The morning air in the Guang Clan's backyard was cool and crisp.
Dew still clung like crystal beads to the tips of tea leaves, and sunlight peeked shyly from behind the distant mountains, illuminating two figures practicing their swords.
A stern-faced man, dressed in a simple yet dignified white robe, stood before a small eight-year-old boy.
The boy gripped a wooden sword tightly with both hands. Sweat dripped down his cheeks, but his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.
"One more time, Lian'er," the father said, his deep voice carrying both authority and encouragement.
"Don't just imitate the movement. Feel the sword—as if it were an extension of your soul."
Little Guang Lian nodded solemnly. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, lowering his sword in a swift, focused motion.
His tiny body moved fluidly—slashing, thrusting, spinning—with precision far beyond his age.
Each motion carried intent. Each strike, a spark of brilliance.
When the final movement ended, Guang Lian stood upright, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his forehead. He looked up at his father with eager eyes.
The man smiled, stepping closer. His large hand rested gently on his son's shoulder.
"Well done, Lian'er. Very good." His tone was firm, yet filled with warmth.
"Your greatness doesn't come only from your Dual Dantian—a rarity even across all of Jianghu. What makes you exceptional is your perseverance. Remember this: a sharp sword can grow dull, but a steadfast heart will never fade."
Guang Lian's eyes brightened. His lips curled into a faint smile as he gripped his wooden sword tighter.
In that moment, he made a silent vow—to train endlessly, to become the pride of his clan, and to protect the Truth that his family so revered.
Years passed.
In the Guang Clan's training arena, two teenage figures stood facing each other.
Real swords gleamed in their hands—no longer the wooden toys of childhood.
Guang Lian, now sixteen, faced his elder brother Guang Wei, two years his senior.
They had been training for hours, both drenched in sweat, neither willing to yield.
"Lian'er! This time, I won't lose!" Guang Wei shouted, his eyes blazing with determination.
He lunged forward, his blade slashing diagonally through the air toward his younger brother.
Guang Lian raised his sword in a single elegant motion, parrying the strike cleanly.
The clang of metal meeting metal rang out, sharp and resonant.
Golden-white qi burst from Guang Lian's sword, colliding against the silver qi of Guang Wei's.
BOOM!
The impact exploded in a violent shockwave, scattering dust and leaves, sending ripples of wind across the training ground.
They exchanged blow after blow, their movements blurring together in speed and grace—two blades dancing through the air.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Each slash of qi tore through the air, some slicing into the ground, others colliding midair to erupt into dazzling bursts of light.
The clash of brothers filled the morning with brilliance—a storm of energy, ambition, and unspoken rivalry.
The two brothers seemed evenly matched. Their blades danced in perfect rhythm, neither gaining ground for long—until, in the blink of an eye, Guang Lian spotted an opening.
With a sharp twist of his wrist, he redirected his brother's sword, parrying and pushing in a single fluid motion.
Guang Wei's blade flew from his grip, spinning through the air before clattering onto the ground a few steps away.
He turned instinctively, but before he could react, the tip of Guang Lian's sword was already pressed against his neck.
Guang Wei froze. His expression hardened, and then he sighed deeply, lowering his gaze.
"It's always the same…" he muttered bitterly. "How could I ever defeat a swordsman who wields qi from two Dantians?"
For a brief moment, silence filled the arena—broken only by the whisper of wind brushing against their robes.
Guang Lian smiled faintly and extended his hand toward his brother. "Big brother, don't say that. You've always been the one I've had to work the hardest to surpass. Without you, I'd never have come this far."
Guang Wei snorted softly but eventually took his brother's hand and stood up.
"You're always so damn noble," he said with a smirk. "But fine… someday, I'll definitely make you kneel."
The two of them laughed together. That laughter—genuine and unguarded—echoed through the training grounds, carrying the promise of brotherhood they both thought would last forever.
But laughter has a way of changing.
Now it was replaced by screams.
Flames roared.
The air reeked of blood and burning incense.
Guang Lian—no longer a boy—stood amidst chaos. His white robe was stained with soot and blood, glowing faintly against the inferno's reflection. His expression was calm, almost solemn, while his long hair whipped violently in the rising smoke.
The great hall of Wudang Sect was engulfed in fire. Students screamed.
Black smoke billowed through the corridors, and from within it emerged dark-robed figures bearing the Demon's Skull emblem upon their chests.
The Heavenly Demon Cult had descended.
An orange-haired man stepped out from the mob, his long, wavy locks shimmering in the firelight. His eyes burned crimson—the same hue as the qi that pulsed around his body.
"Hand over Chief of Wudang!" he bellowed, raising a massive scythe that radiated deathly energy. "Or I'll reduce this entire college to ash!"
Guang Lian's gaze was icy cold. "As long as I draw breath," he said quietly, "you will never desecrate Wudang."
Their battle erupted with a thunderous clash.
The man's scythe swept down, carving through the air as Guang Lian's golden sword met it head-on. Sparks exploded. Fire qi collided with golden light qi, shattering the ground beneath their feet.
The two exchanged deadly strikes—sword and scythe clanging in a storm of flame and fury.
And then, in a final burst of speed, Guang Lian drove his blade straight into the man's chest.
A wet crack echoed as the sword pierced through.
Black blood splattered across the marble floor.
The man staggered, coughed, and collapsed lifelessly into the firelight.
The disciples of Wudang erupted in cheers—relieved, trembling, alive.
From that day onward, Guang Lian's name echoed across Jianghu. They called him The Orthodox Young Hero, the radiant blade of purity who defended the righteous from the demonic.
Time passed, and his fame only grew brighter. Many noble women admired him, many sought his affection—but his heart had long been claimed by someone else.
The grand hall glowed with the light of golden lanterns. Their soft radiance reflected off porcelain cups and polished wood, casting long shadows over a table filled with sumptuous dishes and fragrant wine.
At the head of the table sat Guang Lian, facing Sect Leader Hua of the Mountain Sect. The young man's face had matured—his handsome features now radiated quiet confidence and grace. Yet when the Sect Leader studied him with those sharp, searching eyes, Guang Lian felt his composure falter.
"Lian'er," the Sect Leader said, pouring wine into their cups. "How is your relationship with my daughter these days?"
Guang Lian froze for a moment. His cheeks warmed, and he lowered his gaze with an awkward smile.
"Sect Leader… I love her. When I am ready—when I truly stand as the rightful leader of the Orthodox Faction—I will marry her."
For a moment, the Sect Leader was silent. Then his stern expression softened into a satisfied smile.
"Very well. If that is your heart's choice, I believe in you."
Guang Lian nodded respectfully and lifted the cup to his lips, sipping his wine calmly. Inside, his heart swelled with confidence. He could see it all so clearly—power and love intertwined, the radiant future he had long fought for.
But that night, everything changed.
At the Peak Pavilion of Mount Hua, the full moon hung bright above the night sky, bathing the mountains in pale silver.
Guang Lian stood at the center of the grand hall. His white robes were soaked in blood.
The sword in his trembling hand quivered—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of unbearable rage.
Before him stood the Elders, disciples, and even those he once called family. Their gazes were cold.
Their lips curved into twisted smiles—smiles that no longer belonged to human faces, but to demons wearing familiar masks.
"I… I saved you all," Guang Lian rasped, his voice cracking. "I sacrificed everything for you… and this is how you repay me?!"
Images flashed before his eyes—his lover's gentle smile, his brother's laughter, his father's proud gaze. Each memory stabbed at his heart like a blade.
"Lian'er," one of the Elders said coldly, "you've gone too far."
That final remark shattered whatever restraint he had left.
Guang Lian roared—a sound torn from the deepest pit of his anguish—and swung his sword.
A blinding arc of sword light shot through the hall. In an instant, heads rolled.
Blood splattered across the pristine white marble floor, staining it crimson.
Screams filled the air, echoing through the pavilion. But Guang Lian no longer cared.
Each slash was a cry of betrayal. Each strike, a release of despair.
Then—
A flash of light from behind.
A sword thrust through the air, faster than he could turn.
Pain exploded at the base of his neck. His body went rigid. His eyes widened in disbelief as he caught sight of the one who held the blade.
Guang Wei.
His brother.
The man's face was cold and expressionless, devoid of the warmth it once held.
"Sorry, little brother," Guang Wei said flatly. "But there can only be one heir to the Guang Clan."
Darkness swallowed everything.
Mo Long jolted awake, his body stiff, breath ragged. Cold sweat trickled down his temples as he sat up roughly on a simple wooden cot.
His chest heaved. His mind spun between past and present.
He was alive… but haunted by another man's death.
His hand moved instinctively, rubbing his eyes before gripping his own hair. The cunning face of his brother from his past life haunted his mind, stirring a violent surge in his chest.
Without realizing it, his fingers tightened around the edge of the cot until the wood cracked and splintered beneath his grip.
The sharp sound jolted him back to awareness. He turned his head—just in time to catch a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision.
Reflexively, he spun around—but there was no one there.
Only an old mirror stood against the wall. From within its dusty glass, a reflection stared back at him—one that felt utterly foreign.
It was not Guang Lian, the man who had fought through betrayal and rivers of blood.
The face before him was young, unweathered, and strange—mismatched with the soul that now dwelled within it.
He sat still, breathing hard. Slowly, his trembling hand rose to touch his cheek. The skin was warm. Alive.
"Who… am I now?" he whispered, voice trembling.
Silence blanketed the room.
The boy remained seated at the edge of the bed, his breaths gradually steadying. His heartbeat slowed. The storm of anger ebbed away.
He looked back into the mirror again. An unfamiliar sensation crawled through his mind—discomfort mixed with disbelief. He wasn't used to seeing a stranger in his own reflection.
'So… this is my body now.'
The reflection showed a teenage boy with long, slightly wavy black hair and sun-kissed skin.
Guang Lian—now in Mo Long's body—studied every inch of his new form, gauging the strength that resided within.
"Not bad," he murmured, a faint smile curling on his lips. His gaze shifted to the firm muscles along his arms and shoulders. 'This boy's a hard worker.'
Then he noticed the scars—dozens of them, small and deep.
They weren't just marks of punishment, but the remnants of relentless training.
Images surfaced from Mo Long's memories: Running up and down mountains with wooden beams on his back. Swimming upstream against a raging current. Circling the forest in endless laps.
Learning basic martial forms from an old man's patient guidance.
'His body is strong—much stronger than others his age.No wonder I managed to defeat those three earlier using only raw strength, without qi.'
Mo Long's lips twitched into a grin—but it faded quickly. His brow furrowed. Something wasn't right.
"Why… doesn't this body have any qi?"
He began pacing before the mirror, one hand pressed over his lower chest, eyes closed as if searching for something within.
After a while, he sat down on the bamboo-woven bed. Lifting his head, he exhaled a long, frustrated sigh.
'Strange… I can't feel even the faintest trace of it.'
He lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. His mind wandered, thoughts spinning like drifting clouds.
'Was this boy born defective? Or is his Dantian damaged?Whatever the reason… perhaps that Orthodox technique might restore it.'
He stayed that way for a long while, eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling—
until something caught his attention.
His gaze sharpened. Right above him, carved faintly into the wood, was a symbol.
"Black dragon…?"
His gaze locked onto the ceiling where a symbol—an inky black dragon coiled vertically within a circle—was carved above him.
'The Shadow Dragon Clan, huh.'
Silence blanketed the room for a moment. Then, a quiet laugh slipped from Mo Long's lips. It grew louder, rougher, until it echoed eerily in the confined space.
'How ironic,' he thought, a twisted smile forming. 'I'm now part of the Heavenly Demon Cult—the very people I once despised most.'
He raised his hand slowly, as if reaching for the dragon symbol etched above. The memories of this new body were now fusing perfectly with his soul.
'Heaven has granted me another chance. Guang Lian is dead. From this day forward, I am Mo Long. And I will make them all pay!'
His raised hand clenched tightly into a fist.
"But… how could all of this happen?"
His eyes widened as a realization struck him. He shut his eyes, forcing himself to recall what the body's former owner had done before the fusion—how Guang Lian's soul had crossed into it.
Nothing.
The memory was gone—erased completely, as if sealed by some unseen hand.
Mo Long rose to his feet and reached for the book he had brought earlier. 'What exactly did this boy do?'
He dug deeper into Mo Long's memories, searching for any clue connected to the strange tome, but found nothing—no trace of ritual, no flash of intention.
"The only clue I have… is this book."
He sat back down on the bamboo-woven bed and opened it carefully. The pages were yellowed, worn thin with age, and in the center, a faint mark showed where the weight of a shelf had once pressed down.
He flipped through page after page, eyes scanning each line with precision.
His brow furrowed.
"These techniques… they're not ordinary." He whispered.
'The Blood Demon Sect… the Ghost Valley Sect… the Moon Clan…'
Each page bore names spoken only in hushed tones across the dark corners of Jianghu—names steeped in infamy and dread.
The deeper he went, the heavier the aura that emanated from the book became.
Until finally—
He reached the last page.
Mo Long froze. His breath caught in his throat.
"This…"
His eyes widened, mouth slightly agape as he stared at the text written there.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
A series of urgent knocks snapped him from his trance.
"Young Master!"
A young woman's voice called from behind the door, trembling slightly with panic. The knocking quickened.
Mo Long closed the book immediately and slid it beneath the mat. Then, rising calmly, he walked to the door and opened it.
Standing there was a girl with shoulder-length hair and sun-kissed skin. Her frame was slender, barely reaching his shoulder, yet her round, gentle eyes stirred a flicker of recognition in him.
Min Mao.
The name surfaced from the remnants of Mo Long's old memories.
"Young Master," she said softly, though her voice trembled with unease. "The Clan Leader is looking for you."
Mo Long stared at her in silence for a moment.
"Why?" he asked, his tone calm but sharp.
"I'm not entirely sure, Young Master," Min Mao answered nervously, her tone hesitant. "But the Clan Leader ordered that you report to the Ancestral Hall immediately—and bring… the strange cultivation book with you."
Her eyes flickered toward the bed, as if she already knew where the book was hidden.
Mo Long sighed and reached for the door. "I'll wash up first."
But Min Mao quickly pressed her small hand against the door, stopping it from closing. "You shouldn't, Young Master. The Clan Leader said to come right away… without delay."
Mo Long studied her quietly, then gave a slight nod. "…Very well."
Just as he turned to grab his robe, a thought struck him—a question he needed answered.
"Min Mao," he said suddenly, his tone sharp. "Who leads the Orthodox Faction right now?"
"Eh? The Orthodox Faction? Isn't it Guang Zhi?"
"Ah… yes."
"Why do you ask, Young Master?" Min Mao tilted her head, frowning slightly.
"It's nothing."
Mo Long shook his head and hurriedly put on his robe. 'As I thought… I'm still in the same era.'
They walked together down the long stone corridor, the morning light spilling through the narrow windows. The sound of birds chirping faintly in the distance should have been calming—but for Mo Long, tension drowned out everything else.
This must be about those three brats, he thought grimly.
"Are you… attempting the qualification test again, Young Master?" Min Mao asked softly.
"What?"
"The Warrior Qualification Test," she explained in a hushed tone. "You've taken it three years in a row, even though… even though you have no qi in your body."
Her voice grew quiet at the end, as if she feared her words might wound him.
Mo Long didn't answer. But deep within, a darker voice whispered—a voice that wasn't Mo Long's alone.
'Three years… You were that stubborn, weren't you, Mo Long? But stubbornness without strength is just a joke.'
Memories surfaced—three humiliating trials, each ending in bitter defeat.
Each time, he had stood before hundreds of eyes, trying with all his might… and failed to summon even a single thread of qi.
Three times he fell.
Three times he was laughed at.
And with each failure, the distance between him and his father grew wider.
'Ah… how foolish you were, Mo Long.' He clenched his jaw tightly.
"We're here," Min Mao said softly.
They stopped before the towering gates of the Ancestral Hall—a sacred chamber where decisions of life and death were made, and where only the most vital members of the clan were summoned.
Min Mao looked up at him, her round eyes filled with quiet concern.
"If you truly did nothing wrong, Young Master… please, stay calm. Explain everything slowly."
Her words were simple, yet to Mo Long, they felt strangely warm—like a kindness he hadn't known in a long time.
He nodded once and stepped inside.
The Ancestral Hall was vast and solemn, its obsidian marble floor gleaming beneath the flickering orange glow of towering torches. The air inside was heavy—so still it felt like even sound itself dared not move. Stone statues of the clan's forebears lined the walls, their stern faces watching from ages past, guardians of pride and legacy.
At the far end of the hall, upon a half-circular dais, stood a throne carved from black stone—its surface etched with the form of coiling dragons.
Seated upon it was a man radiating an unshakable, cold authority. His short hair was neatly trimmed; a thick black beard framed his square jaw. His frame was massive—broad shoulders draped in a black robe embroidered with a silver dragon crest that shimmered faintly under the light.
The lantern's glow caught a faint scar on his left temple—a relic of countless battles fought and survived.
Though he sat motionless, his presence alone was crushing, pressing down on the air until it chilled to the bone.
Mo Han, Patriarch of the Shadow Dragon Clan—father of Mo Long.
Below him, six ornate chairs stood in a semicircle around a dark wooden table. Three were occupied, each by a clan elder, their faces etched with displeasure and eyes burning with restrained fury.
Mo Long's steps echoed softly against the stone, steady and unhurried.
Though the atmosphere felt like that of an interrogation chamber, his gaze remained sharp—unflinching.
'Did I hit them too hard?' he wondered dryly, recalling the bruised faces of Mo Fei, Mo Shou, and Mo Hu, who were likely still sprawled unconscious somewhere.
"Hurry up!" snapped a middle-aged woman seated to the left. Her jaw tightened as if holding back a string of curses.
Mo Long stopped precisely at the center of the hall.
He clasped his right fist into his left palm, bowing slightly with composed respect, and spoke in a firm, unwavering voice—
"Greetings to the Patriarch of the Shadow Dragon Clan. May the blood of Hei Long forever reign supreme."
It was the formal greeting of the clan—one he had dug up from the remnants of his inherited memories. His tone was steady, his breath even, his poise flawless.
Mo Han's expression did not change, but when he spoke, his voice was deep and sharp as a blade drawn in silence.
"Is it true… that you beat Mo Fei, Mo Shou, and Mo Hu?"
The hall fell deathly still. The torches seemed to flicker lower, their flames shrinking under the weight of the Patriarch's voice. Every gaze in the room now focused on the boy standing alone at the center.
Mo Long lifted his chin and met his father's piercing eyes directly.
"Yes," he said clearly. "It's true."