The peach blossoms had long since wilted in the garden of the outer sect. The air carried the staleness of summer's encroaching heat, mingled with the scent of old stone and moss from walls that hadn't been cleaned in years. Jin Wu-ren sat cross-legged within the shadowed interior of the Archive Cavern, where sunlight dared only to trickle in through the cracks in the ceiling.
This place had become his sanctuary. A forgotten storeroom to the clan—but to him, it was the furnace in which he reforged his destiny.
His breathing was steady, shallow. Every exhale was tuned to the ancient rhythm of the "Heart-Soul Meridian Tempering Method", a technique he had once created in his past life, during the early years of his rise to Emperor. Back then, he'd crafted it for disciples who had damaged foundations, a gentle method meant to rebuild what was broken before pushing toward true cultivation.
Now he used it on himself.
His soul core—still bruised and flickering like a half-burned star—quivered beneath his conscious awareness. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, feeding on the trickle of spiritual energy he absorbed through the cavern's weak ambient qi. It was meager, almost laughably so. In his previous life, he wouldn't have spared a single breath in such a thinly-veined spiritual zone. But now… now he was like a drowning man grateful for rainwater.
And yet, the rate at which his cultivation progressed astonished even him.
"Three meridians open… at age five," Wu-ren murmured. "And in conditions worse than a dog's kennel."
The slow crackle of his bones responding to inner energy was accompanied by a faint pulse in the stone beneath him. Even the spiritual veins hidden deep below the compound had begun to respond faintly to his presence, however distant they were.
He allowed himself the smallest of smirks. That same smirk had once preceded the toppling of entire sects.
But the world now was not just stone and cultivation. It was filled with people—and in the Jin Clan, some people were more dangerous than demonic beasts.
A soft footstep at the edge of the cavern drew his attention.
He did not need to look. He'd memorized the pattern of every individual who passed near the cavern. This one was Jin Renshu, third son of Elder Jin Rou.
"Still hiding in here like a worm in the dirt, cousin?" Renshu's voice rang with arrogant contempt.
Wu-ren exhaled, slowly rising to his feet. His robes were coarse, hand-stitched, and slightly too short for his growing frame. Renshu, in contrast, wore silk dyed in vibrant indigo and gold—gifts from his mother's position and his father's pride.
"I find it peaceful," Wu-ren replied mildly. "Unlike the inner courtyards, where peacocks strut and squeal."
Renshu's brow twitched, but he stepped forward, gesturing dismissively at the shelves. "Peaceful? This is a tomb for old papers. But then again, you were always meant for dust and nothing more."
Behind him were two boys—his usual entourage. Jin Dawei and Jin Lu. Neither were as sharp-tongued as Renshu, but they made up for it with eagerness to laugh at his cruel jests.
Wu-ren tilted his head. "I could say the same about your future."
That earned a scowl. "Speak again, and I'll have you whipped for insubordination. Mother's orders still carry weight—even for bastard branches."
That name again. "Mother."
Elder Jin Rou—outer sect matriarch, ruthless cultivator, and iron-handed politician. She'd dominated outer sect affairs since Wu-ren's new birth, pulling strings from behind embroidered screens and manipulating the clan's resources with frightening efficiency.
But her grip wasn't unshakable. Not forever.
"Are you here to posture," Wu-ren asked coolly, "or is there a purpose to your parade?"
Renshu sneered. "You're to appear at the martial assessments in three days."
Wu-ren's eyes narrowed.
Renshu went on, "Grandfather decreed that even waste like you needs to be measured—'for fairness,' he said. But we all know what he's really doing. Your father put in a word, didn't he? Old fool thinks he can raise a wolf out of a rat."
Wu-ren remained silent. He had, in fact, expected something like this. His father, Jin Yao, had recently begun making subtle inquiries into his son's future, asking about potential tutors and outer hall elders who might take Wu-ren under wing.
But it was too soon. Far too soon.
"I'll be there," Wu-ren said.
Renshu turned to leave, satisfied with his little display of dominance.
Wu-ren watched him go, his mind already calculating. He could not afford to reveal too much strength, not yet. But appearing weak could no longer protect him either. He needed to craft an illusion—strength beneath control, improvement under plausible limits.
The assessments would be his first true stage.
His first chance to begin changing how others perceived Jin Wu-ren.
He turned back toward the meditation mat in the center of the cavern. The air was still, save for a soft hum in his ears—the resonance of power beginning to coil tighter around his soul.
---
The morning sun filtered through the layered silks of the pavilion, painting the air in rose-tinted hues. Jin Wu-ren sat quietly beside his mother, Mu Qinglan, his posture straight, expression unreadable—almost regal, despite his childish frame.
The banquet had begun hours ago.
Meant to be a celebration of the blooming plum trees that heralded spring's arrival, the Plum Blossom Banquet was one of the few formal events that allowed outer-branch families to mingle with the higher halls. A chance to show off children, reinforce alliances, and curry favor. In theory.
In practice, it was a battlefield dressed in brocade.
Mu Qinglan wore a smile thinner than rice paper as she entertained trivial conversation with a matron from a distant side-branch. Her eyes kept darting to Elder Jin Rou, whose seat was just a little too high on the platform, her children lined up like ornaments beside her.
Especially that peacock of a child—Jin Renshu.
Arrogant as always, with his golden sash tied deliberately high, and a smug smile he'd no doubt practiced in the mirror. Wu-ren studied him silently, sipping plum blossom tea that was mostly water. He was only five, after all.
He know this kind of banquet from his former life. He recognized the pattern: pride paraded as virtue, hierarchy masquerading as culture. It was the same in every sect, every noble family. The names changed, the poison didn't.
This, he thought, is the kind of rot that festers under polished marble.
Jin Renshu approached, flanked by two older boys and a servant girl carrying a lacquered box. The swagger in his gait could've knocked over a mountain goat. He stopped right in front of Wu-ren and gave a shallow, mocking bow.
"Cousin Wu-ren," he said, voice syrupy with feigned respect. "I heard you've been playing near the archives. So scholarly for one so small!"
A few nearby guests chuckled.
Mu Qinglan's knuckles turned white against her teacup.
Jin Wu-ren smiled slightly. He did not rise. "The archives are quiet," he said. "Peaceful. Less noise. Fewer dogs barking."
The servant girl stifled a laugh. Renshu's cheeks colored.
He recovered quickly and gestured to the box. "As one of the younger clan children, surely you haven't had the chance to make a formal offering yet. This year, I've brought an original calligraphy scroll in my own hand. Grandfather will see it later. Perhaps you'd like to see the quality of true talent?"
The boy lifted the lid with a flourish. Inside, a golden-threaded scroll shimmered with meticulous brushstrokes—a poem about rising plum blossoms and filial piety.
Several elders murmured approval.
But Wu-ren didn't look at the scroll. His eyes, ancient and unreadable, locked onto Renshu's. "An elegant brush," he said coolly. "But your final character is wrong."
A stillness fell over the nearby crowd. One of the elders leaned forward.
Renshu blinked. "Impossible."
Wu-ren stood, slowly, like a prince leaving a throne. "The last character—'ren'—should be written with the left radical simplified. You used the ceremonial form. That form denotes sorrow, not honor."
He stepped closer to the scroll, and tapped the character in question with a dainty finger.
"It's a funeral script," he said. "Fitting, for a talent already dead."
Gasps erupted. One of the matriarchs dropped her teacup.
Renshu flushed red, then pale. "You—you're lying! I—"
Several elders were already muttering, comparing the character in question to others they'd seen. Elder Song, a sharp-tongued calligraphy traditionalist, spoke up. "He's correct. The boy used the archaic mourning script."
More gasps. A few chuckles.
Elder Jin Rou's eyes narrowed into slits.
Wu-ren turned back to Renshu with a calm smile. "But I suppose even gold thread can't hide a cracked foundation."
The scroll box snapped shut. The servant girl looked like she wanted to disappear.
Mu Qinglan looked down at her son as he retook his seat with the calm of a general returning from war. She reached over and touched his arm. There were tears in her eyes.
"Where did you learn that script?" she whispered.
Wu-ren smiled faintly, sipping his tea again. "From a dog-eared scroll… in a place where no one barked."
The banquet had ended with Jin Renshu's scroll mysteriously vanishing before it could reach the main elders. In its place, a hastily written new offering from a different cousin had somehow taken its spot. The rumors that spread afterward—that Renshu had copied his characters without understanding their meaning—tainted his reputation for months.
But Wu-ren said nothing. He simply returned to his quiet corners. He let the wind scatter his name like plum blossoms in the breeze.
The banquet had shifted from a quiet, posturing celebration to a simmering battlefield of reputation and honor.
Jin Renshu's face had turned a vivid shade of crimson. The young boy clenched his fists at his sides, his previously smug posture wilted under the watchful eyes of dozens of clan members who now wore expressions ranging from amused to speculative. The damage had been done.
"Is this how the heir of Elder Jin Rou behaves?" someone murmured.
"A shame," another whispered. "So easily provoked… by a toddler?"
Elder Jin Rou herself stood as if rooted in place, her fan trembling ever so slightly. Behind the serene facade of her carefully maintained expression, Wu-ren detected the shift in her aura—a barely contained fury, not at her son, but at him. A five-year-old had just cracked the veneer she had so carefully painted over her lineage.
Renshu, unwilling to surrender, pointed a trembling finger. "You—!"
But Wu-ren had already turned his attention elsewhere, disinterested.
It was deliberate and cutting.
Nothing infuriates the arrogant more than irrelevance.
Instead, Wu-ren strolled past a stunned group of elders, heading straight toward the table where his parents sat. His mother, Mu Qinglan, looked pale but proud. Jin Yao, ever the man of few words, nodded silently as Wu-ren approached.
He bowed low, respectful and innocent. "Mother, Father, forgive this child's disturbance. I did not mean to create a scene."
Mu Qinglan touched her son's cheek, her voice gentle but tight with emotion. "You did nothing wrong."
Her eyes, however, flicked toward Elder Jin Rou. There was steel in them.
Elder Liang Zhi, Renshu's father and Jin Rou's husband, finally stepped forward to try to restore their face.
"Let us not make too much of childish matters," he said with a thin smile. "Cousins will be cousins."
Wu-ren met his gaze. "Yes, Elder Liang. Cousins indeed. And sometimes, even cousins must learn when to step down."
There was a pause. Then, laughter. It began with one of the outer elders and spread through the crowd like wildfire. Polite. Restrained. But unmistakably directed.
Jin Renshu, defeated and humiliated, turned on his heel and stormed away, trailed by his embarrassed father. Elder Jin Rou did not follow. She stood unmoving, her sharp gaze never leaving Wu-ren.
When the banquet resumed, it did so with an entirely different atmosphere.
Where once Wu-ren had been dismissed as the quiet son of a minor outer elder, he was now being watched. Curiosity sparked in the eyes of other clansmen, especially the elders. Some looked wary. A few intrigued. A handful seemed calculating.
And Wu-ren noted each and every one.
He returned to his seat and watched the blossoms fall.
His position in the clan had shifted.
Subtly.
Irrevocably.
That night, Mu Qinglan tucked him into bed with an expression he hadn't seen on her before. Not just maternal love, but pride. And worry.
"You must be careful," she whispered, brushing a hand through his hair. "There are many in this clan who don't take kindly to being embarrassed."
Wu-ren looked up at her, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
"I know, Mother. I won't let them hurt us."
It was not a child's reassurance.
It was a vow.
Later, as the household fell into silence, Wu-ren sat cross-legged within the Archive Cavern beneath the old prayer hall. The candlelight danced against ancient scrolls and crumbling ledgers. The place felt more alive than ever before.
He reviewed the evening not with triumph, but calculation.
His presence was now impossible to ignore.
More importantly, Elder Jin Rou would not forget.
He would need to be ready.
But that was fine.
He had been preparing for war since the day he was reborn.
And the Plum Blossom Banquet was only the first move.