Xiao Lin's laughter died.
Something was wrong.
Xiao Long's hand wasn't glowing with golden battle Qi. It wasn't glowing with anything. But the air around him had changed—grown heavy, grown hungry, like the calm before a storm.
"What are you doing?" Xiao Lin's voice sharpened. "Stop whatever that is."
Xiao Long didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
For five years, his Datian had been silent. Empty. A void that swallowed everything and gave nothing back. But now—now that he actually reached for something—the void was reaching back.
Qi flooded into him.
Not just the thin ambient Qi of the training grounds. Everything. The heat from Xiao Lin's flames. The life force from the grass beneath his feet. The spiritual energy radiating from every cultivator watching.
Just a trickle. Just a taste.
It was ecstasy.
Xiao Lin saw his cousin's eyes flicker—crimson, glowing, wrong—and made a decision.
"The hermit wants to fight? Fine!"
He exploded forward, flames trailing behind him like a comet's tail. His kick caught Xiao Long square in the chest and sent him flying across the training grounds.
Xiao Long crashed into the dirt. Rolled. Came to a stop near the raised platform of the disciple dueling arena.
Xiao Lin stalked toward him, stripping off his outer robe and tossing it to his henchmen. His muscles gleamed with sweat and fire Qi. The watching disciples whispered and pointed.
"Stand down," Xiao Lin commanded his henchmen. "All of you. This is mine."
He leaped onto the arena platform and grabbed Xiao Long by the hair, dragging him up and throwing him into the center.
"You want to fight, cousin? Fight."
The first kick landed in Xiao Long's ribs. Crack.
The second caught his jaw. Blood sprayed.
Xiao Long hit the ground. Rolled. Tried to push himself up.
Xiao Lin's foot came down on his back, slamming him into the stone.
"Where's your fire now?" Xiao Lin laughed, grinding his heel into Xiao Long's spine. "Where's that little trick you pulled? All that talk about letting the maid go?"
He grabbed Xiao Long by the collar and yanked him upright, then drove a fist into his stomach.
Xiao Long doubled over, retching.
Xiao Lin threw him toward the arena wall.
He hit hard—shoulder first, then head—and slumped against the stone, blood running from his mouth, his nose, a cut above his eye. His vision swam.
Just stay down, something whispered. Stay down and it ends.
But he couldn't.
Mei was still out there. Mei, who had brought him food for five years. Who had cleaned his room and changed his sheets and never once looked at him with pity. Who had grabbed his wrist this morning and said go outside.
If he stayed down, Xiao Lin would go back to her.
He couldn't let that happen.
Xiao Long pushed himself up. His arms shook. His legs barely held him.
Xiao Lin grinned. "Still getting up? Good. I'm not done yet."
He charged.
---
"STOP!"
A small figure darted onto the arena platform—young, delicate, with long black hair in a braid and eyes wide with terror.
Xiao Meiling.
She threw herself in front of Xiao Lin, arms spread wide. "Stop! You're killing him!"
Xiao Lin skidded to a halt, surprise flickering across his face. Then his expression hardened.
"Move, little cousin. This doesn't concern you."
"He's your brother!"
"He's a failure." Xiao Lin's voice dripped contempt. "Move, or I'll move you."
Meiling didn't move.
Xiao Lin grabbed her shoulder and shoved. She stumbled, fell hard on the stone, her palm scraping bloody.
"Meiling!" Xiao Long's voice came out raw, broken.
Xiao Lin turned back to him. "Worried about your sister? Good. Watch what happens to people who protect you."
He drove his knee into Xiao Long's stomach.
Then his elbow into his back.
Then his fist into his face, again and again and again.
Xiao Long collapsed against the wall, barely conscious. Blood filled his mouth. His ribs screamed. One eye was swelling shut.
Through the other eye, he saw the sky.
It was beautiful.
Blue and clear and endless, with clouds drifting lazily across the sun. He'd forgotten how beautiful the sky was. Five years in that room, and he'd forgotten something so simple.
At least I saw it again, he thought. At least—
The sky turned red.
No—not the sky. His vision. Crimson bleeding across his sight like ink in water.
Something unlocked.
---
Xiao Lin drew back his leg for one final kick. Aimed at Xiao Long's abdomen. A finishing blow.
"Goodbye, cousin."
The kick launched—
And stopped.
Xiao Long's hand had moved so fast no one saw it. One moment he was slumped against the wall, broken and bleeding. The next, his fingers were wrapped around Xiao Lin's ankle like iron bands.
Xiao Lin's eyes went wide.
"What—"
Xiao Long threw him.
Not with technique. Not with Qi. Just pure, savage strength. Xiao Lin sailed across the arena like a ragdoll and slammed into the far wall with a crack that echoed across the training grounds.
Stone shattered.
Xiao Lin crumpled.
The watching disciples gasped. The henchmen froze. Mei's hand flew to her mouth.
Xiao Long stood.
His eyes blazed crimson—not the dull red of his birthmark, but something alive, something burning. Blood dripped down his face, but he didn't seem to notice. He took one step forward.
He was in front of Xiao Lin before anyone could blink.
Xiao Lin looked up at him, terror finally breaking through his arrogance. "Wha—how—"
He raised a shaking hand and threw up a low-grade Qi barrier. Golden light flickered between them, a basic defense technique every Xiao disciple learned in their first year.
Xiao Long's fist came down.
The barrier shattered like glass.
His hand closed around Xiao Lin's throat and lifted him off the ground. Xiao Lin choked, kicked, clawed at the iron grip. His flames sparked and died against Xiao Long's skin.
"I told you," Xiao Long said quietly, "to let her go."
He drove his fist into Xiao Lin's stomach.
Then his knee into his ribs.
Then he slammed him back into the wall and hit him again, and again, and again—not with rage, not with fury, but with the cold, precise efficiency of someone who had spent five years imagining this exact moment.
Xiao Lin's henchmen finally broke free of their shock.
"Get him!"
They rushed the arena.
Xiao Long didn't even look at them.
The first one threw a flaming punch. Xiao Long caught it, twisted, and the henchman's arm bent the wrong way with a sickening crack. He screamed and collapsed.
The second one tried a kick. Xiao Long's hand shot out, grabbed his ankle, and threw him into the third one. They tangled together and hit the ground in a heap.
Five seconds. Three down.
Xiao Long stood over them, crimson eyes glowing, blood dripping from his wounds, looking less like a cultivator and more like something out of legend.
The training grounds were silent.
Every disciple stared. Every servant watched from doorways. Even the birds had stopped singing.
Then—footsteps. Many of them. Rapid and disciplined.
Elders.
Xiao Wang led the charge, his face a mask of fury and something else—something that looked almost like fear. Behind him came three other clan elders, their cultivation bases flaring with readiness.
"STOP THIS MADNESS!" Xiao Wang's voice thundered across the grounds.
Xiao Long turned to face them.
His crimson eyes met his uncle's gaze.
Xiao Wang actually flinched.
For a single heartbeat, the training grounds hung in perfect stillness—the elders on one side, their robes billowing with power; Xiao Long on the other, bloody and broken but standing, his eyes burning like embers in the dark.
Then Xiao Long's legs gave out.
He dropped to one knee, then both. The crimson light flickered, dimmed, died. His eyes fluttered closed.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was Mei running toward him, tears streaming down her face.