Above, the clouds pressed lower, muting the afternoon sun into a dull silver disc. Wind whispered through the valley, low and cold, stirring cloaks and banners with a breath that felt too sharp for summer. Yet for all its chill, sweat gleamed on foreheads. Not from heat—but pressure.

  A silence passed like a shadow over the gathered crowd.

  Ten figures approached the stage like a blade drawn slow across stone. Their robes—black threaded with jade—shifted in rhythm, every movement crisp, measured. At their centre walked a youth no older than fifteen, gaze serene and distant, like he viewed the world from atop a peak none of them could reach. Beside him moved an elder with silvered brows and a presence like ice—his steps silent, but weighty enough to draw the eye of every elder present.

  The triple-bolt sigil—Lei clan's mark—shone against their chests.

  Not the branch. The Main Clan.

  Gasps stilled mid-breath. Bows deepened like reeds before a storm.

  Chief Varian was the first to step forward, his voice firm but reverent. “Elder Ming… We had no idea you would grace us today.”

  The old man didn’t bow, didn’t smile. His voice was low, the tone flat as polished iron. “I come on behalf of Grand Elder Lei Yanshu. This is his grandson, Lei Xuanlan—currently journeying to broaden his horizons. I was tasked with his protection. The young master insisted on visiting Fogwood while we passed through.”

  At that, several expressions shifted—barely. A flicker in the eyes of the men flanking Elder Ming. One exhaled too slowly. Another’s jaw tightened for the briefest instant. They knew the truth far too well: Lei Xuanlan wasn’t “broadening horizons,” he was being sheltered. The young master had brought shame—not just trouble—after misbehaving with the daughter of a rival clan elder. The incident had nearly sparked a feud, but Elder Yanshu's influence had buried the flames before they could catch. Still, those who stood here now bore the quiet resentment of men assigned not to guard—but to babysit the cause of their clan's recent embarrassment.

  But none voiced it.

  The crowd straightened and bowed. The Chief, elders, even Meng Baoyin—whose spine rarely bent—offered a bow. The youth, Lei Xuanlan, responded with a slow incline of his chin, as if humouring their respect.

  Chief Varian recovered first. “You honour us, young master Xuanlan. Today is the Coming of Age Ceremony for our youth. To have someone of your station observe will surely be remembered.”

  Elder Ming gave the faintest nod. “We’ll watch, then.”

  More seating was hastily arranged. No one complained, even when some chiefs and leaders were shifted farther back. The ten guests settled as if they owned the mountain.

  Above, the clouds thickened. Thunder rumbled—still distant. For now.

  The clink of porcelain cups. The soft scrape of lacquered trays. A faint aroma of plum wine and spirit-fruits curled through the air as servants bowed and offered their best to the honoured guests. Elder Ming lifted a cup, his sleeve trailing like a wisp of smoke, but his eyes never left the stages. Beside him, Lei Xuanlan yawned behind a hand, bored already.

  Then, motion. On the leftmost stage, a slight figure in white tunic stepped up. Veylan. A clan elder stood at the edge, one arm raised, eyes gliding between him and the other boy—a wiry youth already tensed, nearly three years older, hands curled into fists. Both faced each other in silence.

  The tension cut colder than wind. Flags fluttered listlessly along the outer fence, each snap of fabric lost beneath the layered hum of the crowd—five matches about to begin.

  “Begin.”

  The word fell like a stone into still water. Five stages ignited at once. Battle cries rang out. Fighters lunged. Feet pounded—clashes that drew the eyes of most seated guests.

  But not all.

  A quiet gasp escaped from somewhere near the front row. A few heads turned. Then silence again—startling, sharp. Not from the matches, but from something else entirely.

  The elder on the leftmost stage stood still, hand half-lifted, mouth slightly open. At his feet, one participant lay sprawled, limbs limp. Unmoving.

  The other—Veylan—was already walking off the platform.

  Some in the crowd blinked in confusion. Others only noticed the shift when the elder finally found his voice, projecting out with a startled edge:

  “Match three, winner—Lei Veylan!”

  Dozens of eyes turned. Even Elder Ming, mid-sip of wine, paused and frowned faintly before glancing toward the stage in question Lei Xuanlan tilted his head lazily, but a shadow crossed his gaze—curiosity, or insult. Varian, mid-sentence, faltered, his forced grin held a beat too long before he turned back toward his guests.

  Chief Meng Baoyin raised one brow. Director Lian, too, leaned forward with interest. Both Lian Ruo and Meng Tieshou watched the slowly walking Veylan with eagerness in their eyes.

  The match had lasted seconds.

  Liora’s expression, by contrast, glowed like morning light. She shifted in her seat, half rising, and greeted her son’s return with hands that couldn’t stop fussing. She smoothed an invisible wrinkle in his tunic. Tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Brushed invisible dust from his shoulder.

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  Veylan let her. Her presence, her warmth—it eased something in his chest. Her smile was enough.

  Rhen sat beside them, still and unreadable. He hadn’t applauded. He hadn’t even blinked. His gaze remained ahead.

  Expected.

  That was the word echoing behind his silence. Most here lingered at the 5th or 6th stage. Even prodigies like Lian Ruo and Meng Tieshou stood a full small realm beneath him. Veylan was the only youth here to touch the mid ninth stage of Mortal Vein so early—not because others hadn’t tried, but because they couldn’t.

  And still… that boy, his son, had broken through three years ago.

  Rhen said nothing. But behind his composed face, a flicker of pride stirred beneath the stillness.

  Up in the honoured seats, the weight of that single moment lingered Even those who hadn’t seen it unfold now sat straighter. A name spoken. A figure walking away. A result beyond explanation.

  The midday sun blurred behind grey vapor, softening the distant ridges into pale brushstrokes. The hum of the crowd had settled into a low murmur, voices tucked behind folded fans and polite silence. Dust from the arena’s surface swirled lazily in the faint breeze.

  On the centre stage, Lian Ruo stepped forward—tall, dressed in layered slate-grey robes lined with fine gold thread. His opponent, a wiry youth from a lesser faction, bowed low with practiced humility.

  The fight began without fanfare.

  Lian moved like a man trained to win, not impress. His steps were clean, sharp, efficient. On the third exchange, a low feint turned sharp—an open palm slammed into the other boy’s chest. The opponent stumbled, then crumpled. Five moves. No more.

  Muted applause followed, polite but reserved.

  In the next wave, Meng Tieshou took the centre stage. He was broader than Lian, arms like ironwood, features set in a calm, unreadable mold. The match was brief, a blur of footwork and a single sweeping elbow that left his opponent wheezing on the ground.

  From the main seats, Varian leaned forward and offered a warm nod toward the respective faction leaders. “Both Ruo and Tieshou truly live up to their names. Rare geniuses.”

  Lei Xuanlan gave a quiet snort, eyes half-lidded with disdain. “If that’s all it takes to be called genius,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

  None replied.

  The tension returned like a weight in the chest.

  Soon, Elder Fenhai stepped forward once more, jar in hand, tokens clinking softly like bones. Veylan drew his—number five. He nodded and turned away, unaware of how long Fenhai’s eyes lingered on him, narrowed in thought.

  On another stage, Meng Tieshou stood still, arms folded, gaze locked—not on his opponent, but on Veylan.

  Lian Ruo’s gaze followed suit, fixed on Veylan.

  As Veylan stepped onto the far-left platform, a murmur passed through the crowd, louder this time. A few from the honoured seats shifted forward, robes rustling. Xuanlan, despite himself, sat straighter.

  The dark-skinned youth across from Veylan—another from the Lei clan, broad-shouldered and solid—readied his stance.

  “Begin.”

  A blur. A step.

  And then, a crack, clean and final.

  A thud.

  The opponent lay sprawled, unmoving.

  No dazzle. No shout. Just silence. And movement that seemed to come from nowhere.

  From above, even Elder Ming blinked. Director Lian exhaled softly. Chief Meng frowned, eyes narrowing as if trying to catch something he missed. Varian’s face twisted—brief and sour, like a man biting into rot.

  Veylan turned—not to the still-silent elder, but to the seats where Liora stood nearly bouncing in place. Her eyes glowed with joy, hands clasped in front of her chest. His lips tugged upward, faint but real.

  It reminded him of another life—another pair of eyes lit by pride. Long gone.

  For the first time in years, his stride held something close to pride.

  Rhen noticed it immediately.

  His brow furrowed—not in disapproval, but thought. Measuring.

  The stage reset. The elder finally called the result.

  In the honoured seats, Lei Xuanlan’s jaw flexed.

  Elder Ming gave a slow, approving nod.

  A faint wind stirred the edges of the banners, tugging at the silk like restless fingers. Whispers dried up, leaving only wind and heartbeat. It was the stillness before thunder, the hush when something unexplainable begins to shift.

  As the final match of the round ended with a dull thud, the crowd’s attention didn’t linger on the victor. Instead, it turned—quietly, wholly—to the boy sitting still in the back row. Veylan.

  Not as a curiosity. Not as a discarded clan member to be pitied.

  But as something else entirely.

  Elder Ming leaned forward, his voice low, but carrying enough steel to make backs stiffen. “Shouren… this grandson of yours is worth nurturing.”

  Lei Shouren, silver-browed and sharp-nosed, dipped his head slightly, but his gaze flicked sideways—toward the back row where Veylan sat flanked by Liora and Rhen. His throat moved as if swallowing words. Guilt or calculation—it was hard to tell.

  Ming’s voice turned colder. “You already let petty politics ruin one good seedling. I won't tolerate another.”

  Varian, forced to respond, offered a tight smile. “Elder Ming is right, of course. Our Fogwood Branch has supported him from the start. We only wish the best for him.”

  The lie coiled like smoke between their forced smiles.

  Ming scoffed. He didn’t argue.

  Xuanlan shifted, feigning boredom. But a flare of something sharp flickered in his eyes. In all his years, Ming had never once spoken of him like that.

  Never looked at him like that.

  His hand rested on his knee, fingers drumming once. Then again. Too slow to be nervous. Too fast to be still.

  He told himself it didn’t matter. But it did.

  Soon, the third round began. Ten remained.

  The names were called, but only one stirred the crowd. Veylan’s.

  He walked to the centre stage, robe hem trailing in a faint line of dust. His steps were quiet, deliberate—but something in the way his chin lifted, the way his gaze met no one’s, carried weight.

  Liora beamed. If she could've flown to the stage, she would have.

  Veylan allowed himself a breath. A touch of pride rose in his chest. This feeling—he hadn’t tasted it in years. Not since Earth when he still had his mother.

  The boy who had trophies for breakfast and praise for dessert.

  Who painted landscapes in minutes and forgot them just as fast.

  Who learned instruments in days, languages in weeks.

  Who was praised so often he’d stopped hearing the words.

  He remembered that boy now—light, easy, untouchable.

  And for the first time in this world, something of him stirred again.

  The matches began.

  Yet on the centre stage, nothing stirred.

  Veylan stood still. So did his opponent.

  The others fought—clashes, roars—but on that central platform, it was quiet. Unmoving.

  Until four victors emerged: Lian Ruo. Meng Tieshou. Lei Arin. Yun Kel.

  Then Veylan shifted.

  He turned—not to his opponent—but to the elders’ seats, voice ringing clear.

  “I want to face all of them at once in the next round.”

  A collective breath caught.

  And then, without warning—crack. His opponent dropped.

  A single moment. A single move.

  Only Liora clapped. Her joy rang like windchimes through the stunned silence.

  Xuanlan’s lip twitched, while Varian’s face turned even darker. Lei Shouren’s fingers dug into his sleeve.

  Even Elder Ming exhaled, half a sigh, half a murmur. “Arrogant... but he has the capital.”

  Veylan turned to Liora, a sliver of a smile playing on his lips.

  But beside her, Rhen did not smile. His eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but worry.

  Veylan didn’t notice. His blood lightened. His chest unburdened. He liked this feeling.

  Too much.

  He didn’t know. Not yet.

  But the last time he let this part of himself rise, he wasn’t the only one that had paid its price.

  And this world was far more brutal than the last—full of sharp teeth for those who flew too high.

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.