The Plum Blossom Banquet had ended, but the storm it left behind had only just begun to gather. In the days that followed, Jin Wu-ren found himself under far more scrutiny than ever before. Whispers crept like ivy through the halls of the Jin outer compound. Servants who once dismissed him now watched with wide eyes. Fellow disciples gave him wider berth or tried to sidle close with awkward smiles. Even the elders, previously disinterested, had begun murmuring about the "strange turn" at the banquet.
But it was not flattery or fear that occupied Wu-ren's mind.
In the dim quiet of the Archive Cavern, with incense burning low and the pale light of spirit stones flickering across the scroll-lined walls, he sat in deep meditation. His posture was still childlike—legs crossed, arms folded over his knees—but the energy around him had changed. It pulsed faintly, a rhythm like a heartbeat growing stronger, slower, more deliberate with each day.
His soul core had stabilized.
Only slightly. Still fractured, still riddled with imperfections—but enough for him to no longer fear sudden collapse when circulating qi.
He opened his eyes.
Golden threads of energy dissipated from his pupils.
"So… it seems I can now fully circulate the first stage of the Tempest Vein Cycle," he muttered to himself, fingers flexing slightly.
The Tempest Vein Cycle was an ancient cultivation technique. He'd learned it in his previous life from a fragment of a broken jade slip found in the tomb of a mad sword cultivator. Its complexity had made it obscure to many, but Tian Yao had mastered it in thirty days. That was when he still had the strength of a mid-stage Earth Immortal and the soul sense to rearrange the flow patterns instantly.
Now? It had taken him over half a year to reconstruct the basic threads of it in a mortal child's body.
But the advantage was clear. Even the most talented youth in the outer sect wouldn't recognize the meridian routing, nor understand the subtle wind-aspect manipulation the technique required. The Jin clan's common foundation techniques were broad and effective—but not subtle. Not precise.
He sighed.
Still too slow.
"I need more," he murmured. "Faster, deeper cycles. I need to reach Qi Condensation before the season turns."
His small hand touched the stone floor. The cold soothed his palm.
Another thought pressed in his mind—his mother.
Ever since the banquet, Mu Qinglan had become the focus of quiet admiration and overt jealousy. Her position had risen, yes—but so had the envy of those who wished to see her brought low. Elder Jin Rou had not made another move, but the silence only made Wu-ren more wary.
Something was building.
He could feel it.
The days passed, and Wu-ren returned to routine. As much as routine meant anything for a child with the soul of an emperor.
He rose early, before the sun, and practiced in the mist-choked groves at the edge of the estate. He practiced slow breathwork disguised as childlike play, deepening his control of qi. He mimicked innocent balance games, training stance precision, movement control, and subtle meridian pressure application. His fellow disipline ignored him, assuming him odd or slow.
That was fine. He preferred it.
His body had grown leaner. Still slight, still immature—but he could feel strength returning to his limbs. His soul core, though cracked, no longer felt like a brittle shell. Now, it pulsed with heat each time he completed a cycle of the Tempest Vein.
He avoided drawing attention during clan instruction periods. He failed basic exercises deliberately. He pretended to forget qi sense control. When sparring was required, he allowed himself to be knocked down, albeit with exaggerated flailing to look convincing.
But one cannot hide true strength forever.
One morning, he found himself standing at the edge of the western pavilion, watching a practice session between Jin Renshu and a pair of clan brats. Their movements were crude, their shouting overblown. Wu-ren's eyes narrowed slightly.
Renshu had improved.
Only slightly, but it was enough to be noticed. Someone had trained him privately.
A ripple of discomfort passed through Wu-ren. If Renshu grew too much too quickly, and Jin Rou continued to back him, then the balance of the outer compound would tilt again. He couldn't allow that. Not without setting up defenses.
Not without deeper preparation.
He turned away from the courtyard and headed back toward the Archive Cavern.
It was only as he rounded the corner that he sensed someone else nearby.
Two figures. Breathing hidden, qi suppressed.
Assassins?
No. Too clumsy. Not lethal intent.
He paused. Closed his eyes.
Listened.
"…He really thinks he's special now, doesn't he?" a girl's voice whispered.
"He showed up Renshu in front of everyone. If that were me, I'd have been whipped."
"It's only 'cause his mother cried to the elders. You know how some elder spoils her."
Wu-ren exhaled slowly. Familiar voices. Daughters of minor stewards. The gossip network of the outer estate.
He turned and walked past without speaking.
The girls shrieked and scattered like startled birds.
Not assassins, then. Just trash.
The breeze rustled low through the moss-covered tiles of the outer hall's roofs as Wu-ren sat cross-legged on a worn mat inside the Archive Cavern. A single talisman glowed faintly near the entrance—his homemade ward. It wouldn't stop someone from entering, but it would give him enough time to pretend he was simply resting or reading.
He didn't dare attempt true meditation inside his home. Even as a five-year-old, he knew how fragile trust was—especially when his mother's standing was so easily threatened. So, day after day, Wu-ren sneaked into the Archive Cavern at dusk. The winding path of old prayer stones hid his tiny footprints, and the stone slab that concealed the entrance was light enough for his body to shift with effort. At this rate, he could enter and exit within three breaths.
Tonight, the soul core inside his dantian pulsed irregularly—broken, yes, but not silent. It was like a frostbitten flame, licking the edges of his spiritual veins, slowly thawing them back to life.
He lowered his breathing.
One. Two. Three.
Each breath deeper than the last, his internal vision narrowing to the damaged spiral of silver and ash that churned in the center of his being.
He began the process of Flow Harmonization, a basic technique in his former life—so fundamental that it was taught to outer sect initiates within their first season. But the version he used now wasn't the Jin Clan's simplified chant. It was older, denser, and written in runes forgotten by this continent.
He had first seen it carved into the bones of a sky leviathan—deep beneath the Jade Crater where he'd once spent a year in seclusion after his first ascension. That memory felt like a hallucination now: soaring through lightning storms, chanting while suspended above molten rivers, his flesh unraveling and reweaving itself into a body that could withstand the tribulations of the upper realms.
But now... he was a boy. A mortal child. His bones soft, his veins narrow. His soul core battered like cracked glass.
And yet... he was progressing.
Too fast.
Faster than he should, faster than even his immortal body had allowed in its first birth. He could feel threads of spirit energy converging on him each time he practiced. It was like the air itself remembered who he was. The resonance. The weight.
Wu-ren opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the faint light.
Why? he thought, eyes narrowing. Why is this world yielding to me again? Is it just memory? Or... something deeper?
He hadn't been granted a golden finger. No divine artifact had followed him into this rebirth. If anything, the heavens themselves had tried to obliterate his soul when he perished during the tribulation. The backlash had splintered his core and nearly dissolved his consciousness.
So what was this thread of power returning to him?
Some latent echo? A karmic rebound?
He rose slowly, his small frame unsteady but balanced. His inner reserves were still shallow, but now they churned with coherent qi—a pale silver mist circling his dantian. In his former life, he would've scoffed at such progress. But here, now, he knew it was a miracle.
He was almost at Qi Condensation First Layer.
At five years old.
Unheard of.
He wouldn't advance yet, though. Not until he created a masking technique.
His father, Jin Yao, might turn a blind eye. But others wouldn't. Elder Jin Rou was always watching. And the last thing Wu-ren wanted was to be dragged into a public test or thrown into the inner disciple trials before he was ready.
So he took out the torn page he had hidden behind the stone wall earlier. It was one of the scattered remnants from the outer sect's discarded scrolls—a technique on spiritual veil casting. Normally, only spirit cultivators above the third layer could even attempt it.
But Wu-ren had once used it to cloak his entire army.
He traced the glyphs with narrowed eyes, then exhaled.
"I must adapt it... scale it down... just enough to hide my presence."
The technique required using overlapping layers of spiritual aura like paintbrush strokes. But without a stable core, his "ink" was limited. Still, if he compressed the effect—focused the suppression only on his dantian and pulse—it could work.
Another hour passed as he practiced, each failed attempt lashing tiny strands of qi across his inner veins. But by the fifth attempt, his aura began to flicker. Disappear. Fade.
He smiled, eyes gleaming.
It wouldn't fool a Nascent Soul cultivator, but to those around him? It would make him seem exactly as he should be—a frail five-year-old with no foundation at all.
By the time he emerged from the cavern, dusk had turned to full night. The Jin Compound shimmered under starlight, lanterns bobbing in the corridors as servants made their final rounds.
He didn't go straight home.
Instead, he veered toward the bamboo grove, a quiet spot near the rear walls of the outer courtyard. There, on the edges of silence, he could still hear the whispers of older disciples returning from training. He crouched low and listened.
"Did you hear?" one said, voice full of glee. "They're hosting another assessment before the inner sect trials."
"Another one? Didn't Elder Jin Rou already handpick her list?"
"Apparently not. Some of the elders protested. They want more flexibility."
Wu-ren's eyes narrowed.
He didn't care about entering the inner sect—not yet. But he cared about the politics behind the test. If other elders were resisting Jin Rou's influence, that meant she wasn't unopposed.
That was useful.
He crept back to his small courtyard a while later. His mother had already turned in, but a warm bowl of broth sat covered on the stone table. He lifted the lid, the steam rising gently in the cold night.
Mu Qinglan never asked him about his days. She was too used to disappointment.
But she always left food.
And that, in its quiet way, was love.
The next morning broke gray and damp.
Rain hadn't yet fallen, but the air was wet with that kind of mist that clung to hair and sleeves. Jin Wu-ren stood quietly in the narrow alley between two storerooms, eyes closed, feeling the pull of energy through his body—slow, deliberate, alive.
He'd slept little. His mind still spun from the night before, replaying the conversations he'd overheard in the grove, the new assessment, and what it could mean. If the inner sect door opened even a crack… he had to be ready to wedge himself through.
But this body was still a child's.
And the clan saw only a quiet, sickly boy.
That suited him for now. He wasn't in a hurry to change that perception.
What worried him was how much longer he could hide his cultivation. His spirit veil technique held—for now—but once he reached Qi Condensation, even the most basic spiritual sense could pick up the shift if they focused on him long enough.
He needed to move carefully. No grand strides. Only footsteps that left no trace.
A soft voice broke his focus.
"Wu-ren?"
He turned, instantly composing his expression into a child's blank curiosity.
It was Jin Linhua, one of the servant girls from the outer courtyard, no more than ten herself. She was carrying a small basket with steamed buns wrapped in cloth, her face pink from the cold morning mist.
"I—I brought these from the kitchens," she said nervously. "Your mother said you skipped breakfast."
Mu Qinglan. Always worrying. Even when she said nothing.
He accepted the bundle with a soft smile. "Thank you, Linhua."
The girl beamed, clearly pleased with the acknowledgment. "Are you… are you going to the Plum Blossom Garden?"
His eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. "Why?"
"Because that's where everyone is. Elder Jin Rou is hosting the pre-selection for the inner disciples today. They say she might pick someone from the outer sect this time!"
Ah.
So soon.
His lips pressed into a line as he chewed a corner of the warm bun.
He hadn't planned to go. This wasn't his moment—not yet. But perhaps it was worth seeing who the players were. Who Jin Rou favored. Who stood out. It would all be useful later.
And if Jin Renshu showed up to brag, so much the better.
He nodded absently. "I might go watch."
The Plum Blossom Garden was one of the outer sect's largest gathering spaces, a grand courtyard surrounded by tiered pavilions and flowering trees. In spring, the blossoms would fall like snow, coating the air in perfume.
Now, it was bare-limbed and winter-bitten. The pavilions, however, were crowded.
Young disciples in gray robes lined up in formation. A few elders stood nearby, their eyes sharp, their expressions even sharper. At the center of it all stood Elder Jin Rou, tall and composed, dressed in crimson with her white hair pinned up by a crescent-moon comb.
She looked as imperious as ever.
Wu-ren lingered near the outer wall, small and unnoticed.
He didn't need to stand in the middle of things to see clearly. Not anymore.
His eyes scanned the group, identifying key figures.
There was Jin Renshu, of course, standing slightly apart from the other children. His robes had golden trim—a privilege he flaunted—and his nose was tilted slightly upward as if the air itself were beneath him.
Then there was Jin Tao, the bulky second son of a branch elder. Arrogant, but dim-witted. Always the first to laugh and the last to understand why.
And beside them… a surprise.
A boy with cold eyes and no clan emblem on his belt.
A wandering disciple, then? How curious.
Elder Jin Rou raised a hand. "Today's assessments will begin with formation drills and spirit resonance exercises. If you cannot sense the stone… you are not ready for the inner sect."
A servant rolled forward a tall obelisk of polished jade.
One by one, the children approached the stone. Some placed their hands on its surface. Others tried to channel a breath of qi. The pillar remained dim. A few barely coaxed out a flicker.
Then it was Renshu's turn.
The boy stepped forward like a young general. Confident. Poised.
He pressed his palm to the jade. A moment passed.
Then—a ripple.
Green light blossomed faintly from the core of the pillar, humming low, like a whisper barely heard. Just enough to confirm that the boy had spirit veins.
The crowd murmured. Jin Rou nodded once.
"Promising," she said coolly.
Renshu basked in the praise.
Wu-ren watched without expression.
So the boy had talent, then. Not great talent—but enough. It would make him dangerous, especially with his mother's support. But it also meant Renshu would overreach. Overconfidence bred mistakes.
The next few children tried and failed to draw even a flicker of light.
And then the outsider stepped forward—the boy with no emblem.
He didn't bow. Didn't even greet the elder properly. Just placed his hand on the stone.
The pillar shone.
Not brightly. But far more than anyone else so far. A pale gleam that lasted a full five seconds.
Even Wu-ren raised a brow at that.
So someone else had slipped into the clan's ranks. Not an accident, then. A plant? A seeker? Or someone with their own history to hide?
He'd have to investigate.
But not today.
As the assessment continued, Wu-ren slipped away from the edge of the garden, pulling his cloak tighter. His own moment had not yet come. But when it did, he would not simply make the stone glow.
He would make it sing.