.
Li Chen pushed it forward, bristles scraping against stone. Dust rose in thin clouds, clinging to his sleeves and settling into his hair.
He swept in silence.
Around him, servants moved in and out of the courtyard, carrying water, tools, baskets of laundry. None spared him a second glance.
A young master holding a broom was not worth noticing.
His arms began to ache.
Not the sharp pain of injury—but a dull, spreading soreness that crept from his shoulders down to his wrists. Sweat formed at his temples, sliding slowly down his face.
He wiped it away with his sleeve and kept going.
Step.Sweep.Turn.Sweep again.
His breathing grew uneven.
Too fast.
Too shallow.
Li Chen frowned.
Instinctively, he slowed his movements. Adjusted his stance. Let his weight settle properly into his legs.
The ache eased—just a little.
He paused.
That was strange.
He swept again, slower this time, paying attention to how his body moved. The broom felt steadier. His breath fell into a faint rhythm.
In.Out.
The courtyard seemed… quieter.
Not empty.
Focused.
Li Chen didn't realize how long he worked until his arms began to tremble.
His grip loosened.
The broom nearly slipped from his hands.
He stopped, leaning on it lightly, chest rising and falling.
Something warm stirred deep within him.
Not Qi.
Not yet.
But a subtle heat, spreading outward from his lower abdomen, faint as an ember buried under ash.
Li Chen's eyes narrowed.
He straightened.
The sensation faded almost immediately, leaving behind only exhaustion—and a strange clarity.
His thoughts felt… calmer.
Less scattered.
A servant passed by and snorted quietly. "Daydreaming already?"
Li Chen didn't respond.
He lowered his head, tightened his grip, and resumed sweeping.
Step.Sweep.Breathe.
Unseen—
A single crack formed in something long sealed.
The training yard lay just beyond the servant quarters.
From where he stood, Zhao Kun could see both.
The place where strength was proven.And the place where it was endured.
Zhao Kun tightened the cloth around his knuckles.
Six months ago.
The Li Clan's yearly internal assessment.
He had stood proudly in the outer ring of the training ground then—twenty-three years old, Body Tempering Realm, Fourth Level. Not exceptional, but respectable for someone without clan blood.
He still remembered the heat of the sun.
The murmurs.
And the boy who stepped forward.
Li Hao.
Ten years old.
Calm. Smiling.
Body Tempering Realm — Ninth Level.
A genius.
That was what the elders called him.
Zhao Kun's jaw clenched.
The match had lasted three breaths.
One step.
One strike.
Li Hao's fist had crashed into his chest like iron wrapped in silk. Zhao Kun had flown backward, ribs screaming, vision turning white as he smashed into the ground.
Laughter.
Not loud.
Just careless.
Li Hao hadn't even looked back.
That night, Zhao Kun spat blood into the dirt behind the servant quarters and learned something important.
Strength decided everything.
Now—
Zhao Kun's gaze shifted to the courtyard.
To the small figure holding a broom.
Li Chen.
Seven years old.
No cultivation.
No talent.
The eighth son.
Sweeping.
Zhao Kun scoffed.
"Of course," he muttered. "The useless one gets spared."
His fists tightened.
He couldn't touch Li Hao.
A genius.Protected.Untouchable.
But this one?
This one shared the same blood.
The same surname.
Zhao Kun watched as Li Chen paused, adjusted his stance, and resumed sweeping—slow, steady, deliberate.
That calm expression irritated him.
It felt wrong.
Like mockery.
"You don't even know what you're carrying," Zhao Kun whispered, eyes dark. "That name."
A few trainee guards passed nearby, whispering.
"Still hasn't started cultivating?"
"At seven? Pathetic."
"Li Clan's shame."
Zhao Kun's lips twitched upward.
Good.
Let the brat hear it.
Let him feel it.
If Zhao Kun couldn't crush the genius—
Then he would grind down the useless one.
He stepped forward, boots scraping softly against stone.
"Hey."
The word landed like dirt.
Li Chen felt the shadow before he heard the footsteps. He stopped sweeping and looked up slowly.
Zhao Kun stood in front of him.
Close.
Too close.
The man smelled of sweat and iron, his body broad, his posture relaxed in the way of someone used to being stronger than whoever stood before him.
A trainee guard.
Body Tempering Realm.
Li Chen knew this body couldn't sense Qi yet—but instinct screamed anyway.
Zhao Kun glanced at the broom, then at Li Chen's thin arms.
"…Sweeping suits you," he said lightly. "Much better than the training yard."
Li Chen said nothing.
He lowered his head slightly and shifted the broom.
Zhao Kun's smile widened.
"Did you hear me, Young Master?" he asked, voice dripping with mock respect. "Or are you already tired?"
A few nearby servants slowed their steps.
No one stopped.
Zhao Kun took another step forward.
The air changed.
Not Qi pressure—not openly.
Just presence.
Weight.
The kind that made breathing uncomfortable.
Li Chen's fingers tightened around the broom.
His chest felt tight.
He instinctively glanced around.
The courtyard was open. Bright. Public.
Servants passed.Guards stood at a distance.Children trained on far platforms.
Someone would see.
Someone would intervene.
His eyes searched faces.
Avoided gazes met him.
People looked away.
Some pretended not to notice.
Others watched quietly, expressionless.
No one moved.
Zhao Kun leaned down slightly, his voice dropping.
"You know," he said, "your brother is impressive."
Li Chen's pupils flickered.
Zhao Kun saw it—and smiled.
"Li Hao," he continued softly. "Ten years old. Body Tempering Ninth Level."
A pause.
"A genius."
His smile vanished.
"I fought him once."
Zhao Kun's fingers flexed.
"He didn't even remember my name."
The pressure increased—just a little.
Enough to make Li Chen's knees tremble.
Pain bloomed in his chest.
He swallowed.
For a moment—
Just a moment—
He wanted someone to appear.
An elder.A sibling.Anyone.
His gaze lifted instinctively toward the higher pavilions.
Far above the courtyard, beyond layers of carved stone and silk curtains, stood a figure.
Robes immaculate.Hands clasped behind his back.
An elder.
Watching.
Their eyes met—for half a breath.
Then the elder looked away.
Disappointment lingered in that brief glance.
Not at Zhao Kun.
At him.
Li Chen's heart sank.
Zhao Kun straightened.
"Stay in your place," he said quietly. "You should be grateful."
He stepped past Li Chen, shoulder brushing his arm—not hard, not openly violent.
But Li Chen staggered back a step.
The broom clattered against the stone.
Laughter rippled faintly from somewhere.
Zhao Kun walked away.
Li Chen bent down slowly and picked up the broom.
Li Chen bent down slowly and picked up the broom.
The stone was cold against his fingers.
As he straightened, a memory surfaced—sharp, unwelcome.
Zhao Kun on the ground.
Breathing hard.
Blood at the corner of his mouth.
Li Chen remembered stepping forward.
Not because he had to.
Because it felt… natural.
He had offered a hand.
Zhao Kun had looked up at him.
And in that moment, Li Chen understood something.
It wasn't pain in his eyes.
It wasn't gratitude.
It was anger.
Pure. Unfiltered.
Zhao Kun had slapped his hand away.
Hard.
Not a word spoken.
Just hatred—directed at the one who shouldn't have been there.
At the one who was weaker.
At the one who saw him.
Li Chen's fingers tightened around the broom.
The anger rose in his chest, sudden and hot.
Unreasonable.
Unfair.
For a brief instant, his body remembered another life—a life where this would have been answered with blood.
His grip trembled.
Then—
He exhaled.
Slowly.
The heat cooled.
The anger didn't vanish.
It settled.
Deep.
Quiet.
Clear.
Li Chen lowered his head and resumed sweeping.
Step.Sweep.
The courtyard remained the same.
But somewhere deep inside—
Li Chen remembered.