There was a village nestled deep within a vast forest. Once a place of laughter and joy, it now stood silent and empty. The air was thick with the scent of death, and the once lively roads were now stained with blood. Only one figure remained standing in the midst of the destruction—a boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen, his body covered in the blood of his victims.
The sunlight touched his face, and he instinctively reached up to feel the streak of blood that marred his skin. He wiped it away, the blood smearing further across his hand, but he made no move to clean it fully.
The boy surveyed the aftermath, his eyes scanning the carnage around him. Old, young, and even children—no one had been spared. Their throats slit, their lives extinguished by his hands. Rivers of blood flowed through the village as he walked, the task that had been ordered of him now complete. "Pull out their roots," they had told him. No survivors.
Though a boy in age, he was more than capable of carrying out such an order. No one would believe that a child could execute such brutality, but the reality was undeniable. He had done it, and he had done it well.
As he walked through the village, a feeling of exhaustion crept into his bones. He was tired, so tired of the endless violence. He longed for peace, for an end to the bloodshed. His sword, still covered in the blood of the innocent, seemed to hum with a cold, indifferent life of its own. The blue gemstone at its hilt gleamed in the sunlight, as if eager for more blood to spill.
He entered a dilapidated home, his boots pressing down into the stains left by the massacre. The smell of blood lingered in the air, thick and nauseating. He scrunched his nose, trying to ignore it. He had grown accustomed to death, but the smell still made him feel ill. As he walked through the hallway, he heard a faint sound.
A rustling, a shuffling noise. The boy's heart quickened. He tightened his grip on the sword, preparing himself to kill once again. Then, from a closet, a small figure emerged—another boy, no older than six or seven, his hands gripping a heavy sword far too large for him.
The boy's eyes were filled with pure hatred, the kind of hatred only someone who had lost everything could possess. He dragged the sword forward, trembling from the weight, but the look in his eyes never faltered. The boy in black froze, staring at him, his heart tightening at the sight.
The scene began to fade, like mist in the morning sun. The boy blinked and suddenly, the world around him changed. He was no longer in that village. The blood, the death, the pain—it all vanished, and in its place, he was back in his humble hut, lying in a chair, drenched in sweat. His breath came in heavy gasps, his heart racing in his chest.
Li Yang sat up, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to his mind. The eyes of the child—the ones filled with hatred—still haunted him. Even after three years, those eyes never left him. They followed him, reminding him constantly of the monster he had become.
He stood up slowly, his muscles aching. He walked to a basin of cold water and splashed it over his face, hoping to wash away the remnants of the nightmare. As he dried his face, his gaze fell on the sword resting near his chair. He reached out and gently patted it, almost as if in greeting.
The sword trembled slightly in response, its excitement palpable. Li Yang smirked faintly and spoke to it softly, as though addressing an old friend.
"…I don't know if I can survive this time. Are you ready to be unsheathed after two years?"
He hadn't drawn the sword in two years. It was both a weapon and a reminder of the life he had left behind—the life of blood and death. The sword trembled again, as if eager to taste blood once more.
Li Yang smiled wryly. "Looks like it's time."
Just as he was about to take the sword in his hand, a loud cry echoed through the air. His eyes darted to the window, and he saw a majestic eagle circling above his hut. The bird was a rare beast, known only to a few. It flew toward him, dropping something from its claws. A piece of animal skin fell into his hands.
He unfurled it carefully. The high-quality animal skin was rare, often used to send important messages across the continent. He read through the contents, his eyes narrowing as he reached the last line.
The pieces have started moving.
A slow smile crept onto his lips. Things were beginning to fall into place. He could feel it in his bones—the stirrings of fate, the shifting of power.
His thoughts turned to the Li Family Clan. His expression darkened slightly as he placed the animal skin down. The time had come to pay them back. They had given him shelter for the past two years, and it was time to repay that debt. But that repayment was not going to be easy.
He rose from his seat and turned back to his sword, which had risen from the floor and hovered eagerly in the air, ready to be wielded once more. Li Yang took it in hand, feeling the cold steel hum with a familiar energy.
The door to the hut slammed shut behind him as he stepped into the unknown.
Li Family Yard
Inside the Li Family's grand estate, the atmosphere was tense. The Grand Elder held a piece of animal skin in his hands, his face paling as he read the contents. The once-mighty Li Family, one of the three most prestigious clans, was now facing an unprecedented crisis.
The Yun and Zhang families, long rivals to the Li family, had joined forces and began to strangle the Li family's access to crucial resources. The alchemy association, which had always supplied the Li Family with the pills needed to maintain their dominance, was now withholding their products. The other families had grown bold, claiming that the Li Family's younger generation was weak and unworthy of the resources. They were prepared to buy the remaining pills at double the price.
The Li Family elders were furious, but they had no choice but to agree to a proposed competition—a battle between the younger generations of the three clans to determine who was worthy of receiving the coveted resources.
But there was a problem. The Li Family's younger generation was outmatched. Li Zheng, the pride of the family, had yet to break through to the General Realm, while the other two families boasted geniuses who had already surpassed the Mortal Realm.
Li Zheng, standing at the back of the room, wore a smug smile, his arms crossed in arrogance.
"A clan competition?" he scoffed. "I'll defeat them all. I'll show them all who the true heir of the Li Family is."
The elders exchanged glances, their expressions filled with concern. They all knew that Li Zheng, despite his arrogance, was outmatched.
The Grand Elder slammed the animal skin onto the table, cursing the ancestors of the Yun and Zhang families. They had orchestrated this entire situation, and the Li Family was caught in the middle.
What the Grand Elder didn't know was that there was another player in this game—one who had been watching from the shadows, ready to strike when the time was right. The boy from the forest, the boy with the sword—the one who had left blood and death in his wake.
And now, everything was set in motion.
The final act was drawing near.