Arthur Vance ran a silk cloth down the length of his practice blade. The steel caught the late afternoon sun, throwing a sharp glint against the walls of his private courtyard. As the Young Master of the Vance Clan's main branch, his life was defined by that glint, clean, bright, and sharp.
At nineteen, he had already reached the peak of the Foundation Stage. The elders called him the "Morning Star" of the generation. He felt the weight of that title, but it was a weight he carried with a smile.
He sheathed the sword and turned to the small wooden box on his stone table. Inside lay a jade hairpin carved into a plum blossom. It had cost him six months of his cultivation stipend, but tonight was worth the expense. Three years of betrothal to Liana Vane was more than a political arrangement; to Arthur, it was the anchor of his future.
"Young Master?"
Arthur looked up. A servant stood at the gate, bowing low. "The carriage is ready. Lady Liana is waiting at the Black Forest Pavilion."
Arthur nodded, tucked the box into his belt, and walked out. He moved with the effortless grace of a man who owned the ground he walked on. He passed through the clan estate, noting the respectful bows of the side-branch cousins.
The carriage ride to the outskirts of the Bright family estate was quiet. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and coming rain. By the time he reached the pavilion, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a dark shade of orange.
Liana was already there. She sat at a low table, her white silk robes luminous in the twilight. She looked like a spirit born of the mist.
"You're early," Arthur said, taking his seat across from her.
Liana didn't look up immediately. She was focused on the steam rising from a small clay teapot. "I wanted to ensure the tea was steeped perfectly. It's a rare blend from the Southern Peaks. "
She poured a cup and pushed it toward him. The liquid was dark, almost amber. It smelled of jasmine, just the way Arthur liked it.
"Thank you," he said. He reached for the wooden box. "Liana, I have something for you. To celebrate three years."
"Drink first," she said. Her voice was flat. "The flavor changes as it cools."
Arthur smiled and took a long sip. The tea was bitter, coating the back of his throat in a thick, oily film.
'This is Life, fine tea and the company of a rare beauty. If I died right now I wouldn't have any regrets.' He sighed.
Almost instantly, a strange sensation started in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't the warmth of a good brew. It was a cold, creeping numbness that raced through his veins like liquid lead.
He tried to set the cup down, but his fingers wouldn't obey. The ceramic clattered against the stone table, tea spilling across the polished surface.
"Liana?" His tongue felt thick, a useless piece of meat in his mouth.
"It's a shame, really," a new voice said.
Cyrus Vance stepped from behind the pavilion's corner pillar. He was a side-branch cousin, a man Arthur had always considered a loyal, if quiet, shadow. Tonight, Cyrus wasn't lurking. He wore a premium set of robes, the silver-stitched silk that only the elite of the Vance Clan were permitted to wear.
Arthur tried to stand, but his knees turned to water. He crashed onto the floor, his chin hitting the stone. The world began to tilt.
"Cyrus... what are you doing?" Arthur gasped.
Cyrus knelt beside him, a mocking grin pulling at his thin lips. He reached down and plucked the wooden box from Arthur's belt. He opened it, looked at the jade hairpin, and let out a short, dry laugh. "Plum blossoms? You always were a romantic, Arthur. Too bad romance doesn't secure a clan's borders."
Liana finally stood up. She looked down at Arthur, her eyes as cold as the rain that had just begun to fall. She didn't look angry. She looked bored.
"The Brigth family needs a partner who can actually lead," Liana said. "My father and the Vance side-branch elders have reached an agreement. Cyrus has already reached the Qi Condensation stage with the help of the resources we've been... diverting from your branch."
"You... betrayed... the main line," Arthur choked out.
"The main line is a dying tree, Arthur," Cyrus said. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a long, jagged needle. It looked like it had been carved from the rib of a stray dog. It was stained a dark, bruised violet.
"This is a Bone-Eater Spike. It's packed with demonic energy, it was quite difficult to obtain. But as you know I always want the 'best' for my Young Master." Cyrus grinned.
Arthur's heart hammered against his ribs. Demonic energy was a death sentence. It didn't just kill; it rotted the soul.
"Don't worry," Cyrus whispered, leaning closer. "You won't die. That would be too easy for the Great Young Master. You're going to live. You're going to live as a hollow shell, watching me take your seat, your title, and your woman."
Liana stepped forward and placed her foot on Arthur's shoulder, pinning him to the stone. The grit of the floor pressed into his cheek. She didn't look away.
Cyrus drove the needle into Arthur's chest.
It felt like a thousand rusted hooks had been slammed into his Dantian and pulled in opposite directions. The demonic energy in the needle poured into his core, an oily, screaming filth that tore through his meridians.
His golden Qi, thirteen years of discipline and sweat didn't fight back. It dissolved. It shattered like glass under a hammer. At this moment the ever powerful Qi he had so much confidence in seemed ... almost pitful.
Arthur felt his power draining into the floor. He felt the very center of his being turn into a cold, black hole. The pain was so intense it became a numbness, a sensory overload that left him gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Cyrus stood up, wiping his hands on a silk handkerchief. "Let's go, Liana. The Elders are waiting for the announcement. We have a celebration to attend."
They walked away. They didn't look back. They didn't need to. In their eyes, Arthur Vance was already a ghost.
The rain began to fall in earnest, a heavy mountain downpour that soaked through Arthur's fine robes in seconds. He lay in the mud at the edge of the pavilion, his fingers twitching in the dirt. He tried to circulate his Qi, to find one single spark of warmth, but there was nothing. Just the hollow, whistling ache in his chest where his strength used to live.
He looked at the jade hairpin lying in the muck a few inches away. It was cracked, the delicate plum blossom smeared with gray slime.
Is this it? The thought flickered in the back of his mind, dim and weak. He had been the Young Master. He had been the genius. Now, he was just a body in the rain. He could feel the demonic rot from the needle spreading, turning his blood into lead.
I can't feel my legs. I can't even feel my heart.
He tried to push himself up, but his arms collapsed. His face sank into the freezing mud.
Is this the end of the path? He closed his eyes. He was nineteen years old, and the world had just turned its back on him. He was a cripple. A discard. A joke.
Yes, he thought, his consciousness fading into a cold, dark void. It's over. There's nothing left but the dark.