Han Ryu was the "Golden Son" of the prestigious Han Clan a man who once used crushed pearls to powder his face and refused to walk on anything but silk carpets. But in a single night of blood and betrayal, his family was branded traitors, his dantian was shattered, and he was tossed into the mud of the "Slum of Shadows."
Three years later, the once-elegant Han Ryu is a beggar. But he is the worst beggar in history. He "demands" alms as if they are taxes, critiques the fashion of the people kicking him, and maintains a "Noble's Posture" while sleeping on a pile of hay.
While on the verge of death, he discovers the Heavenly Desolation Scripture, a forgotten art that converts "Humiliation" into "Supreme Qi." The more people look down on him, the more his power explodes.
Now, armed with a dirty bamboo stick and a mouth that won't stop insulting his enemies, Han Ryu begins his climb from the gutter back to the heavens. He's coming for the people who destroyed his clan, and he's going to make them kneel not for mercy, but to give him the "tribute" he's owed.
Chapter 1 : The Emperor of Filth and the Golden Grudge
The stench of the Slum of Shadows clung to Han Ryu like a second skin, a pungent blend of stale urine, decaying refuse, and a thousand forgotten dreams. Three years it had been since the glittering halls of the Han Clan manor a place where even the stable boys wore finer silks than most nobles had been exchanged for this squalid kingdom. Now, his throne was an overturned, moldy barrel, and his crown, a tangled mess of what used to be a magnificent topknot.
"A-hem!" Han Ryu cleared his throat, a sound remarkably refined given the lump of ash and gristle stuck there. He eyed the skinny, trembling boy who dared to stand before him, clutching a half-eaten steamed bun like it was the imperial seal. "Boy, are you quite finished admiring my rustic accommodations?"
The boy, no older than ten, blinked. "You… you want my bun, sir?" he squeaked, utterly baffled by the beggar who sounded more like a demanding tutor than a starving vagrant.
Han Ryu arched a brow, a gesture that once commanded respect from entire provincial governors. Now, it merely dislodged a tiny, suspiciously active, critter from his eyebrow. He flicked it away with a fingernail that had seen more mud than manicures.
"Want? A Han never wants. We require. And I require that bun. Observe its imperfections. The uneven crust, the questionable filling it offends my aesthetic sensibilities. I shall relieve you of this culinary abomination."
He extended a hand, surprisingly clean despite his surroundings, anticipating the bun. The boy, however, hesitated, his eyes darting towards a group of larger, scruffier beggars slouching by a fire, their glares like daggers.
"But… Old Man Grumble will beat me," the boy whispered, tears welling.
"Old Man Grumble?" Han Ryu scoffed, flicking another stray, imaginary speck of dirt from his tattered sleeve. "A coarse moniker for a man of undoubtedly coarser manners. Tell him the Han Clan's rightful heir has decreed this bun is forfeit for reasons of public culinary safety. It's for his own good, really."
Just then, a meaty hand clamped down on the boy's shoulder. Old Man Grumble a hulking figure with a beard like a bird's nest and eyes that held the wisdom of a thousand forgotten grudges leered down. "Hear that, 'Golden Son'? You think because you talk fancy, these crumbs belong to you? Beggars eat what they get, not what they 'require'!"
Grabs for the bun were made, and the boy yelped, tumbling to the side. Han Ryu, however, did not move. His gaze, once accustomed to assessing fine art, now meticulously scanned Grumble's stance. Flawed. Predictable. The mark of a man who relied on brute force, not technique. Common.
"My dear Grumble," Han Ryu began, his voice dripping with condescension, "your grasp of etiquette is as poor as your dental hygiene. A true martial artist would never interrupt a… transaction."
Grumble roared, lunging forward with a fist the size of a melon, aimed squarely at Han Ryu's refined nose. "I'll teach you 'etiquette,' fancy pants!"
For a moment, Han Ryu stood frozen. Three years of hunger, a shattered dantian, and not a single shred of martial cultivation left. He was weak. Pathetic. Yet, as the fist hurtled closer, something ignited within him. Not Qi, not skill, but pure, unadulterated pride.
A Han does not cower.
He sidestepped with an almost imperceptible flick of his hips a relic of his true lineage and as Grumble's momentum carried him past, Han Ryu's worn bamboo pole, which he affectionately called the "Jade Dragon of the West," found its mark. It wasn't a powerful strike; it was a delicate, almost gentle tap to the back of Grumble's knee.
Grumbles's leg buckled. His balance, built on raw power, evaporated. He tripped, arms flailing, and in a glorious arc of accidental acrobatics, somersaulted over the very overturned barrel Han Ryu had been sitting on, landing headfirst into a pile of particularly odorous fish guts.
A gasp, then a moment of stunned silence from the surrounding beggars. Han Ryu, however, calmly brushed a nonexistent speck of dust from his bamboo pole.
"Really, Grumble," he sighed with theatrical exasperation, "such enthusiasm. One would think you'd never seen a simple demonstration of leverage. Now, about that bun…"
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor, like a whisper of distant thunder, rippled through Han Ryu's ruined dantian. A sensation he hadn't felt in three years. Something had stirred.
The silence of the slums was broken only by the wet squelch of Old Man Grumble trying to extricate his face from the fish guts. The other beggars, usually a rowdy bunch of vultures, stared at Han Ryu as if he had just sprouted wings and started singing imperial opera.
Han Ryu didn't look at them. He was too busy looking at his hands. For a split second, when he had tapped Grumble's knee, his veins had burned. It wasn't the warm, flowing Qi of his youth it felt like liquid ice mixed with vinegar.
"You… you piece of trash!" Grumble roared, emerging from the pile. A fish scale was stuck to his forehead like a mockery of a third eye. "I'll kill you! I'll break every bone in your pampered body!"
The crowd surged forward. In the slums, "face" was everything. If a giant like Grumble was embarrassed by a "Young Master" who hadn't eaten in three days, his reign was over. He couldn't let that happen.
Han Ryu's heart hammered against his ribs not with fear, but with a lingering, stubborn indignation. How dare this man raise his voice? Does he not know that my grandfather once hosted the Azure Heaven Sect Leader for tea?
"Oh, do be quiet," Han Ryu snapped, though his legs were shaking. "Your shouting is incredibly unrefined. If you wish to die, at least do it with some semblance of dignity."
"Die? I'll show you who's dying!" Grumble grabbed a rusted iron pipe from the mud and swung.
The blow was clumsy, but Han Ryu was weak. He tried to move, but his stomach cramped from hunger. The pipe caught him across the ribs.
CRACK.
Han Ryu flew backward, hitting a brick wall with a dull thud. The world turned grey. Pain flared, hot and sharp, radiating from his chest. The beggars laughed. It was a cruel, jagged sound.
"Look at the Young Master now!" someone jeered. "Kissing the dirt where he belongs!"
[System Initiation: Pride to Power Ratio Detected.]
[Condition Met: Extreme Humiliation in a Public Setting.]
A voice, cold and mechanical, echoed directly into Han Ryu's soul. He coughed, spitting out a mixture of blood and dust.
What… what is this? An illusion born of starvation?
[Cultivation Manual Unlocked: The Heavenly Desolation Scripture (The Path of the Arrogant Outcast).]
[Current State: Total Disgrace.]
[Reward: 100 Strands of 'Spiteful Qi' synthesized.]
Suddenly, the grey world exploded into color. The pain in his ribs didn't vanish it transformed. It became fuel. Every mocking laugh from the crowd felt like a drop of oil thrown onto a fire deep within his shattered dantian. The broken pieces of his internal core began to vibrate, held together by a dark, swirling energy that fed on the very shame he was feeling.
"Is that all?" Han Ryu wheezed. He pushed himself up, his tattered rags fluttering in a wind that shouldn't have existed in this stagnant alley.
Old Man Grumble stopped. He frowned, his primitive instincts screaming at him that something was wrong. The beggar in front of him looked the same dirt-streaked face, matted hair, clothes held together by hope but his eyes… his eyes were once again the eyes of a man who looked down on the world from a golden throne.
"He's lost his mind," Grumble muttered, raising the pipe again. "I'll put you out of your misery!"
As the pipe descended, Han Ryu didn't dodge. He reached out and caught it.
The sound of iron meeting flesh should have been a sickening thud. Instead, there was a metallic ping. Han Ryu's hand, thin and pale, held the rusted pipe firmly. Black veins pulsed beneath his skin.
"Your technique," Han Ryu whispered, his voice resonating with an eerie, dual-tone authority, "is offensive to the very concept of martial arts. Allow me to provide a correction."
He twisted his wrist. The iron pipe groaned and snapped like a dry twig.
Before Grumble could even scream, Han Ryu moved. It wasn't the graceful "Willow-Step" of his clan; it was a jagged, predatory blur. He appeared in Grumble's shadow, his bamboo pole the Jade Dragon glowing with a faint, sickly purple light.
A single tap to the forehead.
Grumble didn't fly back. He simply folded. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed into a heap, his dignity and his consciousness departing at the same time.
The alley went silent. The other beggars backed away, tripping over each other.
[Host has successfully 'Slapped the Face' of a Local Tyrant.]
[Experience Gained. Purity of Spiteful Qi: Increased.]
[Status: Slightly Less Pathetic.]
Han Ryu straightened his tattered collar and looked at the broken pipe in his hand. He felt a strange urge to laugh and cry at the same time. He was still a beggar. He was still covered in fish guts. But for the first time in three years, he felt… dangerous.
"Wait," he called out to the retreating beggars. They froze, trembling.
Han Ryu pointed a trembling finger at the half-eaten bun lying in the mud. "You forgot the tribute. Pick it up. Clean it. And present it to me on a leaf. I shall not have it said that the Han Clan heir eats directly from the floor like a common beast."
As the terrified beggars scrambled to obey, a new shadow fell over the alley. At the entrance stood a man in polished silver armor a scout from the Azure Guard, the very soldiers who had helped burn the Han Manor to the ground.
The soldier looked at the carnage, then at the arrogant beggar holding a bamboo stick.
"You," the soldier barked, his hand on his sword hilt. "What's going on here?"
Han Ryu turned, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face.
"Ah," Han Ryu said, his voice smooth as silk. "A representative of the thieves who owe me a new palace. Perfect. I was just looking for someone to polish my boots. You'll do."