The sun had begun to fade, sinking into the horizon as the sky turned a deep, burning orange.
The last glimmers of light danced on the sweat covering Mo Long's skin, outlining the lean, sculpted shape of his body among the towering bamboo.
He stopped walking, standing tall as the wind brushed through the forest. The groans of the boys he had defeated earlier had long since vanished—swallowed by the coming dusk.
Less than a day since my rebirth, and already the world throws its claws at me, he thought, a faint, bitter smile curling on his lips.
He turned his head, scanning the quiet bamboo grove. The once serene green was now steeped in shadow. Night was coming fast. The rhythmic chirping of crickets echoed in the distance.
But there was one place he had yet to visit—a place that had once meant everything to the body's former owner.
Mo Long began walking again, following a narrow path blanketed by fallen bamboo leaves. The soft crunch beneath his feet echoed faintly in the quiet forest.
At the end of that emerald corridor stood a simple gravestone leaning against an old tree. The engraving was crude, nearly buried beneath moss and time.
Zhi Xin.
Mo Long stopped. The moment he read the name, something stirred inside him—a ripple through his blood, a mix of sorrow and reverence.
Zhi Xin—teacher, mentor, and friend. The only person who had never mocked him.
The man who had trained him patiently, encouraged him when everyone else in the clan scorned him.
The one who had forged the physical strength Mo Long now possessed.
'You were the only one who ever believed in this boy…'
He stood there silently, staring at the gravestone as memories began to surface, rising like mist.
A vision formed—a small boy crying under heavy rain, kneeling before the same grave.
His clothes were drenched, his frail body trembling, but his fists clenched tight.
"I won't give up, Master… I'll become strong…" the boy sobbed through gritted teeth.
Another image followed—weeks before Zhi Xin's death.
The man's stern voice thundered through the clearing.
"How long will you keep dodging?!"
Blow after blow rained toward the young Mo Long.
"If I used Shadow Qi, you'd already be dead!"
Mo Long dodged desperately, his movements fluid but sluggish from exhaustion. Sweat poured down his face. "I just finished carrying logs down the mountain, can't you give me a break, Master?!"
THUD!
A solid punch landed square on his cheek, sending him sprawling to the dirt.
"Do you think your enemies will give you time to rest when you're tired?!" Zhi Xin barked, swinging again—this time landing a hard slap to Mo Long's backside.
"Urgh!" The boy yelped, clutching his rear.
Zhi Xin only smirked, shaking his head. "Then stop whining and get up."
The vision faded.
Mo Long blinked, and once again he was standing before the moss-covered gravestone, surrounded by the whispers of the forest.
He knelt slowly, placing a hand on the stone's cold surface.
"Old man…" he said quietly, almost to himself. "This boy of yours finally has his revenge burning inside him. Rest easy."
The wind rustled softly through the bamboo, like a faint reply from the dead.
He could still feel it—the pain and despair of the boy who once owned this body.
The loss of his teacher had been a wound too deep to heal, leaving behind a hollow loneliness that clung to his soul.
Mo Long brushed the moss and dirt from the gravestone with deliberate care. Then, with solemn respect, he clasped his hands before his chest and bowed in a gongshou salute toward the grave.
"Thank you… for shaping this body, old man," he whispered.
Turning away, he walked out of the forest, following the narrow path that led toward the Patriarch's pavilion.
By then, night had fallen. The moon hung high and clear, its soft light spilling over the bamboo forest and the quiet road ahead.
That gentle glow stirred something deep within him—a memory.
A face as serene as moonlight itself. Skin pale as snow, hands that once brushed against his in the cold of long nights. A soft smile. A tender voice that lulled him to rest back when he was still Guang Lian.
"Lian…"
Her voice—clear, soothing—echoed faintly in his mind. Every time he remembered her, he could almost smell that faint fragrance of spring blossoms in the air.
'Yue…'
Mo Long lifted his gaze to the star-sprinkled sky, a quiet ache tightening his chest.
He had never considered himself weak—yet at that moment, his heart felt painfully empty.
'Rong Yue… Have you heard of my death?'
A slow, heavy sigh escaped him. He tried to bury the past—to silence the lingering memories of his former life—but part of his heart resisted, clinging stubbornly to the name, the warmth, the betrayal.
"Now, I am Mo Long," he murmured softly. "Focus. From this moment on, you live only for yourself."
The faint glow of lanterns came into view ahead—the Patriarch's Pavilion, towering above all others, its grandeur unmatched.
'Let's hope tonight doesn't turn into another storm,' he thought as he quickened his pace.
At last, he arrived before the great gate—solid, black steel engraved with the coiling image of dragons. It gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight, its presence oppressive and majestic.
He raised his hand to knock—but froze.
A strange sensation welled within him. His heartbeat quickened, his blood humming in his veins.
'Nervous? Why am I nervous about facing the leader of a small clan?'
It wasn't his fear. It belonged to the body—the remnants of the old Mo Long, the boy who had always trembled, bowed, and knelt before the Patriarch.
"You are a disgrace to this clan!"
The memory of that voice echoed harshly through his mind—
the same deep, cold voice of Mo Han, Patriarch of the Shadow Dragon Clan.
Mo Long clenched his fists. Straightening his back, he whispered to himself,
'Enough. From now on, you'll learn to stand as an equal—to no one.'
His eyes sharpened, piercing through the great gate before him.
He raised his hand once more to knock—
But before his fingers touched the steel, a commanding voice thundered from within, carrying undeniable authority.
"Come in!"
Startled, Mo Long exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
Then, without hesitation, he pushed the gates open and stepped inside.
The moment Mo Long stepped through the door, the air shifted.
Dim lanterns flickered softly, painting long shadows across the room. The faint aroma of warm tea lingered in the air, mingling with the heavy scent of sandalwood.
At the center of the chamber stood a large round marble table—and upon it, a single vase held seven black roses, their petals gleaming darkly under the lantern light.
"Greetings, Clan Leader. May the blood of Hei Long forever reign supreme."
Mo Long bowed deeply, his hands clasped before his chest in a proper gongshou salute.
"Sit," Mo Han said without turning his head, one hand gesturing toward the chair beside him.
The room was quiet—too quiet—but the silence carried weight.
In the far corner, a golden dragon statue towered majestically, while a mural of a black dragon coiled through clouds adorned the wall behind the Patriarch's seat.
"The techniques written in this book," Mo Han began, closing the ancient tome he had been reading, "are not particularly extreme." He set the book upon the table and slid it toward Mo Long. "At least, not for those of us from the Demon Cult."
"You're right, Father," Mo Long replied calmly.
"But…" Mo Han's eyes narrowed. "There's something that troubles me."
Mo Long's brow twitched slightly. "What is it?"
"One technique is missing."
Mo Long froze. His breath hitched—just for a second. 'Of course… the blood circle and the candles…'
Mo Han's gaze was sharp as a blade. "Where did you hide it?"
Without a word, Mo Long reached into his sleeve and produced the small, folded piece of parchment he had concealed.
Mo Han took it, unfolding it carefully. His eyes scanned the strange runes and formation marks drawn upon it. Slowly, his brows lifted, and disbelief flickered across his usually stoic face.
For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, Mo Han raised his eyes and fixed them on his son. His voice, when it came, was firm—commanding.
"Tell me… who are you really?"
Mo Long's pulse quickened. He had expected this question, yet hearing it aloud sent a chill through his veins.
"What do you mean, Patriarch? I am Mo Long—your son."
Mo Han's expression hardened. He leaned forward, rising from his seat until his imposing figure loomed over the boy. His face came within a hand's breadth of Mo Long's, his deep voice low and dangerous.
"What if you're a demon—one that has possessed my son's body?"
"Of course not," Mo Long answered without flinching. "As I've said, I never practiced any of the techniques. And even if I had, it wouldn't have worked—I have no qi, nor am I a Tao cultivator."
Mo Han studied him closely, his presence pressing like the weight of mountains. "Something about you is… different. This morning, you beat Mo Fei and the others senseless. By evening, you defeated six disciples from the branch families. Am I to believe that's the same timid child who used to tremble before me?"
Mo Long's gaze didn't waver. "Since Master Zhi Xin's death, my mind hasn't been steady. I've been lost—angry. When they mocked me, when they mocked him, I couldn't hold it in any longer. I let it all out."
Mo Han said nothing. His sharp eyes lingered on his son's face, studying every flicker of expression, every measured breath.
After a long silence, he finally leaned back, the tension in the room softening slightly.
"Then why," Mo Han asked quietly, "did you hide this paper?"
His tone was calm now—but his gaze was still as piercing as ever.
"I didn't want to bring shame to our family, Father."
Mo Long exhaled slowly, sensing that Mo Han's suspicion had begun to fade.
"You've shamed this family more times than I can count," Mo Han said quietly, though the edge in his tone still cut deep. "Even the branch families dare mock you in my presence."
The words pierced through him like a blade.
Mo Long's voice rose slightly, unable to contain the emotion beneath his calm facade.
"I only wanted to become stronger, Father."
"Everyone has their limits, Mo Long," Mo Han replied, his voice low but steady. "You must understand that."
"I just want to prove them wrong," Mo Long said, eyes burning with conviction. "To show them that all their scorn and mockery mean nothing—that Mo Long of the Shadow Dragon Clan is capable!"
The determination in his tone was genuine, though it wasn't born of loyalty.
The fire in his heart was not for honor or legacy—it was for power and revenge.
Mo Han fell silent, his sharp gaze fixed on his son. After a moment, he nodded slowly.
"A good reason," he said finally. "A strong resolve. After seeing your body and the scars on your back today, I realized—among all my sons, you are the one with the will of steel."
"Thank you, Patriarch."
Mo Han stood and turned his gaze toward the large mural of the black dragon coiling through the clouds.
"I have been too focused on fulfilling missions for the Heavenly Demon Lord," he said quietly, his tone heavy with reflection. "Expanding our influence, strengthening the clan's name… and in doing so, I forgot that I had children."
Mo Long rose to his feet and stood beside him, saying nothing.
"Our clan was once great and feared," Mo Han continued. "But now we are small—looked down upon."
His fist clenched tightly. "I should have stood among the Grand Elders of the Cult, like our ancestors did."
He turned sharply, his piercing eyes locking onto his son.
"The Shadow Dragon techniques are deadly—a fusion of illusion and poison unmatched in the Cult. But mastering them is perilous. Many have failed. Some went mad. Some died."
He took a step closer, his voice lowering. "Even you… destroyed your own dantian trying to cultivate Shadow Qi."
A sharp pulse of memory struck Mo Long—a vision of a ten-year-old boy, sitting cross-legged, sweat pouring down his face as his body trembled violently—and then an explosion of pain.
The fragile dantian inside that small body had ruptured under pressure, leaving nothing but agony and emptiness.
Mo Han's heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
"You were gifted once," he said softly. "The pride of our clan. I summoned hundreds of healers, Tao masters, even foreign sages… but all failed."
Turning away, Mo Han walked toward the back of the chamber. Mo Long followed.
They stopped before a massive bookshelf filled with old tomes. The Patriarch's hand reached for one thick, black-bound volume resting in the center. He pulled it out—then slid his hand into the gap behind it.
Click.
Krrrriet…
The left side of the shelf shifted, stone grinding against stone. A hidden passage revealed itself, torches along the wall flickering to life one by one, illuminating a narrow path into the darkness.
"Do you still wish to walk the path of a Qi warrior?" Mo Han asked, his voice echoing in the dim hall.
"Of course, Father."
"I will give you something," Mo Han said, his expression unreadable, "but know this—what awaits you carries a heavy price."
Mo Long met his gaze steadily. "Whatever it is, I'm ready."
A faint smile curved the Patriarch's lips. He patted his son's shoulder once more.
"Then come with me."
Their footsteps echoed softly as they descended into the cold stone corridor. The torches crackled, their flames dancing wildly on the walls.
Mo Long felt the air grow dense—the weight of an unseen force pressing down on his skin. His instincts screamed danger.
He glanced toward his father, but Mo Han walked ahead without hesitation, his silhouette steady, unwavering.
'What awaits me down here?' Mo Long wondered, his eyes narrowing as the path ahead swallowed them both in flickering shadows.