The sky above the Xiao Kingdom remained overcast even though the rain had stopped. The sun hid behind a shroud of gray clouds, leaving only a pale light that washed over the city streets. Hun Yao stepped out of the inn, walking through narrow alleys beside the marketplace—places where spiritual aura was faint, yet human life still pulsed.
The hum of the market gradually faded behind him, replaced by the stench of stale alcohol and garbage in the shabby backstreets. Hun Yao walked the stone-paved road with light but cautious steps. His mind was tangled—trying to connect the threads between the mysterious pill, the Shadow Night Sect, and his sealed meridians.
His steps halted when he heard a faint cry from the corner of an alley.
"Give me the money! Now!"
"If you don't, don't blame us!"
Hun Yao turned. At the end of the alley, three large men with bloodshot eyes and liquor-stained breath surrounded a small child. The boy wore a ragged robe, his body trembling in fear. One of the men grabbed the boy's collar and lifted him off the ground.
"P-please… I don't have any money…" the child whimpered weakly.
Hun Yao didn't wait. He moved forward, each step calm yet heavy with pressure. The thugs didn't notice his presence until a cold voice rang out behind them.
"Let him go."
Three drunken faces turned at once. The man holding the boy sneered, his lips curling into a mocking grin. "Huh? What did you just say, brat?"
Hun Yao didn't answer. He simply raised his hand toward them—and in a blink, he dashed forward and struck the man squarely in the face. The thug was hurled backward, slamming into the wall and collapsing unconscious. The other two stumbled back, knees trembling, as if their bodies instinctively feared Hun Yao's aura.
"A… a Qi user?" one of them stammered, before both turned tail and ran down the alley.
Hun Yao approached the child still crouched on the ground. The boy looked up with wide, fearful eyes—yet a faint glimmer of awe flickered within them. Hun Yao knelt beside him.
"Are you all right?"
The boy nodded slowly, tears brimming. "T-thank you… big brother…"
As Hun Yao reached out to help him stand, his thoughts drifted back to the past. He saw himself as a small boy again—body bruised, kicked and spat upon by the disciples of other sects. They mocked his mixed blood, jeered at his tattered robes.
"Trash! What servant's son dares set foot in the inner courtyard of my sector?"
Before the next kick landed, a large hand caught the attacker's leg mid-air.
A man stood tall, wearing an old robe with a small family insignia on his chest. His eyes were sharp yet filled with warmth as he looked at young Hun Yao.
"Father…" the boy whispered, trembling.
His father—a low-ranked cultivator who had sacrificed everything so his son could study despite their lack of name or power—said nothing. He simply carried Hun Yao away from the crowd, holding him tight as if to shield him from the world itself.
Now, in the narrow alley of the Xiao Kingdom, Hun Yao looked again at the small boy he had just saved. That frightened face, the blood trickling from his lip… it was all too familiar.
He gently patted the boy's head. "Be strong. This world shows no mercy to the weak—but that's no reason to become like them."
The boy looked up at him again, eyes firmer this time. He bit his lip and nodded. "I… I'll become strong, big brother."
Hun Yao smiled faintly. "Good."
He slipped two silver coins into the boy's palm. "Go. Buy yourself something to eat. And don't come back here."
Without another word, Hun Yao turned and walked away. His steps were steady, though his heart felt a little warmer. He knew he couldn't change his past—but perhaps, he could change someone else's future.
After leaving the alley, Hun Yao wandered back into the awakening marketplace. The scent of incense and spiritual dust filled the air. Merchants shouted over each other, promoting elixirs, weapons, and talismans said to grant longevity or empower the soul. But to Hun Yao, it was all just noise—distractions that masked deeper mysteries.
He followed a narrow path leading to a small artifact stall, old but well-kept. Behind the counter cluttered with strange items stood a bald old man whose eyes were sharp as an eagle's.
"What can I do for you, young man?" the merchant asked curtly.
Hun Yao took out his jade artifact—the one he'd found in the ruins of his home. It resembled a cup, with a conical key-like base and faint carvings of dragons and swirling clouds. He placed it on the table carefully.
"I want to know what this is. Its origin—or its purpose."
The merchant frowned, putting on a pair of spiritual magnifiers. He examined the jade from several angles, channeling a thin stream of Qi into it. After a few minutes, he sighed and shook his head.
"Fascinating… but I've never seen anything like it. The carvings are ancient—perhaps from before the Seven Dynasties—but it doesn't emit any normal Qi resonance. Maybe… it hasn't been activated. Or perhaps it's not meant for human use."
Hun Yao stared silently, then put the jade back into his pouch. With a slight bow, he left the stall without another word. Failure after failure weighed on him, but he knew—its time would come.
He took another path, one that led to the lower parts of the city, where most cultivators dared not tread. There he found the "Thousand-Year Tavern", an old wooden building stained black with age, its red lanterns dimly glowing. The air inside was thick with smoke, cheap wine, and coarse laughter.
Hun Yao stepped in. Several heads turned, eyeing his worn clothes and the calm aura around him. He ignored them and sat quietly in a corner, ordering a jar of old wine.
The bartender—a weary middle-aged woman with sharp eyes—served him without a word. As Hun Yao sipped, the bitter taste spread across his tongue—not from the drink, but from the memories and burdens he carried.
"Heh… look at that skinny kid sitting alone. Thinks he's some righteous hero from the Sky Tower, huh?" one of the four drunk thugs in the center of the room jeered.
His friends burst out laughing. Hun Yao didn't react. He simply took another sip.
"What, cat got your tongue? Maybe he's mute—or just a coward," another sneered, standing up and approaching him.
He raised his fist high—but before he could strike, Hun Yao moved. In an instant, his hand shot up, blocking the attack with an open palm. A loud CRACK echoed as the thug's arm was flung backward.
"AAARGH—!"
"Bastard! Kill him!" one of them shouted.
The remaining three rushed Hun Yao together. The tavern erupted into chaos.
Hun Yao darted between tables, evading, blocking, and countering with clean, efficient movements. No fancy techniques—just precision and speed far beyond normal men. One by one, they fell, groaning and bruised.
Though victorious, Hun Yao wasn't unscathed. A shard of wood had pierced his shoulder, blood dripped from his lip, and his breathing was ragged.
The tavern fell silent. Every eye watched the mysterious youth who now sat back in his seat, his body weary but his gaze unwavering. He gestured slightly toward the bartender.
The woman approached quietly, placing a cloth and a bowl of warm water before him. Hun Yao wiped the blood from his face and asked softly:
"Do these thugs gather here every day?"
She smiled faintly. "On dry days, they usually hang around the lower docks. But today… they all came early. Maybe because they 'got an order'."
Hun Yao's eyes narrowed. "An order?"
The bartender lowered her head, whispering almost inaudibly. "If you value your life, don't ask who paid them. But… I can tell by your eyes—you're not going to back down, are you?"
Hun Yao sighed. "No."
She refilled his jar. "Then may this wine mask the scent of your blood. And may your steps not stray. You're no ordinary boy."
Hun Yao drank the rest of his wine in one gulp, then rose to his feet. His wounds still bled, but his eyes burned brighter than before. He stepped out of the tavern, leaving faint drops of blood on the wooden floor.
In the distance, dark clouds gathered over the sky. A storm was coming.
But Hun Yao… he would keep walking.