Han Zhenwu told Xie Tianhun everything. He revealed the hidden sites of the Xue and He clans, where he suspected they kept their resources. He described how the two patriarchs had schemed, using his son's love for their daughters as a way to get close and poison him. He spoke of their ambitions, of how they aimed to take over the Han clan through the bloodline of his son's children.
He spun the web carefully, every word placed like a blade. At the end of it, Xie Tianhun leaned back in his chair, arms folded, and gave a slow nod.
"I'll send men to investigate all of this. If it checks out, the Empire will move. And you'll be paid handsomely for what you've given us."
Han Zhenwu's lips curled into a faint, grim smile. "One more thing," he said, voice cold. "He Ruying—I want her killed by me. You can take the patriarchs, you can slaughter their clans, but that backstabbing filth will not die by anyone's hand but mine. She betrayed me and my son. And you know very well how I treat those who betray me."
Xie Tianhun didn't bother arguing. To him, it was irrelevant. He'd be claiming the bigger fish anyway. If Han Zhenwu wanted to slit one throat for himself, so be it. The reward and glory of crushing two entire clans—especially if demonic ties were exposed—would be his. That was enough.
And while these schemes unfolded in the Empire's capital, far from the golden halls and poisoned words, Han Zhennan was inside the inheritance grounds.
The inheritance was hidden in a pocket dimension, a space severed from the world. Only masters of the spatial path could create such a place. Entry was limited: either by holding a key left by the original owner or by seizing one scattered in the world for those brave—or foolish—enough to fight for it.
Han Zhennan entered days ago, using the pendant his father had pressed into his hand. Almost immediately, blood beasts charged him, howling monstrosities of flesh and rage. Traps, just as his father had warned, sprang from walls and floors, testing his reflexes and strength. At first, it was manageable. But soon he reached what his father had told him was the end of the first trial.
A vast chamber opened before him. At its center, puppets stood frozen, lightning crackling over their featureless forms.
The instant he stepped forward, they moved.
Two darted from the sides, blades for arms slicing through the air. Han Zhennan twisted, sidestepped, blade flashing in a counter. But then he noticed something strange—the puppet before him stopped mid-swing the moment he turned his eyes on it.
"What…?"
Another attack came from behind. He spun to block—and again, the puppet froze the instant his gaze locked on it. A searing pain ripped across his back as yet another blade slashed him from the blind spot he couldn't cover.
In panic, Han Zhennan threw up a lightning barrier. Sparks exploded, repelling the attackers. The ones in front of him remained frozen, immobile under his gaze. But he could feel the others creeping closer whenever they slipped out of his sight.
He tested it—watching one puppet, then looking away. As soon as his eyes left, it lunged.
"They only move… when I'm not watching them…"
He tried to hug the walls, keeping them all in view, but a burning pain lashed across his skin the instant he touched the stone. The inheritance wouldn't let him cheat.
That left one option: fight through.
He dashed forward. Puppets lunged from the edges of his vision. His blade flashed, carving through arms, legs, torsos—but the things reattached, limbs snapping back into place as long as the core remained intact. He rolled, spun, struck, lightning exploding around him as he kept his eyes darting in every direction, refusing to give the enemy his blind side.
By the time he staggered to the exit, sweat drenched him, his breathing ragged. "Damn it, Father… you didn't tell me anything about this."
He knew now: this place shifted. Each heir faced different trials. Records were useless—the labyrinth twisted its form for every challenger.
He pushed open the gate at the end of the chamber.
A massive statue loomed ahead. A gryphon, its wings folded tight against its sides, carved of stone and wrapped in arcs of lightning. Its sheer presence sent shivers down his spine.
Han Zhennan drew his blade slowly, warily. He had never heard of this test in his father's records either.
The statue shuddered, vibrating violently.
Then a voice boomed like thunder.
"Another one of that old man's filthy blood. I will relish your death, boy."
Han Zhennan froze, gripping his blade tighter. "…Did you just talk?"
The gryphon's stone beak curled into what looked like a mocking sneer. "Of course. His bloodline grows more idiotic with every generation. Yes, boy—I am speaking. But I have no interest in wasting my endless suffering with chatter. Step forward. I am the first guardian of this inheritance."
Han Zhennan did not lower his blade. The gryphon's thunder had barely faded before he pressed the advantage of speech—if this guardian was loath to fight, he could at least learn what it guarded.
"Wait," he said, voice even. "You said others met guardians before. There's nothing in my clan's records about that. Perhaps they met a different guardian?"
The carved beast's stone beak clicked, a sound like flint on flint. For a long moment it watched him with those lightning-laced eyes as if weighing whether words were worth the effort. Then, as though forced by some old command, it answered.
"No," it said, tone grudging. "They have not. I am the first guardian. You must pass me before you may meet the other two." Its wing twitched and the gryphon pointed—talon sweeping toward a heavy wooden door and, beyond it, a low table upon which lay scrolls and a chest brimming with Aether shards that glowed faintly in the dimness. "It is because they never chose that."
Han Zhennan frowned. "Chose what?"
The gryphon's voice dropped into a slow explanation, patient and contemptuous at once. "After each test a guardian will reward you. You may take the prize there and leave with your life. No one does. They come for everything—greed blinds them. If you leave early you are alive but you forfeit the inheritance you sought. The heirs were sent here to claim what remains of the family's power; to leave is to be as good as dead in their eyes. That is the nature of humans: greedy, stubborn, foolish. A few have understood but it was too late for them or too early and they were killed for being unworthy, but most press on regardless." It spat the last word like a curse. "Some are as mindless as dogs; a few show a sliver of understanding—like the rare breed that thinks before it dies. But mostly they continue, and they die."
Han Zhennan studied the chest, the scrolls, the door—then met the gryphon's disdainful gaze. "Did anyone succeed in your test?" he asked.
The guardian's expression darkened; whatever reluctance had kept it speaking now hardened. "Yes. A few. But there are also those who never met me because they were expelled for breaking rules or using demonic rites. Others reached the later halls and perished on the way to the second trial." The words came, not with pride, but with the tired certainty of something that had watched countless attempts and counted countless failures. The gryphon's tone made it plain: this place remembered folly, and it had no sympathy.
Han Zhennan pressed on, sensing the void of omission. "Is your test the easiest of the guardians?"
"Subjective," the gryphon replied, almost impatiently. "It depends on your path, your style of battle. What is simple to one may be the undoing of another. None of the tests are easy. Trust me: I will make sure you die in mine."
The fierceness of that promise should have chilled him. Instead Han Zhennan's curiosity deepened. He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "What are you? A blood beast? A living statue? Did the creator of this place fashion you?"
A flash of something like amusement—or contempt—rolled across the gryphon's carved features. "No," it said sharply. "I am not a mere blood beast. I was not made by that filthy bastard,"—the gryphon spat the name like loathing—"and I am not a statue. You humans have names for stages of power; you call them CoreForged beasts. We call it the Awakening stage and call who reached it an Awakened beast."
Han Zhennan's brow lifted. "The Awakening stage?"
The gryphon's chest crackled as it spoke, each word ringing with slow authority. "Yes. The Awakening stage. We rise from beasts to something more. We unlock more of our minds—learn speech, thought, artifice—yet we remain far above the worms who hunt with tools and schemes. We can learn your tongue and speak it. We can reason. But we are superior." Its beak curled as lightning danced along the carved feathers. "Or at least I am."
Han Zhennan did not flinch. "Then how come you serve a worm?" The question slipped out with bluntness; if the guardian was a living, conscious force, why would it be bound to a human master?
The gryphon laughed then—a cracked, ugly sound that split the hush of the hall. The statue's shell took on the tiniest of fissures. "Hahahahaha," it spat, the sound raw with disdain. "You filthy scum—your tongue is as sharp as that bastard's. I suppose it is inevitable your blood would inherit his arrogance. I would do the world a favor by wiping your damned line clean."
Han Zhennan's grip tightened. He had expected rancor; the depth of it surprised him. He asked the question that burned behind many others, trying to keep the edge from his voice. "You keep mentioning someone—your hatred, your insults. I am guessing you mean my ancestor who created this place. Why do you hate him and us?"
For a moment the gryphon's eyes narrowed; the carved stone seemed to listen to something only it could hear. Then it gave a hard, clipped chuckle and shook itself as if to shrug. "I am not required to answer questions that do not concern the conditions of this trial," it said, curt and final. "How about you take the test? I do not spend more of my time in your presence SO STEP FORWARD AND TAKE THE TEST." The beast then lowered it voice as if giving it's self patience"I can't wait to hear you squirm and scream."
Han Zhennan's jaw worked. He could press, pry more answers from the guardian, pry at the seams of its history—but the beast's impatience was real, and the inheritance would not grant more time for parley.
He squared his shoulders and lifted his blade an inch—not as a threaten but as a signal that he was ready. The questions crowded his mind, hungry for answers, but the path forward was simple: survive the test, claim or refuse the treasure, and learn what the inheritance would allow him to learn next.
He decided, for now, to squeeze every scrap of knowledge he could out of the moment before action. He stepped forward, voice steady. "Very well. Before this begins—there are more I must ask."