The journey to the market town of Oakhaven was usually a tedious affair, a two-day trek through rolling hills and sparse woodlands. For the House of Valerius, it was a necessary pilgrimage to trade their meager produce for essential supplies. This time, Lord Alaric, hoping to instill a sense of responsibility and perhaps, to his secret dismay, to assess his son's physical capabilities, had insisted that eight-year-old Valerius Ren accompany the small convoy.
Ren sat in the back of the lead cart, ostensibly guarding a crate of dried herbs, but his mind was far away, dissecting the subtle spiritual currents of the forest around them. The two Valerius guards, grizzled veterans named Borin and Kael, walked alongside, their rusty swords clanking against their leather armor. Their cultivation was rudimentary, barely past the first stage of Body Refinement, a level Kaelen had considered beneath contempt even in his earliest days. Yet, here, it was the peak of their family's martial strength.
Suddenly, a harsh whistle cut through the afternoon quiet. From the dense thicket ahead, a dozen figures emerged, crude weapons glinting in the dappled sunlight. Bandits. Their faces were masked, their movements rough but coordinated.
"Valerius scum!" one of them roared, a burly man wielding a heavy axe. "Hand over your goods, and maybe we'll let you live!"
Borin and Kael immediately drew their swords, their faces grim. "Bandits!" Borin yelled, pushing Ren behind the cart. "Stay back, young master!"
Kaelen felt a familiar surge of something akin to exhilaration. Not fear, but the thrill of impending conflict. His new body still felt weak, but years of meticulous, secret cultivation had strengthened his meridians, allowing him to circulate the sparse qi of this realm with an efficiency no one else possessed. His qi seed, once a grain of sand, was now the size of a small pebble, a vast improvement, yet still infinitesimally small compared to his former power.
The bandits charged. Borin and Kael met them with practiced, if uninspired, swings. The clash of steel echoed through the woods. The Valerius guards were outnumbered, and their movements, though disciplined, lacked the raw power and speed needed to truly dominate. Kael was knocked back by a bandit's club, his arm twisting at an unnatural angle. Borin, distracted, barely parried a blow that would have cleaved his head.
"Damn it!" Borin cursed, his breath ragged. "They're too many!"
Ren watched, his eyes cold and calculating. He saw the openings, the predictable patterns, the wasted movements. These bandits were crude, relying on numbers and brute force. They had no true cultivation, only rudimentary martial training. It was almost insulting.
"Stay down, young master!" Kael grunted, struggling to regain his footing.
But Ren wasn't listening. A flicker of the Demonic Sovereign's ruthlessness ignited in his eyes. He couldn't unleash a devastating qi blast, not yet. But he could adapt. He could use what he had.
He moved. Not with the explosive speed of his past, but with a fluid, almost ethereal grace that seemed to defy his age. He slipped from behind the cart, a blur of motion that went unnoticed in the chaos. The first bandit, a lanky man with a rusty dagger, lunged at Borin's exposed flank.
Ren was there in an instant. He didn't use a weapon. Instead, his small hand shot out, not to block, but to deflect. He struck the bandit's wrist with a precise, almost imperceptible tap, using the bandit's own momentum against him. The dagger flew wide, and before the man could react, Ren's other hand, channeling a minuscule amount of qi, struck a pressure point on the bandit's neck. It wasn't a killing blow, but a precise, numbing strike. The bandit's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, unconscious.
Borin, who had just managed to parry another attack, blinked. "What...?"
Ren didn't wait. He spun, his movements a terrifying dance. Another bandit, wielding a heavy mace, swung wildly at Kael. Ren darted forward, his small body weaving under the mace's arc. He didn't try to stop the weapon. Instead, he twisted, his foot sweeping low, catching the bandit's ankle. The man stumbled, his balance gone, and Ren, with a swift, almost invisible motion, struck a nerve cluster behind the bandit's knee. The bandit cried out, his leg giving way, and he fell heavily, his mace clattering uselessly.
"He's... he's fighting them!" Kael gasped, pushing himself up, his eyes wide with disbelief.
The remaining bandits, momentarily stunned by the sight of an eight-year-old boy incapacitating their comrades, hesitated. This was their mistake. Kaelen had always thrived on exploiting hesitation.
He moved like a shadow, his small fists and feet becoming extensions of his ancient will. He didn't engage in prolonged exchanges. Each strike was precise, aimed at vital points, pressure points, or joints. He used the bandits' own bulk and clumsiness against them, turning their momentum into their downfall. A quick jab to the solar plexus, a precise kick to the shin, a finger thrust into a vulnerable nerve. He wasn't powerful, but he was efficient, devastatingly so.
One bandit, larger than the rest, roared in frustration and lunged at Ren, his sword raised high. Kaelen's eyes narrowed. This was the moment. He channeled every ounce of the qi he had painstakingly cultivated. As the sword descended, he didn't dodge. Instead, he met the bandit's arm, not with a block, but with a concentrated palm strike to the inside of the elbow joint. It was a technique from his past life, a subtle application of qi to disrupt internal flow.
A sickening crack echoed through the air. The bandit screamed, his sword clattering to the ground as his arm went limp, dislocated at the elbow. He clutched it, his face contorted in agony.
The remaining bandits stared, their bravado evaporating. This wasn't just a child. This was something else entirely. Their eyes darted to their fallen comrades, some unconscious, some writhing in pain, none dead, but all utterly incapacitated. Fear, cold and sharp, gripped them.
"Retreat!" one of them shrieked, and the rest scattered, disappearing back into the woods as quickly as they had appeared.
Silence descended upon the clearing, broken only by the groans of the bandits and the heavy breathing of Borin and Kael. They stood frozen, their swords still drawn, staring at the small, unruffled figure of Valerius Ren.
Ren calmly walked over to Kael, who was still clutching his arm. "Your arm is dislocated," he stated, his voice calm, devoid of the adrenaline that should have been coursing through an eight-year-old. "Let me."
Before Kael could protest, Ren's small hands, surprisingly strong, gripped his arm. There was a swift, precise twist, a sharp pop, and Kael gasped, then stared in disbelief as the pain subsided, his arm feeling normal again.
"How... how did you do that, young master?" Borin stammered, his eyes wide. "And those bandits... you... you fought them all?"
Ren merely shrugged, a practiced gesture of nonchalance. "They were clumsy. And Father taught me well, about vital points." He offered a small, innocent smile, a masterful lie. "And I read some old medical scrolls in the library."
Borin and Kael exchanged bewildered glances. They had seen the boy train, seen his struggles. This was beyond anything they could comprehend. An eight-year-old, effortlessly disarming and incapacitating a dozen armed bandits, then setting a dislocated bone with a casual flick. It defied all logic, all understanding of cultivation in this realm.
As they continued their journey, the guards kept glancing back at Ren, a newfound awe and unease in their eyes. Kaelen, meanwhile, felt a flicker of satisfaction. He was still weak, still far from his former glory. But the seed of vengeance was growing, and its roots were beginning to show. The Lower Realm might be weak, but his ancient knowledge, combined with meticulous adaptation, was already proving to be a terrifying force. This was just a taste, a whisper of the storm to come.